Upon Us

by Blakely Chorpenning

  "Are you certain?"

  "If someone would stop holding us up, I could prove it."

  Just for that, I pulled the blindfold over his eyes, thankful for the temporary reprieve from the glint in his eyes that I couldn't quite figure out. And he never said a word.

  Leading him through the thickest area of the forest, I wondered what would become of us. Other than my combat knowledge, which was limited, the knife had been my only weapon. Now, it didn't mean much if he would pull it out like a splinter. It held no menace, except to my immediate emotional health.

  Leaves crunched underfoot as we rallied forward, sending a greeting call to anyone who might be in the area. Thankfully, no one was within earshot to bother us. I remained silent and focused as we completed the most demanding areas of the hike. It was more difficult than I anticipated, leading a blindfolded prisoner around brambles and over fallen limbs. Everywhere, something to trip over. Something to lash out, to scratch, to coil underfoot.

  Time felt lost as we carried on, trying to make it home without incident. And we almost did. Almost.

  The snapping of twigs caught my attention just before an arm swung out, slamming into my jaw, knocking me backward. My captive lost his footing as I fell into him, sliding gracelessly down his chest until I found myself practically sitting in his lap on the ground.

  "Marauder," I noted quickly. "Stay down," I directed as I stood.

  Marauders weren't like the rest of us. They were evil-doers who had lost their places in their clans. It was within a clan's right to kill anyone they deemed violent or beyond help. Most did. Some, however, couldn't stomach killing a son or mother or neighbor, so they turned them loose into the world to prey on others. Praying they would fall to the indifferent hand of a stranger who wanted to live more than he or she didn't want to kill.

  The woman screeched, throwing every bit of weight into her next punch. Able to dodge her effort, I lobbed a handful of dirt into her eyes, momentarily blinding her.

  My hostage had ripped the blindfold from his head, watching in shock as the woman in tattered, damp clothing charged at me haphazardly. He tried to stand, possibly to help, possibly to overthrow me.

  In one smooth motion, I shoved him off balance and punched my attacker in her ribs. She stumbled, collapsing to the ground. But not before slicing my arm from elbow to wrist with a dull knife. It wasn't a deep wound.

  Staring into her wild, desperate bloodshot eyes, I said, "I'm not going to kill you today." Grabbing my satchel that had been flung to the ground in the tussle, I pulled out a small container. "It's food. Take it."

  She wearily accepted it from my outstretched hand, squeezing it to her chest.

  "If I see you again, I'll give you more. If you don't attack me. If you do, I will kill you." I pulled a rolled up jacket from the bag. "It will be cold soon. Take it. Take care of yourself."

  Confused by my lack of anger, the woman snatched the jacket and hopped to her feet, disappearing into the woods as fast as she had come.

  I turned to find my latest mistake staring at me. To see myself in that moment through someone else's eyes was jarring. Ignoring his silent accusations, I helped him up.

  "What the hell was that?"

  "A marauder. A drifter."

  "No, why did you let her go? She might attack you again. You should have killed her."

  I turned in the direction the woman disappeared in, pondering our fleeting encounter.

  "The world is full of bodies," I said honestly. "It would be nice if more of them were warm and less were cold."

  He shook his head, disgust plain on his face.

  Offering one of my knives hilt first, I spoke indifferently. "Go on. You can still catch her if you want her dead."

  Glaring at the knife, he sucked in a loud breath. I didn't wait for a verbal response before tucking the blade back into my pocket. "Keep walking," I charged after replacing his blindfold.

  He followed, confused and conflicted over our encounter with the marauder. All of his village training taught him that these were evil people, not worthy of walking beside a Privileged. In real life, they made mistakes. They lost everything. Some were worse than others.

  After walking through countless entanglements of brush, I offered, "We're almost there."

  He hadn't tried to remove the blindfold, even as I continuously ran him into briars and tree trunks.

  "Where?" His voice cracked.

  Well, well, he was finally starting to show signs of wear. Not that I wished to weaken him. I needed his help. This was a terrible beginning. It was a dirty business having to take someone, let alone stab him and drag him out to the middle of nowhere's nowhere. But if I had to do it, it was best if he was half-powered.

  "Here," I sighed, stopping to look upward.

  I pulled the blindfold off. His eyes followed my lead, eyeing the treehouse above us. It wasn't really a house, rather a small box with a ledge on one side. The roof slanted toward the ledge, promoting water runoff into a camouflaged barrel.

  "Climb, then you can rest."

  "There it is again."

  "What?" I was almost scared to ask.

  He shook his head. "That need to be mindful. That's what gets people killed."

  "Empathy?"

  "Good intentions."

  Staring at the height of the treehouse, I could see the wear in his eyes.

  "Why can't we sleep down here?" he practically huffed like a child.

  Sighing again, I answered, "This area has a high concentration of drifters, as you've witnessed. It isn't safe down here for you." Noticing the slouch in his shoulders, the rigid cadence in his walk, I could see that he was probably regretting his little stunt earlier. "I'll help you," I added.

  "You're not the only one who can make it in life on your own. I've made it this far. I can make it a few more steps." He looked upward, correcting himself. "As many as necessary."

  "Good." I made sure that my voice reflected just how little his arrogance affected me as I stepped in front of him. Pulling on what appeared to be a vine caused a net to drop from a neighboring tree. The other end was attached to the impressively high balcony above.

  "Where did you get that?" he quizzed.

  The netting was thick and long, not at all square. It gave the impression that we would reach the bottom of the clouds if we climbed long enough.

  "It's from the mast of a great ship."

  Agreeing, he gripped part of the rope in his hand. "You were on this ship?"

  Waving my arms through the air, I gestured for him to look around the moderately dense forest. "I don't make it a habit." When he didn't respond, I added, "It was a more than fair trade."

  "Trading's illegal."

  "Mm-hm. Try to keep up."

  "When I get up there, I expect a name."

  I ascended the net with ease. My feet had excellent muscle memory. That was clear in the expert way I allowed each dipped compartment of netting to cradle my feet before springing skyward to the next. After scrambling to the top, I unlatched a hatch door above my head. It was one of very few deterrents. Once open, I climbed onto the ledge of my thin deck and stared down at my tattered hostage.

  "Are you going to think about it until sunset overtakes you?"

  He noticed the light waning rapidly. There were too many trees to see the sun bathing on the horizon. In fact, there were too many trees to grasp a proper bearing of our surroundings.

  "Not used to the mountains?" I called down.

  "No," he admitted to my dismay.

  "You're used to the swelling hills. The kinds that allow you to see who is coming and going." After a moment, I said, "These are my mountains. Only I have those answers."

  I watched indecisiveness play along the frame of his eyes. He was warring inside whether to trust me or run. He would be very disappointed, or very dead, if he chose the latter.

  "Climb!" I commanded from my godly perch.

  "This day started out a hell of a lot differently."

 
; "It could end differently, too, if you don't get to safety."

  Without further discussion, he struggled upward, the rope bobbing hazardously under his awkward steps. When it started swinging a bit jarringly, he slowed, climbing each step with purpose, until he reached the hatch above him. I won't lie, his fortitude impressed me.

  "Good. Give me your hand."

  Grasping his hand in mine, I helped pull him over the rim of the hatch. And again, I felt him searching through my intentions, wondering how kindness could live in the wild surroundings of such desperation.

  Little did he realize, hope lives anywhere darkness blooms.

  "Why do I care so much? Isn't that what you want to ask?"

  He settled on a smirk before answering, "Yeah."

  "Because no one out here cares about anything except themselves, right? We must all be ravenous, beastly wastes of space." I began raising the netting, securing the hatch door as I spoke. "Maybe that's the difference between me and you. Clans and villages." Draping the netting over the porch, I concluded, "You have everything at your disposal, but choose to keep it behind your walls. You would rather it deteriorate than let a clan use it."

  His tone was drenched in sarcasm. "Let me guess, you make friends everywhere you go."

  "Get inside."

  "That answers my question."

  He was always joking, but I could tell that my words had bite. They had burrowed into his mind.

  I opened a door that had been fashioned shut with a tight length of twine wound around a series of large nails. Once we were inside, I used the same means of closure on the interior of the door.

  He was barely inside when he uttered, "Home sweet home."

  Looking around, I shrugged. "Sometimes."

  "Where do you go when you aren't here?"

  "Down there." I motioned to the forest floor.

  Behind some stacked crates on the right-hand wall, I dropped a blanket next to a pile of flour sacks. The sacks were resting on top of a four-by-six foot cork mat on the floor.

  "You sleep outside, in the open?"

  "Sometimes." My tone implied my annoyance at having to say it twice.

  He allowed his eyes to focus in the dusky room. The last rays of light filtered through two windows lacking glass or any other type of barrier. The walls were simple wooden boards constructed in the crudest yet sturdiest manner. Small silver tins sat stacked on top of a set of white cabinets. Some clothes were folded neatly in a corner. Nothing else. Nothing to distinguish that an individual lived here. No decorations on the walls or extra items that existed purely for existence's sake. Everything had a purpose.

  Still standing by the door, I felt his attention shift as I removed a large box from a slender pantry. He pointed to a thin door beside it.

  "What's in there, food?"

  "The bathroom."

  I motioned for him to take a look.

  Stepping closer, he peeked inside. It was literally a closet with two buckets, a towel, and a mirror on the wall. There was room for a large sitting tub one day, if I ever found something worth hauling up with the pulley. I would cut a window in the far wall when the time came to use the pulley. The little room was almost perfect. I'm sure my guest didn't feel the same way.

  "I don't think I want to know, but what are the buckets for?"

  "The left is the toilet, the right, clean water. Don't confuse them."

  He shut the door, perhaps trying to forget the scrap of humanity on the other side. Leaning against the counter beside me, he said, "You could live a lot better than this. Find an existing house. Use a real bathroom. This is-"

  "What is it?" I was hyper-aware of our proximity.

  Not wanting to finish his thought, he forced the word. "Bizarre."

  Ignoring his preconceived notions, I assured him, "I get by fine on-"

  "On your own," he interjected. "Sure. You're swimming in abundance. Where do you keep your food? Extra provisions?"

  I gestured to the tins on the counter.

  "That isn't enough."

  "It's enough when you need it. It's enough for people who don't have it."

  With the large box under the crook of my arm, I abandoned the cabinets, sitting down on one side of the flour sacks. Patting the other with an open hand, I said in a gentler tone, "Come. I'll take care of that."

  Without a fight, he sat by my side. Unlike his mouth, his muscles were thankful for the respite. Until I got a hold of him. We sat huddled, my left leg bent along his side, leaving us nearly face to face. Trying to pull the bandages off tenderly seemed impossible, though I gave it my best try. He winced as the last bit came off and slopped into a small pan on the floor.

  Hopping up, I ran to the bathroom and brought back one of the buckets before sitting down again.

  "What's that for?"

  "I need to clean the area."

  "Great. I'll cross my fingers that you didn't mix up the buckets."

  I cleared my throat, trying not to smile.

  Blood had ruined the entire right side of his shirt. I had a temporary replacement, but it wouldn't be as nice as anything he was used to. Nothing as soft as the material he wore now. I made a silent note to wash and store the remains. The cloth was too nice to waste, even bloodstained.

  "I'll need to cut your shirt off. I have another one for you."

  "No, I can do it." He slid the shirt awkwardly over his head, pulled his healthy arm free, and peeled the rest away like Velcro. His skin being the Velcro. Watching as I cut the bloody strip away, rolling the rest into a compact ball and storing it in a different container, he quipped, "A souvenir?" Before I could ask what that was, he corrected, "Too good to throw away?"

  "Yes," I answered matter-of-factly.

  "You're very serious."

  "Thank you."

  "It wasn't a compliment." When I scrunched my nose, he quickly corrected, "It wasn't an insult, either. Just an observation."

  "You talk an awful lot." It was meant to be an insult.

  "Thank you," he countered, blatantly ignoring my implied tone.

  I ran a strip of gauze through the water before pressing it around his lacerations, which were bleeding but not profusely so. Nothing important had been nicked, miraculously. Still, the sight of congealing blood made my throat feel tight, as if I couldn't swallow properly. Or scream, not that I would have. A sick squiggle, like a heart full of maggots, did make it impossible to ignore my nerves. My hands shook as I finished the process.

  He noticed.

  "Nervous? It is our first date."

  "No."

  He seemed a bit disappointed when I didn't play into his jibe.

  Switching to antiseptic, I doused a small cloth and pressed it unceremoniously into the gore.

  "Damn!" he yelped, fighting the urge to rip the cloth from his skin.

  The muscles in my back went rigid as I pulled my hand away. I wasn't exactly fearful, just readying myself in case his bite was worse than his coil. Wasn't that the saying? A coiled snake… Regardless, I was betting he had many masks. All of them did. I had seen but one of his.

  Apologetically, he motioning for me to come back. "Usually people say, 'This is gonna hurt,' before they pull that shit."

  "I thought it was self-explanatory."

  He searched my face for any shred of humor or ill intent. It was blank.

  "You really don't spend much time with people, do you?"

  "I try not to. Guess that makes you special," I answered half-heartedly, unable to invest my attention fully to the banter. My brain was too busy barraging me with memories.

  "Hmm, so you do know what humor is."

  Washing and patting dry the smear of blood across his chest, I fought down the jittery shakes. The images from my nightmares of that day long ago were just as real as the day itself. The loud discharge of the guns, followed by louder screams. Deacon's screams. And the bullet wounds that tore flesh apart like flowers. Only, there was no pollen inside, only pieces of friends and holes that no one could pa
tch. Dead flesh with no one inside. Where did they go?

  Feeling the anxiety creep up my throat like a tiny spider's legs, threatening to possess me, I shut my eyes and pressed a flat hand into the middle of my hostage's chest. I just needed to feel his heartbeat. A reminder that someone was still inside, still worth fighting for. Not everyone was dead.

  Not yet.

  He should have grabbed my hand or shoved me away. Or laughed in my face. I don't know what he was thinking. I expected an outburst or a joke, but neither came. He sat still, waiting for my shivers to end.

  When I opened my eyes to his inquisitive stare, I immediately withdrew my hand. "I'm not scared of you," I declared. The absence of his warmth along the line of my hand immediately felt devastating to a hidden part of me. A part that shouldn't care.

  "I didn't think you were."

  "Your blood -all the blood- reminds me of something, is all. A bad day." I shook it off.

  His eyebrows arched. "Isn't this considered a bad day? On a scale of one to ten, one being the best, ten being dead, what's your number today?"

  Leaning back in thought for a moment, silently relieved by the conversation, I replied, "Two."

  "What? I was taken hostage in a stolen vehicle and almost bled out in the middle of the woods."

  "Oh, no, you're certainly having a bad day. I'd give your day a six."

  Shaking his head, he muttered, "I don't think you understand how to play this game."

  I sighed. "I don't think you understand that none of this is a game." There was a weight to my tone that had been building my entire life. It was tired and fearful. It had witnessed too many bad things to count. Heard too many stories to rest, to breathe freely. And yet, it's what kept me going forward every day, offering hope.

  I returned my attention to the problem at hand before he had a chance to refute my opinion. Digging deep in the bin, I whispered, "Damn," before shaking my head. "I'm out of horsehair." How could I have let that happen? When had I used it last?

  "Oh, well, let's panic." Again, his tone was a ball of sunshine and sarcasm.

  Suddenly, I remembered. I had given the last of my horsehair to a mother whose child had stepped on a piece of glass. Making a mental note to trade for more, the image of her grateful smile calmed the sudden anger I had felt towards myself.