by E. L. Giles
I move my attention to the books. We didn’t have many in Kamcala. There were some about the origins of Kamcala and its history but other than that, nothing exciting. Very few of these books in front of me are in great shape. Some of them I fear to touch; I worry they may crumble to pieces under my fingers. One of them, though, remains in pristine condition and contains pages and pages depicting plants and flowers with text beneath the pictures. I recognize the yarrow and then the little purple wild berries I ate during my escape in the woods when I left Kamcala. Beneath the photograph is written “Poisonous.” No wonder I got sick. I close the book and promise myself I’ll get back to it one day.
Another book piques my interest, mostly because of its green cover, which is my favorite color, and its gold lettering over the leather binding. Overall, it’s in pretty good shape.
“Romeo and Juliet,” says Dolores. I didn’t notice she was beside me until now. I frown, and she adds, “The book you’re looking at is called Romeo and Juliet.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh,” she says, “I think it was written during the Dark Ages. I suggest you read it. You’ll surely find it—interesting.”
Interesting? I pick up the book and turn the pages quickly between my fingers. A uniquely dry and distinctive papery smell infiltrates my nose as the pages flutter in the air. The paper, the binding, it all feels solid in my hands. How could a book this old still be in one piece?
“You can keep it,” Dolores says as I move to put it back on the shelf. “I’ve read it so many times I could recite every line by memory.”
That alone suffices to wet my eyes with tears. I didn’t own many things back in Kamcala, but they all had some significant meaning to me. Like the cloth Anna gave me the first time we met at the tram station. I had scratched my thumb bloody—as I always do when I’m stressed—and this tall, radiant blonde, who was smiling broadly, had materialized beside me, a little piece of white cloth folded into a perfect square in her hand. I kept the cloth, folded in a square and stored in the drawer of the night table beside my bed, in my old apartment I used to call home. Today, the cloth is probably still in the exact same place, in the exact same position, folded in the same perfect square.
I pick the feather from my waistband and stick it between two pages of the book—page one hundred and page one hundred one. They are my very first two possessions in this new life. I press the book against my chest, close my eyes, and allow myself to drown in the flow of emotions. Here I don’t care about showing my feelings. It’s not forbidden, there’s no threat against it, and I can safely just be myself.
I hear a distinct, familiar sound coming from outside, and when I open my eyes and turn around, I see Alastair standing behind the tree trunk, axe in his hands, chopping wood. It’s like he never left. And at the sight of him, I recall the music he played. I decide I need to go to him.
I realize as I get to him that I don’t know what to say. He stands there, axe in hand, and barely looks at me, maybe too absorbed by this task he puts so much effort into. Alastair still makes me uncomfortable.
“I—I heard you.”
He remains silent, frowning. The axe lifts and sinks into the log, which is propelled a few inches beside him, chopped in half. Maybe he didn’t hear me.
“It was beautiful,” I say more loudly. I think I see the corners of his lips rise. It could be my mind playing tricks on me, but I think he really managed to smile.
The axe lifts again and sinks into another log that Alastair placed only seconds earlier. He’s still silent. I get now why Dolores said he isn’t really talkative.
I turn around and head back to the house. Obviously, we have nothing to talk about. I’m halfway to the stairs of the deck when a low-pitched voice says behind me, “Take care of him.”
That’s it. It’s the first time he’s said anything to me. He’s definitely a man of few words. I turn around and nod, though I’m not sure what he meant. When I get back to the house, Josh is rushing around the table, setting it while Dolores puts a chicken in the oven. There are four plates on the table, one for each of us, which means O’Hare isn’t coming for dinner, but it also means that for the first time in a week, the fourth plate has found its owner. Josh is back. For now, that’s all that matters to me.
Chapter Eighteen
The only light that illuminates the house tonight comes from the fire outside. Aside from the faint halo of glowing orange, the house is sunken into darkness. The wavering light casts everything in shadows, making it seem alive. It’s the middle of the night, and everybody else has been asleep for a while. I would have liked Josh to stay awake a little longer with me, but I guess he didn’t sleep much during his time away from the house and couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. I, however, refuse to go to sleep. I struggle against fatigue despite Dolores’s insistence that I’m “still weak and need to rest as much as possible.”
I have told her I’m all right, and I decide to do what I want—what I badly want. I desperately need to distract myself from the nightmares. They’re there; I feel them in the back of my head. They flash behind my eyes, torturing me with all of the atrocities only they can take pleasure in. They’re insidious. They keep showing me Josh, standing on the cliff asking me “Why?” I can’t handle it anymore—the sight of spikes piercing him from head to toe, all the blood, and broken bones. I gag. I have allowed my mind to venture too far again, and I can’t let the handsome boy die anymore.
From where I sit I can hear Josh’s steady breathing. I can see his silhouette, a shade darker than the night, moving as he inhales and exhales. For some reason, he insisted on sleeping on the couch beside the bookcase. His bed is far cozier than the edge of the armrest I once had the misfortune to use as a pillow. He was kind enough to leave me his room. I’m glad he’s close though. It comforts me. When I feel my head grow heavy and when the nightmares feel close, I focus on Josh’s breathing and sync mine with his. Only then can I shake the terrible dreams from my head before getting back to the book, Romeo and Juliet.
Reading the book makes me feel like it has been written for people to emulate, or play the characters in the book…I don’t know for sure, but that’s how it feels, with all the description and dialogue. It feels so real to me—the scenes, the places, and the characters. It’s like I know them all personally.
I can’t detach my eyes from the yellowed pages—that is, until the lines start collapsing on each other in a mess of blurry words. And slowly, the flame from the lamp vanishes and the house fades to black without me even noticing how late it is.
+++
Voices come to my ears from a distance. From inside the house, it’s impossible to hear what they say. There are several people, I think. I get out of bed and move across the house until I’m on the deck, only to find myself submerged in a bright white light that blinds me. I blink and cover my eyes with my hand to shield myself from the sun. When I finally get used to the light, I notice I’m standing in the middle of the woods, surrounded by barren and broken trees. Over me, the sky is turning dark red, the color of blood. And the house is no longer behind me. Where am I? Which direction do I choose? I hear voices, but they resound everywhere, and every path around me looks the same. I must get to them.
I notice a path covered with pale gray and black feathers. It’s strange, because they remind me of something—of someone. I look closer. Yes, I do recognize them. They’re Josh’s!
I follow the path they create, avoiding the wide holes scattered about that seem deep enough for me to completely disappear into. I jog quickly, not feeling the exhaustion my fast pace would normally provoke. It’s like I could keep it up forever, and forever is how long it feels like I’ve been running. This forest seems to have no end—or am I running in circles?
I don’t know where this path leads, but as I follow the feathers and then turn sharply onto a new path covered by bushes, I end up in a familiar place that I recognize as the cliff. I look back, and the woods have disappea
red, like the house did. But it was there—I know it was. I just followed the feathers…
I turn around. In front of me, I see the crimson skyline, burning in the distance. Vultures fly overhead, cawing as they circle above me like the scavengers they are, waiting for their prey to die. The voices come back and get closer to me, and as I scan the plateau, I notice that bodies have materialized a few yards away from me. They stand in a tight line, looking at me through vacant eyes, and I realize these are my friends: Anna, Marcus, the unificator-turned-guard, Stephen, O’Hare, Alastair, and Dolores. They all look ghostly. In one movement they all throw a hand up into the air above their heads. I follow the direction they’re pointing in.
It’s Josh!
“Wait!” I cry. “Back away from the cliff!”
He doesn’t hear me but remains crouched, his hands over his ears, head resting between his bent knees.
“Josh!” I try again, and he gets up slowly, gasping as if the movement brings him unbearable pain.
Two guards follow him, rifles aimed at his head. Why doesn’t he fly away? With a flap of his wings he could already be far away from the threat of their guns, but the harsh truth squeezes my chest as our eyes meet and he shakes his head.
He stretches wide the bone-like limbs that used to be feathered. That must be why there were feathers all over the trail. He wanted me to find them. He wanted me to save him.
I gasp and cry his name, “Josh! Josh!”
I start running to him. I don’t care about the guns. They can shoot me. It doesn’t matter as long as Josh is safe. I run and run, but I don’t get any closer to him. It’s like I’m running in place. My body starts to tremble, but I keep running. My muscles burn like they’re on fire. They ache. I don’t care. I keep running. And I still remain in place.
“Josh! Josh! Josh!” I cry. “Josh! Josh!”
+++
I feel my body being shaken, and a voice fills my ears. “Hey, calm down. Everything’s all right. It’s me,” says a firm male voice in my ear. I feel strong hands holding my shoulders, and my eyes burst open.
“Josh!” I gasp. “You’re ali—” The word dies on my lips.
I hold his face between my shaking hands and stare at him. It’s really him, and he’s really there. I brush my fingers through his curly hair. I want to feel him. I want to absorb him and be absolutely sure he is real. One of my hands slips along his neck and follows the line of his shoulder before it falls across the soft feathers of his wing. I pull myself closer to him, holding onto his neck with both hands, squeezing him so he won’t vanish like smoke. My body is overwhelmed by tremors I can’t calm. My eyes are flooded with tears, and no matter how many times I blink them away, they keep flowing, soaking my cheeks and his shoulder where I rest my head. This spot, the corner formed by his shoulder and his neck, is probably my favorite place to bury my head. It’s warming and makes me feel safe, comforted, and bewitched by his smell, a smooth blend of herbs and wood and the salt of his sweat.
Josh slides one arm around my back, and places his other arm beneath my knees. He effortlessly lifts me from the chair, and I trust his strength, but I still feel the need to wrap my arms around his neck. I can’t help but recall the night he left and how he had carried me that way then. The only difference is that tonight I won’t throw up on him. Tonight, he won’t leave.
Josh walks through the dark house with ease, and I’m a little jealous. How can he find his way without any light? It’s darker than night, and the fire is dead. There are chairs and a table, walls and corners to avoid. He definitely knows the house better than I do, but soon I will know it as well as he does. I swear it.
We pass the doorframe of the bedroom and enter the dim halo from the ceiling lamp. Josh turns to the right, to avoid what I think is the bed, and stops. He shifts his body before he leans forward. A moment later, I’m lying on the mattress, and his arms slide away from my back and my knees. A hand hesitantly caresses my hair, and I feel warm air on the top of my head, Josh’s rapid breathing filling my ears. Something soft brushes against my forehead and makes a soft noise.
A kiss?
Then his hand slips away entirely. He’s leaving.
“Stay,” I say, grabbing for his hand.
I look up to face him; we’re less than a foot from each other. We breathe the same air. My eyes waver between his and then follow the tight line of his nose to trace the contour of his lips.
His lips. They feel soft and velvety on my skin. I think—yes, I think I’d like to press mine to them. Heat instantly warms my insides like a fire at the thought. I move my gaze away from his lips back to his eyes.
I lace my fingers with his and slowly pull him toward me until he is forced to crawl into the bed with me.
“Do you feel better?” he asks, pulling the blankets over us.
I nod, but there is still too much distance between us, and I want to bask in the warmth that emanates from him. I pull myself closer—and closer again—until I feel his body against mine, until I feel safe and peaceful. His fingers slide down through my hair delicately, and I close my eyes and breathe in time with him. It feels good. I finally feel safe to slowly let go and allow myself to drift back to sleep. The nightmares feel distant, far away, and out of reach. They can’t hold onto me now.
+++
I wake to the smell of tea and a light that slowly creeps into the bedroom. I’m surprisingly peaceful and rested this morning, despite only the few hours I’ve slept. There’s a thrill in my stomach that reminds me of yesterday. Yesterday…I reach my fingers to my forehead, around the spot Josh had kissed me. What is this new energy that courses through me and makes me want to run, jump, and dance? And yet at the same time, I want to stay here in the quietness of Josh’s arms, feeling the warmth of his breath on the top of my head. How can I feel all of that at the same time?
I turn my head to look at him for a moment. It makes me smile to see him so peaceful, breathing steady, with no worries.
As I take a deep breath and inhale the aroma of the freshly brewed tea, the craving for a cup suddenly gets stronger. The house is so quiet. I don’t hear the sound of wood being chopped or dishes being washed. It’s almost as if we’re alone—all alone—and the thought is stunning. I struggle with wanting to get up or stay in bed, but then I think back to the book.
Yes, that’s what I really want to do right now, go get the book from the chair and nestle back into the sheets. Here, beside Josh, is the only place where the contradictory feelings the book provokes in me make sense.
I roll over as discreetly as possible and get out of bed. The floor is cold under my feet, and I curl my toes until I get used to it. I tiptoe past the bed to the door, the floor creaking under my weight. I give one last look at Josh, still asleep, and reach for the doorknob that turns with a teeth-gritting squeak. I gaze one more time at Josh, who snores softly. I breathe a sigh of relief and push the door open, heading straight to where I left the book yesterday.
“Sleep well?” asks a soft, amused voice beside me.
I jump and turn, my heart racing. I thought the house was empty, but I was wrong. Dolores stands there in front of me, sitting in a chair, her elbows folded on the table and her chin resting on her closed hands. How did I miss her?
“On the table.” Dolores points to the green leather-bound book that lies a few inches away from her. She’s smiling strangely.
“What?” I ask, standing behind the chair across from her.
She shrugs, her lips stretching and relaxing as if she’s holding back a laugh. “Tell me, are you enjoying the book?”
I don’t see what’s funny about it. I must be missing something.
“I think so. I...” I pause. “It’s bizarre, and there are a lot of things I don’t get. I wonder if such a world has ever existed. It seems quite unlikely.”
I pick up the book and play around the edge of the binding, then open it and mindlessly turn the pages. Dolores stills my hand, and my eyes move up to hers.
“I must have read it a hundred times, and still, I don’t understand half of what is written,” she says, leaning back in her chair. At least I’m not alone in how I feel about it. “Whether it has existed or not, I think the point is that they got it all wrong in Kamcala.” She snorts at the name. “There may be some similarities between both worlds, the one from the book and Kamcala, when it comes to fighting and wars I guess, but when it’s time for companionship and romance—love—Kamcala misses the point entirely.”
Love. I can’t hold back the shiver the word brings over me. Love is a word that doesn’t exist in Kamcala, probably has never existed there, it’s expressly forbidden. And since friendship is already unacceptable, love would surely be worthy of death.
“It took me a very long time to understand these feelings,” she says. “I feared reprimands that don’t exist out here. This fear was deeply ingrained in me, but this book helped me overcome that and accept the truth that we were wrong there—so utterly wrong.” Dolores takes the book from me and looks at it for a moment, probably remembering when she first started living here. With her eyes locked on a page she has randomly picked, she says, “To be able to share feelings and intimacy with another person, how dare they deprive everyone of such a thing? It goes against nature.”
My jaw nearly hits the floor. With a few sentences, Dolores sums up something that would have taken me forever to understand. I still need to make peace with my own emotions, to interpret them, but now I know I’m not crazy, and these feelings are real. Someone else has felt them too. I’m not alone.
“Is it wrong if…Josh and I slept in the same bed? I mean, there was this nightmare, and Josh, well, he was there, and I felt that I—”