They wheeled the tottering cart back up the road and stood there in the cold and the gathering dark and called but no one came.
He’s afraid to answer, Papa. Is this where we stopped?
I dont know. I think so.
They went up the road calling out in the empty dusk, their voices lost over the darkening shorelands. They stopped and stood with their hands cupped to their mouths, hallooing mindlessly into the waste. Finally he piled the man’s shoes and clothes in the road. He put a rock on top of them. We have to go, he said. We have to go.
They made a dry camp with no fire. He sorted out cans for their supper and warmed them over the gas burner and they ate and the boy said nothing.
The man tried to see his face in the blue light from the burner. I wasnt going to kill him, he said. But the boy didnt answer. They rolled themselves in the blankets and lay there in the dark. He thought he could hear the sea but
perhaps it was just the wind. He could tell by his breathing that the boy was awake and after a while the boy said: But we did kill him.
In the morning they ate and set out. The cart was so loaded it was hard to push and one of the wheels was giving out. The road bent its way along the
coast, dead sheaves of saltgrass overhanging the pavement. The leadcolored sea shifting in the distance. The silence. He woke that night with the dull carbon light of the crossing moon beyond the murk making the shapes of
the trees almost visible and he turned away coughing. Smell of rain out there. The boy was awake. You have to talk to me, he said.
I’m trying.
I’m sorry I woke you. It’s okay.
He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it running from dark to dark. Then a distant low rumble. Not thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without cognate and so without description.
Something imponderable shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At
some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.
He went through the cans again one by one, holding them in his hand and squeezing them like a man checking for ripeness at a fruitstand. He sorted out two he thought questionable and packed away the rest and packed the cart and they set out upon the road again. In three days they came to a small port town and they hid the cart in a garage behind a house and piled old
boxes over it and then sat in the house to see if anyone would come. No one did. He looked through the cabinets but there was nothing there. He needed vitamin D for the boy or he was going to get rickets. He stood at the sink and looked out down the driveway. Light the color of washwater congealing in the dirty panes of glass. The boy sat slumped at the table with his head in his arms.
They walked through the town and down to the docks. They saw no one. He had the pistol in the pocket of his coat and he carried the flaregun in his
hand. They walked out on the pier, the rough boards dark with tar and fastened down with spikes to the timbers underneath. Wooden bollards. Faint smell of salt and creosote coming in off the bay. On the far shore a row of warehouses and the shape of a tanker red with rust. A tall gantry crane against the sullen sky. There’s no one here, he said. The boy didnt answer.
They wheeled the cart through the back streets and across the railroad
tracks and came into the main road again at the far edge of the town. As they passed the last of the sad wooden buildings something whistled past his head and clattered off the street and broke up against the wall of the
block building on the other side. He grabbed the boy and fell on top of him and grabbed the cart to pull it to them. It tipped and fell over spilling the tarp and blankets into the street. In an upper window of the house he could see a man drawing a bow on them and he pushed the boy’s head down and tried to cover him with his body. He heard the dull thwang of the bowstring and felt a sharp hot pain in his leg. Oh you bastard, he said. You bastard. He clawed the blankets to one side and lunged and grabbed the flaregun and raised up and cocked it and rested his arm on the side of the cart. The boy was clinging to him. When the man stepped back into the frame of the
window to draw the bow again he fired. The flare went rocketing up toward the window in a long white arc and then they could hear the man screaming.
He grabbed the boy and pushed him down and dragged the blankets over
the top of him. Dont move, he said. Dont move and dont look. He pulled the blankets out into the street looking for the case for the flarepistol. It finally slid out of the cart and he snatched it up and opened it and took out the
shells and reloaded the pistol and breeched it shut and put the rest of the
loads in his pocket. Stay just like you are, he whispered. He patted the boy through the blankets and rose and ran limping across the street.
He entered the house through the back door with the flaregun leveled at his waist. The house was stripped out to the wall studs. He stepped through into the livingroom and stood at the stair landing. He listened for movement in
the upper rooms. He looked out the front window to where the cart lay in the street and then he went up the stairs.
A woman was sitting in the corner holding the man. She’d taken off her coat to cover him. As soon as she saw him she began to curse him. The flare had burned out in the floor leaving a patch of white ash and there was a faint smell of burnt wood in the room. He crossed the room and looked out the window. The woman’s eyes followed him. Scrawny, lank gray hair.
Who else is up here?
She didnt answer. He stepped past her and went through the rooms. His leg was bleeding badly. He could feel his trousers sticking to the skin. He went back into the front room. Where’s the bow? he said.
I dont have it.
Where is it?
I dont know.
They left you here, didnt they? I left myself here.
He turned and went limping down the stairs and he opened the front door and went out into the street backward watching the house. When he got to
the cart he pulled it upright and piled their things back in. Stay close, he whispered. Stay close.
They put up in a store building at the end of the town. He wheeled the cart through and into a room at the rear and shut the door and pushed the cart against it sideways. He dug out the burner and the tank of gas and lit the burner and set it in the floor and then he unbuckled his belt and took off the bloodstained trousers. The boy watched. The arrow had cut a gash just
above his knee about three inches long. It was still bleeding and his whole upper leg was discolored and he could see that the cut was deep. Some
homemade broadhead beaten out of strapiron, an old spoon, God knows what. He looked at the boy. See if you can find the first-aid kit, he said.
The boy didnt move.
Get the first-aid kit, damn it. Dont just sit there.
He jumped up and went to the door and began digging under the tarp and the blankets piled in the cart. He came back with the kit and gave it to the man and the man took it without comment and set it in the concrete floor in front of him and unsnapped the catches and opened it. He reached and turned up the burner for the light. Bring me the water bottle, he said. The boy brought the bottle and the man unscrewed the lid and poured water over
the wound and held it shut between his fingers while he wiped away the blood. He swabbed the wound with disinfectant and opened a plastic
envelope with his teeth and took out a small hooked suture needle and a coil of silk thread and sat holding the silk to the light while he threaded it through the needle’s eye. He took a clamp from the kit and caught the
needle in the jaws and locked them and set about suturing the wound. He worked quickly and he took no great pains about it. The boy was crouching in the floor. He looked at him and he bent to the sutures again. You dont
have to watch, he said.
Is it okay?
Yeah. It’s okay.
Does it hurt?
Yes. It hurts.
He ran the knot down the thread and pulled it taut and cut off the silk with the scissors from the kit and looked at the boy. The boy was looking at what he’d done.
I’m sorry I yelled at you.
He looked up. That’s okay, Papa. Let’s start over.
Okay.
In the morning it was raining and a hard wind was rattling the glass at the rear of the building. He stood looking out. A steel dock half collapsed and submerged in the bay. The wheelhouses of sunken fishingboats standing out of the gray chop. Nothing moving out there. Anything that could move had long been blown away. His leg was throbbing and he pulled away the dressing and disinfected the wound and looked at it. The flesh swollen and discolored in the truss of the black stitching. He dressed it and pulled his bloodstiffened trousers on.
They spent the day there, sitting among the boxes and crates. You have to talk to me, he said.
I’m talking.
Are you sure?
I’m talking now.
Do you want me to tell you a story?
No.
Why not?
The boy looked at him and looked away. Why not?
Those stories are not true.
They dont have to be true. They’re stories.
Yes. But in the stories we’re always helping people and we dont help people.
Why dont you tell me a story? I dont want to.
Okay.
I dont have any stories to tell.
You could tell me a story about yourself.
You already know all the stories about me. You were there. You have stories inside that I dont know about.
You mean like dreams?
Like dreams. Or just things that you think about. Yeah, but stories are supposed to be happy.
They dont have to be.
You always tell happy stories. You dont have any happy ones? They’re more like real life.
But my stories are not. Your stories are not. No.
The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad? What do you think?
Well, I think we’re still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we’re still here.
Yeah.
You dont think that’s so great. It’s okay.
They’d pulled a worktable up to the windows and spread out their blankets and the boy was lying there on his stomach looking out across the bay. The man sat with his leg stretched out. On the blanket between them were the
two pistols and the box of flares. After a while the man said: I think it’s pretty good. It’s a pretty good story. It counts for something.
It’s okay, Papa. I just want to have a little quiet time.
What about dreams? You used to tell me dreams sometimes. I dont want to talk about anything.
Okay.
I dont have good dreams anyway. They’re always about something bad happening. You said that was okay because good dreams are not a good sign.
Maybe. I dont know.
When you wake up coughing you walk out along the road or somewhere but I can still hear you coughing.
I’m sorry.
One time I heard you crying. I know.
So if I shouldnt cry you shouldnt cry either. Okay.
Is your leg going to get better? Yes.
You’re not just saying that. No.
Because it looks really hurt. It’s not that bad.
The man was trying to kill us. Wasnt he. Yes. He was.
Did you kill him?
No.
Is that the truth?
Yes.
Okay.
Is that all right?
Yes.
I thought you didnt want to talk? I dont.
They left two days later, the man limping along behind the cart and the boy keeping close to his side until they cleared the outskirts of the town. The road ran along the flat gray coast and there were drifts of sand in the road that the winds had left there. It made for heavy going and they had to shovel their way in places with a plank they carried in the lower rack of the cart.
They walked out down the beach and sat in the lee of the dunes and studied the map. They’d brought the burner with them and they heated water and
made tea and sat wrapped in their blankets against the wind. Downshore the weathered timbers of an ancient ship. Gray and sandscrubbed beams, old handturned scarpbolts. The pitted iron hardware deep lilac in color, smeltered in some bloomery in Cadiz or Bristol and beaten out on a blackened anvil, good to last three hundred years against the sea. The following day they passed through the boarded ruins of a seaside resort and took the road inland through a pine wood, the long straight blacktop drifted in pineneedles, the wind in the dark trees.
He sat in the road at noon in the best light there would be and snipped the
sutures with the scissors and put the scissors back in the kit and took out the clamp. Then he set about pulling the small black threads from his skin, pressing down with the flat of his thumb. The boy sat in the road watching. The man fastened the clamp over the ends of the threads and pulled them out one by one. Small pinlets of blood. When he was done he put away the clamp and taped gauze over the wound and then stood and pulled his
trousers up and handed the kit to the boy to put away.
That hurt, didnt it? the boy said. Yes. It did.
Are you real brave? Just medium.
What’s the bravest thing you ever did?
He spat into the road a bloody phlegm. Getting up this morning, he said. Really?
No. Dont listen to me. Come on, let’s go.
In the evening the murky shape of another coastal city, the cluster of tall
buildings vaguely askew. He thought the iron armatures had softened in the heat and then reset again to leave the buildings standing out of true. The
melted window glass hung frozen down the walls like icing on a cake. They went on. In the nights sometimes now he’d wake in the black and freezing waste out of softly colored worlds of human love, the songs of birds, the sun.
He leaned his forehead on his arms crossed upon the bar handle of the cart and coughed. He spat a bloody drool. More and more he had to stop and rest. The boy watched him. In some other world the child would already
have begun to vacate him from his life. But he had no life other. He knew the boy lay awake in the night and listened to hear if he were breathing.
The days sloughed past uncounted and uncalendared. Along the interstate in the distance long lines of charred and rusting cars. The raw rims of the
wheels sitting in a stiff gray sludge of melted rubber, in blackened rings of wire. The incinerate corpses shrunk to the size of a child and propped on the bare springs of the seats. Ten thousand dreams ensepulchred within their crozzled hearts. They went on. Treading the dead world under like rats on a wheel. The nights dead still and deader black. So cold. They talked hardly at all. He coughed all the time and the boy watched him spitting blood.
Slumping along. Filthy, ragged, hopeless. He’d stop and lean on the cart and the boy would go on and then stop and look back and he would raise
his weeping eyes and see him standing there in the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in that waste like a tabernacle.
The road crossed a dried slough where pipes of ice stood out of the frozen mud like formations in a cave. The remains of an old fire by the side of the road. Beyond that a long concrete causeway. A dead swamp. Dead trees standing out of the gray water trailing gray and relic hagmoss. The silky
spills of ash against the curbing. He stood leaning on the gritty concrete rail. Perhaps in the world’s destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence.
They’d begun to come upon dead windfalls of pinetrees, great swaths of ruin cut through the countryside. The wreckage of buildings strewn over the
landscape and skeins of wire from the roadside poles garbled like knitting. The road was littered with debris and it was work to get the cart through. Finally they just sat by the side of the road and stared at what was before them. Roofs of houses, the trunks of trees. A boat. The open sky beyond
where in the distance the sullen sea lagged and shifted.
They sorted through the wreckage strewn along the road and in the end he came up with a canvas bag that he could tote over his shoulder and a small suitcase for the boy. They packed their blankets and the tarp and what was left of the canned goods and set out again with their knapsacks and their
bags leaving the cart behind. Clambering through the ruins. Slow going. He had to stop and rest. He sat in a roadside sofa, the cushions bloated in the damp. Bent over, coughing. He pulled the bloodstained mask from his face and got up and rinsed it in the ditch and wrung it out and then just stood
there in the road. His breath pluming white. Winter was already upon them. He turned and looked at the boy. Standing with his suitcase like an orphan waiting for a bus.
In two days’ time they came to a broad tidal river where the bridge lay collapsed in the slow moving water. They sat on the broken abutment of the road and watched the river backing upon itself and coiling over the iron trelliswork. He looked across the water to the country beyond.
What are we going to do Papa? he said. Well what are we, said the boy.
They walked out the long spit of tidal mud where a small boat lay half buried and stood there looking at it. It was altogether derelict. There was rain in the wind. They trudged up the beach with their baggage looking for shelter but they found none. He scuffled together a pile of the bonecolored wood that lay along the shore and got a fire going and they sat in the dunes with the tarp over them and watched the cold rain coming in from the north.
It fell harder, dimpling the sand. The fire steamed and the smoke swung in slow coils and the boy curled up under the pattering tarp and soon he was asleep. The man pulled the plastic over himself in a hood and watched the gray sea shrouded away out there in the rain and watched the surf break along the shore and draw away again over the dark and stippled sand.
The next day they headed inland. A vast low swale where ferns and
hydrangeas and wild orchids lived on in ashen effigies which the wind had not yet reached. Their progress was a torture. In two days when they came out upon a road he set the bag down and sat bent over with his arms crossed at his chest and coughed till he could cough no more. Two more days and they may have traveled ten miles. They crossed the river and a short ways on they came to a crossroads. Downcountry a storm had passed over the
isthmus and leveled the dead black trees from east to west like weeds in the floor of a stream. Here they camped and when he lay down he knew that he could go no further and that this was the place where he would die. The boy sat watching him, his eyes welling. Oh Papa, he said.
He watched him come through the grass and kneel with the cup of water he’d fetched. There was light all about him. He took the cup and drank and lay back. They had for food a single tin of peaches but he made the boy eat it and he would not take any. I cant, he said. It’s all right.
I’ll save your half.
Okay. You save it until tomorrow.
He took the cup and moved away and when he moved the light moved with him. He’d wanted to try and make a tent out of the tarp but the man would not let him. He said that he didnt want anything covering him. He lay watching the boy at the fire. He wanted to be able to see. Look around you, he said. There is no prophet in the earth’s long chronicle who’s not honored here today. Whatever form you spoke of you were right.
The boy thought he smelled wet ash on the wind. He went up the road and come dragging back a piece of plywood from the roadside trash and he
drove sticks into the ground with a rock and made of the plywood a rickety leanto but in the end it didnt rain. He left the flarepistol and took the revolver with him and he scoured the countryside for anything to eat but he came back emptyhanded. The man took his hand, wheezing. You need to go on, he said. I cant go with you. You need to keep going. You dont know what might be down the road. We were always lucky. You’ll be lucky again. You’ll see. Just go. It’s all right.
I cant.
It’s all right. This has been a long time coming. Now it’s here. Keep going south. Do everything the way we did it.
You’re going to be okay, Papa. You have to.
No I’m not. Keep the gun with you at all times. You need to find the good guys but you cant take any chances. No chances. Do you hear?
I want to be with you. You cant.
Please.
You cant. You have to carry the fire. I dont know how to.
Yes you do.
Is it real? The fire? Yes it is.
Where is it? I dont know where it is.
Yes you do. It’s inside you. It was always there. I can see it. Just take me with you. Please.
I cant.
Please, Papa.
I cant. I cant hold my son dead in my arms. I thought I could but I cant. You said you wouldnt ever leave me.
I know. I’m sorry. You have my whole heart. You always did. You’re the best guy. You always were. If I’m not here you can still talk to me. You can talk to me and I’ll talk to you. You’ll see.
Will I hear you?
Yes. You will. You have to make it like talk that you imagine. And you’ll hear me. You have to practice. Just dont give up. Okay?
Okay. Okay.
I’m really scared Papa.
I know. But you’ll be okay. You’re going to be lucky. I know you are.
I’ve got to stop talking. I’m going to start coughing again.
It’s okay, Papa. You dont have to talk. It’s okay.
He went down the road as far as he dared and then he came back. His father was asleep. He sat with him under the plywood and watched him. He closed
his eyes and talked to him and he kept his eyes closed and listened. Then he tried again.
He woke in the darkness, coughing softly. He lay listening. The boy sat by the fire wrapped in a blanket watching him. Drip of water. A fading light. Old dreams encroached upon the waking world. The dripping was in the cave. The light was a candle which the boy bore in a ringstick of beaten
copper. The wax spattered on the stones. Tracks of unknown creatures in the mortified loess. In that cold corridor they had reached the point of no return which was measured from the first solely by the light they carried with them.
Do you remember that little boy, Papa? Yes. I remember him.
Do you think that he’s all right that little boy? Oh yes. I think he’s all right.
Do you think he was lost? No. I dont think he was lost. I’m scared that he was lost. I think he’s all right.
But who will find him if he’s lost? Who will find the little boy? Goodness will find the little boy. It always has. It will again.
He slept close to his father that night and held him but when he woke in the morning his father was cold and stiff. He sat there a long time weeping and then he got up and walked out through the woods to the road. When he
came back he knelt beside his father and held his cold hand and said his name over and over again.
He stayed three days and then he walked out to the road and he looked down the road and he looked back the way they had come. Someone was coming. He started to turn and go back into the woods but he didnt. He just stood in the road and waited, the pistol in his hand. He’d piled all the
blankets on his father and he was cold and he was hungry. The man that hove into view and stood there looking at him was dressed in a gray and
yellow ski parka. He carried a shotgun upside down over his shoulder on a
braided leather lanyard and he wore a nylon bandolier filled with shells for the gun. A veteran of old skirmishes, bearded, scarred across his cheek and the bone stoven and the one eye wandering. When he spoke his mouth worked imperfectly, and when he smiled.
Where’s the man you were with? He died.
Was that your father? Yes. He was my papa. I’m sorry.
I dont know what to do.
I think you should come with me. Are you one of the good guys?
The man pulled back the hood from his face. His hair was long and matted. He looked at the sky. As if there were anything there to be seen. He looked at the boy. Yeah, he said. I’m one of the good guys. Why dont you put the pistol away?
I’m not supposed to let anyone take the pistol. No matter what. I dont want your pistol. I just dont want you pointing it at me. Okay.
Where’s your stuff?
We dont have much stuff.
Have you got a sleeping bag? No.
What have you got? Some blankets? My papa’s wrapped in them.
Show me.
The boy didnt move. The man watched him. He squatted on one knee and swung the shotgun up from under his arm and stood it in the road and leaned on the forestock. The shotgun shells in the loops of the bandolier
were handloaded and the ends sealed with candlewax. He smelled of woodsmoke. Look, he said. You got two choices here. There was some discussion about whether to even come after you at all. You can stay here with your papa and die or you can go with me. If you stay you need to keep out of the road. I dont know how you made it this far. But you should go with me. You’ll be all right.
How do I know you’re one of the good guys?
You dont. You’ll have to take a shot. Are you carrying the fire?
Am I what?
Carrying the fire.
You’re kind of weirded out, arent you? No.
Just a little.
Yeah.
That’s okay. So are you?
What, carrying the fire? Yes.
Yeah. We are.
Do you have any kids? We do.
Do you have a little boy?
We have a little boy and we have a little girl. How old is he?
He’s about your age. Maybe a little older. And you didnt eat them.
No.
You dont eat people. No. We dont eat people. And I can go with you? Yes. You can.
Okay then.
Okay.
They went into the woods and the man squatted and looked at the gray and wasted figure under the tilted sheet of plywood. Are these all the blankets you have?
Yes.
Is that your suitcase? Yes.
He stood. He looked at the boy. Why dont you go back out to the road and wait for me. I’ll bring the blankets and everything.
What about my papa? What about him.
We cant just leave him here. Yes we can.
I dont want people to see him. There’s no one to see him.
Can I cover him with leaves?
The wind will blow them away.
Could we cover him with one of the blankets? Yes. I’ll do it. Go on now.
Okay.
He waited in the road and when the man came out of the woods he was carrying the suitcase and he had the blankets over his shoulder. He sorted through them and handed one to the boy. Here, he said. Wrap this around you. You’re cold. The boy tried to hand him the pistol but he wouldnt take it. You hold onto that, he said.
Okay.
Do you know how to shoot it? Yes.
Okay.
What about my papa?
There’s nothing else to be done.
I think I want to say goodbye to him. Will you be all right?
Yes.
Go ahead. I’ll wait for you.
He walked back into the woods and knelt beside his father. He was wrapped in a blanket as the man had promised and the boy didnt uncover him but he sat beside him and he was crying and he couldnt stop. He cried for a long time. I’ll talk to you every day, he whispered. And I wont forget. No matter what. Then he rose and turned and walked back out to the road.
The woman when she saw him put her arms around him and held him. Oh, she said, I am so glad to see you. She would talk to him sometimes about God. He tried to talk to God but the best thing was to talk to his father and
he did talk to him and he didnt forget. The woman said that was all right. She said that the breath of God was his breath yet though it pass from man to man through all of time.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
