Mosscap’s eyes flickered. “Um … no, I’m … done,” it repeated slowly. “You can have it if you want.”
Dex nodded and took Mosscap’s plate. “Thanks,” they said, wasting no time in tucking in. “I appreciate it.”
The robot watched as Dex continued to eat. “That’s very silly,” Mosscap said.
“Yep,” Dex said.
“And entirely unnecessary.”
Dex took a gulp of ale and exhaled with pleasure. “Worked, though.”
Mosscap weighed this, then gave an amused nod. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
7
THE WILD
It is difficult for anyone born and raised in human infrastructure to truly internalize the fact that your view of the world is backward. Even if you fully know that you live in a natural world that existed before you and will continue long after, even if you know that the wilderness is the default state of things, and that nature is not something that only happens in carefully curated enclaves between towns, something that pops up in empty spaces if you ignore them for a while, even if you spend your whole life believing yourself to be deeply in touch with the ebb and flow, the cycle, the ecosystem as it actually is, you will still have trouble picturing an untouched world. You will still struggle to understand that human constructs are carved out and overlaid, that these are the places that are the in-between, not the other way around.
This is the cognitive shift that Dex ran headlong into as they straddled their bike on the old road and stared at the place where the asphalt disappeared.
There had been a landslide at some point—years before, decades before, who could say. A whole chunk of the mountain had lost cohesion, erasing the paved line hewn by human hands. This wasn’t a matter of the road being damaged. There was no indication that there’d ever been a road beyond the ragged edge that Dex and Mosscap stood at. Whatever hunks of asphalt had broken off were thoroughly swallowed by rock and soil, both of which had been claimed in full by thriving communities of ferns, trees, roots, and lichen.
“I’m sorry, Sibling Dex,” Mosscap said.
Dex said nothing in reply. They stared at the chaotic jumble ahead of them, trying to understand the feeling smoldering within their chest. There was disappointment in there, and dismay, too, but as they unwrapped the snarl, the bulk of what they found was anger, constantly doubling itself like cells dividing. The anger wasn’t directed at the situation, but at the suggestion that this meant giving up. I can’t go farther, they had thought upon arriving at this spot, and when they protested at this, the logical part of them explained: The road is gone. The wagon can’t travel through there. This is it.
The road was gone. The wagon couldn’t travel. The longer those observations sat, the more Dex fumed. The place ahead was simply the world, as the world had always been and would always be. Dex was, presumably, a part of it, a product of it, a being inextricably tied to its machinations. And yet, faced with the prospect of entering the world unaided, unaltered, Dex felt helpless. Hopeless. A turtle on its back, legs waving futilely in the air.
Dex glared at the missing road, glared at themself. They kicked the brakes down and marched into the wagon.
“Oh, I’m so disappointed,” Mosscap said, still outside. “And I really am sorry. As I said, I haven’t been out this way in some time, and I’ve never been up this road before. I had no idea it was in such— What are you doing?”
Dex was digging around in the wagon, backpack in hand. They packed water bottle and filter, of course, and first aid, obviously. Socks, probably. They could ditch the socks if need be.
“Sibling Dex?”
Soap, no. Jewelry, no. Trinkets—gods around, why did they have so much stuff? Dex continued to cram things into the bag, uncaring about how any of it was folded or stacked. A full change of clothes was too much … or was it? They jammed in pants and a shirt, just in case.
Mosscap stuck its head into the wagon. “What are you doing?”
Dex stood in front of their pantry cupboard, thinking. It would’ve been a half a day’s ride to the hermitage, so without the bike, on foot …
“Sibling Dex, no,” Mosscap said.
Two days, Dex thought. Maybe three. They grabbed protein bars, salted nuts, dried fruit, jerky, chocolate.
“Maybe you got the wrong impression when we went off trail before.” Mosscap’s voice was nervous. “That was a couple of hours in an easy stretch of forest. I don’t know what’s out here. I’ve never been here.”
“It’s not on you,” Dex said. They added a pocket charger for their computer and a spare blanket, then zipped up the bag. They shuttered the wagon’s windows, one by one.
“I don’t understand,” Mosscap said. “Why is this so important?”
Something in Dex prickled furiously at the question, a secretive creature that did not wish to be poked. They climbed back out of the wagon with conviction; Mosscap jumped out of the way.
“You don’t have to come,” Dex said. “We were going to part ways after the hermitage anyway. You’ve been very kind in helping me, but I’ve kept you from your thing, and you should get to it.”
Mosscap stood helplessly as Dex locked the wagon. “Sibling Dex, I—”
Dex shouldered their pack and pulled the straps tight. They looked up at the robot towering above them. “I’m going,” they said.
Mosscap’s eyes went dark for a moment. When the blue light returned, it was a little dimmer than before. “Okay,” Mosscap said. “Then let’s go.”
The human body can adapt to almost anything, but it is deceptively selective about the way it does so. Dex had thought themself in good shape. They had spent years pedaling through Panga. They were demonstrably fit. And yet, after a full day of scrabbling their way up a trail-less hill—climbing over logs, down gullies, cautiously finding their footing across rock piles—muscles that had been resting easy for years objected loudly to finding themselves drop-kicked into such an unexpected task.
Dex didn’t care. Their palms and forearms were scraped and bloody.
Dex didn’t care. Bloodsucks were taking full advantage of the feast at hand. A blister was forming on their foot, a spot unaccustomed to being rubbed by a shoe in an unfamiliar angle. The sky was getting darker. The air was getting thinner. The mountain seemed to go on forever.
Dex didn’t care.
Mosscap said nearly nothing as the two went along, aside from the occasional quiet suggestion of “this way looks easier” or “mind that root.” Dex resented the robot’s company. They did not want Mosscap there. They did not want anyone there. They wanted to climb the fucking mountain, because they had decided they would, and then, when they got to the hermitage, then … then …
Dex gritted their teeth and hauled themself over a boulder, ignoring the gaping hole at the end of that statement.
Welts began to rise where the bloodsucks had fed. Sweat poured from Dex’s itching skin, soaking the red-and-brown cloth that was already caked with dirt. Dex could smell themself, musky and acrid. They thought of the sweet mint soap in their wagon, the fluffy red towel, the trusty camp shower that really wasn’t anything special but was always there for them. They thought of their chair, their fire drum, their beautiful, beautiful bed.
And what did we do before beds? Dex thought angrily. What did we do before showers? The human species did just fine for hundreds of thousands of years without any of that, so why can’t you?
It began to rain.
“I think we should find shelter,” Mosscap said. It looked up at the sky. “Those clouds aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and it will be dark in an hour.”
Dex began to climb another rock, hands and feet seeking scraps of purchase, cold rain soaking the last patches of clothing that had managed to avoid their sweat.
This time, Mosscap did not follow. It stood at the bottom of the rock, watching in bafflement. “Why are you doing this?” it asked.
Dex said nothing.
“Why did you come ou
t here?” The robot’s voice rose impatiently. “Why are you here, Sibling Dex?”
“I’m trying to climb,” Dex snapped, a few feet above. “Stop distracting me.”
“Did something happen to you?”
“No.”
“Did someone drive you away?”
“No.” They reached up. There was a small crack that looked decent, but the rain had made the rock slick. Dex’s fingers slipped from the water, shook from the strain.
“You have friends in the City,” Mosscap said. “You have family in Haydale. Why did you leave? Did they hurt you?”
“No!”
“Do they miss you?”
“Gods, will you—”
“Do they love you?”
“Shut up!” The words echoed against the rocks, and as they bounced, Dex lost their grip. It wasn’t so much a fall as a skid. Their body managed to catch varied angles and points, slowing their speed but tearing at cloth and skin. Dex felt the impact before they understood what it was—hard, yes, and painful, yes, but uniform, bracing, metallic.
Mosscap.
The robot wrapped its arms around Dex’s body, absorbing the descent, and they both crashed backward onto the muddy ledge below. Dex rolled free of the robot’s grasp, collapsing shakily into the muck that surrounded them. Mosscap sat up quickly, its plating spattered with mud.
“Are you all right?” the robot cried.
Dex sat in the mud, cold rain hammering down, insect bites burning, bruises and scrapes screaming, muscles weeping and heart trembling. They panted. They tried to steady themself. Slowly, silently, as though it were an afterthought, Dex began to cry.
“I don’t know,” Dex said, their voice shaking. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know.”
Mosscap got up on its knees and held out a hand to Dex. “Come on, Sibling Dex. Let’s—”
“I don’t know!” Dex cried. They beat the mud once with their hands, frustrated, furious, crying full-bodied now. They looked at Mosscap, angry and raw.
Mosscap’s hand remained outstretched. “Come on,” it said. Its voice was easy, steady, used to sharing space with wolves and bears and small, frightened things.
The rain fell harder. Dex let the robot help them up, and the two got to their feet. Mosscap walked. Dex followed. Where it led, they did not care.
* * *
Children’s stories had lied about caves. In folklore and fairy tales, heroes who took refuge in such places made them sound like the most appealing nooks in the world—cozy, adventurous, essentially natural bedrooms that lacked furniture. None of that was true about the cave Dex followed Mosscap into. It was craggy and dark, uncomfortably angled. A stagnant smell emanated from nowhere in particular; Dex could not identify it and did not want to. A fragile rib cage of something extremely dead lay without ceremony on the floor, a few tufts of limp fur scattered around, unwanted by whatever had crunched the bones clean. The best thing anyone could say about the cave was that it was dry.
Under the circumstances, that would do.
Shivering, Dex peeled off their clothes, lay them flat on the least suspicious-looking rock they could find, and gave silent thanks to Allalae for their own decision that a change of clothes and a blanket were worth packing. The sun was setting outside, but there were no pinks or reds to be seen—just a dark forest, growing darker. The hair on the back of Dex’s neck prickled. They thought they knew what it was to spend a night outside. On the tea route, they spent far more nights camped out than they did in village guesthouses. But there, they had their wagon, their boundary against the world. Here, listening to the rain fall, watching the light vanish, Dex began to understand why the concept of inside had been invented in the first place. Again, their mind wandered to the people who had come before them, who had nothing but caves such as these to huddle inside. It had worked for them. It had to have worked, in order for them to go so long without coming up with the idea of walls. But for Dex, this was not enough. This was scary. This was dangerous. This was stupid, so stupid. They glanced at the bones on the floor, the hair on their neck raised taut. Such fear was a remnant, as the robot would say. Or maybe, Dex countered, just common fucking sense.
Mosscap was seated opposite them, cross-legged, hands folded in its lap. “Should we make a fire?” it asked. “I could gather wood.”
Dex let out a sad, disparaging laugh—directed at themself, not the robot. “I don’t know how to make a wood fire,” they said.
“Ah,” Mosscap said sadly. “Me neither.” It looked at its hands, spreading the fingers wide. One by one, the lights on Mosscap’s fingertips lit up. “Does that help? It’s not warm, but—”
“That helps,” Dex said, and meant it. Ten tiny lights didn’t seem like much, but Dex felt their hair lower just a touch. They sat on the floor. Rocks poked unkindly into their backside. They pulled their knees up to their chest, wrapping their arms around their legs and resting their chin on their knees. Something within them loosened, vanished, gave up. With neither reason nor clear intent, they started talking.
“I have it so good. So absurdly, improbably good. I didn’t do anything to deserve it, but I have it. I’m healthy. I’ve never gone hungry. And yes, to answer your question, I’m—I’m loved. I lived in a beautiful place, did meaningful work. The world we made out there, Mosscap, it’s—it’s nothing like what your originals left. It’s a good world, a beautiful world. It’s not perfect, but we’ve fixed so much. We made a good place, struck a good balance. And yet every fucking day in the City, I woke up hollow, and … and just … tired, y’know? So, I did something else instead. I packed up everything, and I learned a brand-new thing from scratch, and gods, I worked hard for it. I worked really hard. I thought, if I can just do that, if I can do it well, I’ll feel okay. And guess what? I do do it well. I’m good at what I do. I make people happy. I make people feel better. And yet I still wake up tired, like … like something’s missing. I tried talking to friends, and family, and nobody got it, so I stopped bringing it up, and then I just stopped talking to them altogether, because I couldn’t explain, and I was tired of pretending like everything was fine. I went to doctors, to make sure I wasn’t sick and that my head was okay. I read books and monastic texts and everything I could find. I threw myself into my work, I went to all the places that used to inspire me, I listened to music and looked at art, I exercised and had sex and got plenty of sleep and ate my vegetables, and still. Still. Something is missing. Something is off. So, how fucking spoiled am I, then? How fucking broken? What is wrong with me that I can have everything I could ever want and have ever asked for and still wake up in the morning feeling like every day is a slog?”
Mosscap listened to Dex, listened with intense focus. When it spoke, it did so with equal care. “I don’t know,” it said.
Dex sighed. “I don’t expect you to know; I’m just … talking.” They rested their cheek on their knees, watching the dark beyond the cave settle in.
“Did you think the hermitage would help in some way?” Mosscap said.
“I don’t know. It was just this … this crazy idea that popped into my head on a day when the thought of going down the same road and doing the same thing one more time made me feel like I was going to implode. It was the first idea in forever that made me feel excited. Made me feel awake. And I’ve been so desperate for that feeling, so desperate to just enjoy the world again, that I…”
“You followed a road you hadn’t seen,” Mosscap said.
“Yeah.”
The rain poured incessantly outside, nearly drowning out the mechanical hum of Mosscap thinking. The robot extended one of its glowing fingers and began drawing absent squiggles on the dirty floor. “Maybe I’m the wrong one for this.”
Dex looked up. “The wrong one for what?”
Mosscap shrugged, its head bowed. “How am I supposed to answer the question of what humans need if I can’t even determine what one human needs?”
“Oh, hey, no.” Dex sat up stra
ight. “Mosscap, you—I—I have been asking myself that question for years. You’ve been around me for six days. You’re— This isn’t on you. If you don’t understand me, that doesn’t mean you’re not right for this. I don’t understand me. What you need is to go talk to people who aren’t me. It’s like I’ve said all along: I’m not the right person for you. Down in the villages, you’ll find someone better. Someone smart. Someone who isn’t a mess. Someone who doesn’t do shit like this.” They gestured broadly at the cave, the bruises, the soiled clothes drying on a musty rock. “Gods, why did I do this.” They laced their hands in their hair and exhaled deeply.
“I didn’t think ahead either,” Mosscap said. “When I volunteered, I mean. The question was asked, and I said yes, and I didn’t think about what it would involve. I simply wanted to go. I didn’t think for a minute about what would come next.”
“Yeah,” Dex said. “I get that.”
Neither said anything for a while. The rain drummed down, no longer visible.
“What will you do?” Mosscap said. “When the rain stops?”
“I’m gonna finish it,” Dex said.
Mosscap nodded. “And then?”
“I don’t know.” They shivered, and wrapped their blanket tighter around themself.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.” Dex made an awkward face in the dim light. “Mostly just scared.”
“Of what?”
“The dark, I guess. I know that sounds stupid.”
“No, it doesn’t. You’re diurnal. I’d be surprised if you weren’t afraid of the dark.” Mosscap considered something. “I’m not warm,” it said, “but would you feel less afraid if we sat closer together?”
Dex looked at the floor. “Maybe,” they said.
Mosscap made room. “I think I would too,” it said quietly.
Dex got up and walked the few steps over to Mosscap’s side. The rocks in the floor were no less pokey, the weird smell no less cloying. But as they sat back down, living arm pressed lightly against metal, a thread of fear let go.
A Psalm for the Wild-Built Page 9