Anna

by Sammy H. K. Smith

  I took the high ground. I wanted to look down, not up. A crackling of leaves and twigs made me stop and crouch, darting my eyes at the plants by the sharp edge down. A flash of black and white disappeared into the undergrowth – badger? I didn’t like badgers, their sharp teeth and claws terrified me, and they fought with a vicious desperation when trapped. I remembered several infected scratches and cuts from two years before when I was less experienced at hunting. I recalled how he had set the trap the first night we had hunted together. Not a word spoken. I watched as he wound the wire and tied the snare, hiding it in the grass. It was quicker than my method of sitting and waiting for them to approach, and even his way of skinning was skilled. I realised how much I had learnt from him. I doubted that was his intention.

  I walked for several miles, stopping often and checking the ground for tracks. Only small paw prints greeted me. I was able to see clearly now. The dry lit ground contrasted with the darker, moist patches; it was strange seeing the light and dark areas, like a melting chessboard. There were puddles of water in the dips. It hadn’t rained overnight.

  I thought about my parents and my brother, how I had screamed and shouted on the phone to them the day the army took Stephen: ungrateful, that’s what they’d said. Ungrateful traitor. A disappointment. I’d not spoken to them since. When the towns were hit and those who survived started to band together I thought of going to them, asking for their forgiveness; but I always held back. As the gangs grew larger and the danger grew thicker, I regretted not trying to find them. It was only when I stood and watched one of the gangs ransack and loot the local nursing home near to me for supplies that I truly started to realise the desperation of what was going on. Now, walking along an overgrown track I pushed the memory of the violence that day to one side and batted the hundreds of tiny flies away from my face.

  The puddles were becoming larger, they were small ponds. My skin was greasy and my throat sore from fatigue. I stopped and knelt, washing my face as best as I could, and the grime and sweat peeled away. Glancing down at the rippling water I grimaced at the face that stared back at me. I hated mirrors, hated seeing what I had become, a timid and watered down version of me. The same dark brown wavy hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones; the discoloured scar to the corner of my eye was obvious, a thick line of tawny brown. I followed my frown line with my fingers and then wrote my name in the water, watching my distorted mirror image dissolve. I allowed myself a small moment of satisfaction then. The water had an invigorating effect – both on my body and mind.

  I carried on. The track continued upwards, and to my left I could see down the side of the hill. The many shades and textures of green created a deceptively flat looking path, but it was only when I looked closer that I saw the gaps in the carpet and the drop below.

  Stephen: I didn’t miss him anymore. The thought stung me like a horsefly. I thought of him often, how could I not? But I didn’t miss him. I could barely recall his face now. I was angry at him, for he had left me; not when he should have, but when I needed him. Through the pain of the realisation came the understanding that yes, I had cheated, lied and hurt him: but he should never have slapped me. I deserved the pain that came with the strike, but not the violence. He wasn’t perfect. We both made mistakes but I had always forgiven him and washed the perfume scented shirts without the slightest protest or comment. I never searched for an explanation through discussion. That was where I went wrong, wasn’t it? Communication. I wasn’t logical, but I didn’t care.

  I tripped over a root, jarring my right ankle, forcing me to pull my thoughts back to the here and now. My steady pace meant I was at least ten miles from the golf course and close to the centre of the forest.

  The slight twinge of pain when walking slowed me down, but I still managed a few miles before nightfall. I was on higher ground now. It was cooler. The air seemed moist and kissed my skin; it spurred me forward. I still thought of Stephen, but no longer did the melancholia of longing swamp me down, instead it was the icy awareness and understanding that I had grown apart from him accompanying me. It took until nightfall to walk off the anger and upset; but it was odd – with each step I left him behind and strength returned. This was achievable, more than a dream, more than a whim, I could escape this prison. I was flying higher and higher away from the confines of what my captor had created. I could be free.

  The euphoria remained as I climbed a nearby tree and sat high in the branches and stared out as far as I could see. On my way up, my feet slipped from the gnarls and knots in the wood often, but I found my footholds and remembered how I first learnt to climb a tree in my gran’s orchard as a child. The wide apple trees were perfect and I would hide in the trees all day, pretending to be a fairy hiding from the monsters. Steadily I pulled myself up, clambering onto the thick branches and ignoring the darker, almost black rotten wood. The sun was setting now and I could just about make out the sea through the mist and clouds. It was beautiful and calming.

  I love you, Stephen. I just don’t need you.

  Long after the sun set I remained on the branch, my legs dangling down. I was at least twenty feet from the ground. I used to suffer with terrible vertigo, it jumped on me one day in my early twenties and stayed with me until I entered the Unlands alone: being forced to look after myself meant I had to tackle so many of my fears. Now I could hold spiders and climb twenty-foot trees: in some ways desperation had been liberating.

  Still swinging my legs, I removed my backpack and took out the rope, tying the pack to the trunk and then to me. It was warmer in the trees with the shelter from the wind. There was no sign of movement anywhere but I could hear the forest nightlife. The rustling of leaves on the ground, and the high pitched clicking of insects, the calls of the birds, all surrounded me. I could hear more at night than I could during the day. I stretched my legs along the length of the branch and tightened the rope around my waist, using the excess around my thighs. I can’t remember where I learnt this, a book, a television show, it didn’t matter. It was habit now, a good one. Leaning against my bag, I closed my eyes and listened, allowing myself to think of nothing but the darkness.

  “Will, this is ridiculous. Come back to the town. She won’t leave the baby for long, she’ll be back.”

  Simon. I opened my eyes. I had dozed off and not heard him approach. But now, now I could hear the material of his jacket rubbing, the scraping of his bag, and the heavy steps. I didn’t move: if I could hear him, he could hear me. I stared up at the clear sky and the constellations. I couldn’t name them, I couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to hide. It was strange, but I was desperate to hear his voice.

  “Will, are you listening? Jesus Christ. C’mon, forget it. Forget her. You’ve got your son.”

  He muttered, but I couldn’t make out what he said, I wanted to look down, but I forced myself to remain still.

  “Look, I’m going back to the town, it’s been nearly two days. She’ll come back. I’ll shut Glen up and have Deven look after the baby, Glen can’t protect him forever.”

  There was a silence, stretching across the distance between us and bouncing back again. I got my wish.

  “I know her. She’s in here.”

  I knew it, I knew he’d come. How could he not? His obsession ran too deep. There was small triumph in my mind, but it was smothered with paralysing terror. His soft tone still unnerved me, my fingers and legs cold and liquid. I could be free. I needed to remember that.

  “She could be anywhere, this place is huge. Trust me, she won’t leave the baby for long.” Simon sighed and then chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve congratulated you, he’s a good looking lad.”

  I didn’t hear his reply, but they both laughed. I dug my nails into my palms. They would be armed, I couldn’t do a thing. There was his voice again, deep and low as he murmured to Simon. Again I couldn’t hear what he said.

  “All right, that makes sense. I’ll see you soon. I’ve got a crew looking for her back on the route she first took to the
town. Dave, Morgan and Rees have fanned out on the other route. I’ll keep them looking for as long as I can, but soon the council will ask where they are. I can’t juggle this for long. I can’t keep Rich locked up for long. Too many questions and problems. You owe me,” replied Simon. “He did a good fucking job on your eye, that’s for sure.”

  “He packs a decent punch. It causes a fucking problem I didn’t anticipate. We need to find out who else she told and deal with it. If we don’t, I’ll have to leave with her and the baby, which isn’t fucking ideal. No, this makes us even. You’d have nothing if it wasn’t for me. Don’t forget that, Sergeant.” A hint of a friendly warning and then: “I’ll be back with her. She knows I can give her what she wants, she fucking loves it.” Followed by a laugh from them both.

  “Good hunting.”

  Then there was silence again. There was no wind and yet that scent called up to me, and my nostrils flared in protest. One pair of boots walked away. The other person remained; I couldn’t hear him, not a sound came; but he was there. I knew how quiet he could be when he waited for his prey.

  What if he stays here? Till morning? He’ll see me then.

  I couldn’t allow the panic to take over my senses, so I concentrated on my baby: I was doing this for him. The insects clicked and the ground still rustled, but he made no noise. I imagined him standing at the bottom of my tree, staring up at me. If I looked down would I see those dark eyes and darker smile? The black gave way to grey and I struggled to keep my dread in check. It would soon be light. I allowed myself to think. What were the chances of him finding me here? How had he known to go high and not low? To stop at this tree, here in this forest? Could it be fate again? That concept of predetermined events I didn’t believe in? If fate was a possibility then this meant that everything I did was for nothing, I would be unable to change the course of what would happen. I should embrace it.

  It was light now, so quickly did the sun rise in the summer. I slowly undid the rope from my legs and waist and twisted myself around, looking down to the ground. Nothing but dirt, leaves and plants. He was gone. I exhaled and massaged my stomach. Undoing the top button to my jeans I rubbed harder, and the pressure on my bladder eased. My spine, however, protested. Hours of sitting in the same position, tense and unable to relax, caused my muscles to spasm and a bolt of pain travelled from my back, down my backside and my right leg. I moaned and then pressed my lips shut. He could be nearby. I counted, one hundred and thirty-eight and then looked down: it was clear. With my bag secure I climbed down the tree and hit the ground softly, controlled and measured. He was around now. I was the rabbit, he was the hunter. I doubled back and, as I relieved myself, I decided to go wide, to find the edge of the forest to the west and follow the tree line around.

  Walking on I remained alert, checking for tracks and signs that he had passed through, but there was nothing. The outskirts of the forest was a good choice, thick and overgrown with ferns, bushes and flowers. I was able to see both across the fields and back into the forest. There was no sign of him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I struggled with the path and terrain several miles further along. I should have researched the forest, the layout and places to avoid. The ground was no longer soft and accommodating, and it crumbled as I gripped at the weeds I used for leverage. This was stupid. After sliding again and grazing my palms I sat with my head in my hands and swore repeatedly. I’d have to double back again and find another way around, the drop down to the fields was too high now and I didn’t know if the land would reconnect with the trees. Too exposed, too obvious. Idiot. I couldn’t stop. Reluctantly I stood and jogged down the path. Was this even a path? I wasn’t so sure now, how could it be? I shuffled, moving to my backside as it dropped at both sides; what the fuck was I thinking?

  I wasn’t. That was the problem, I’d been too distracted with the painful longing for my baby. Several hours later and only half a mile or so along I found a way into the forest: there was a short drop into a tall collection of ferns, ten feet or so to the forest floor. I pulled off my backpack and threw it down. It landed with a thud; okay, more like fifteen or twenty feet. Twisting, I lowered my body down, grabbing the exposed roots of a bush and dangling. My breathing had quickened. The ledge cut into my chest. Pain. Gritting my teeth, I let go and fell. Hitting the ground hard, my head smacked off the mud and a heavy thud rattled me. I didn’t move. Hammer to the skull: even that didn’t describe what I felt.

  Several minutes passed before the coldness wore off and I could move. Sitting up I rubbed the back of my head, no wetness – that was a positive. But as I ran my hands over my scalp I winced at the large spongy lump.

  I wished I had painkillers. I remembered his fingers pushing the paracetamol in my mouth and my ribs flared up in sympathy and anger. I crawled to my knees and stood, my back spasming again. I ignored it though and hauled my pack on, my right leg buckling as the small of my back throbbed and the pain shot back down my leg. Shoulder, leg, back, head.

  I missed the first smattering of raindrops as I struggled with the weight of my pack and the aches of my muscles and scrapes as I slid down the makeshift paths. I couldn’t concentrate, memories of my grandfather swirled to the forefront of my thoughts. He had trained as an air force pilot. He never saw the conflict, though he often said aloud to us that he wished he had. He longed to fight for freedom.

  It was only when we were alone that he would pull me onto his knee and whisper the truth. ‘I’m glad I never had to fight. I was scared and I didn’t want to leave your grandmother, but don’t tell anyone, promise?’ I had promised. It was our secret.

  The clouds embraced and a deep rumble rolled through the sky, followed in quick succession by the splitting crack of lightening and flash of white.

  He spoke often of his time in service and the beauty of places he visited.

  ‘Get out of here when you’re old enough. Don’t stay, go and get lost somewhere.’ He made me promise to live my life, to never settle for second best.

  I was soaked now. The rain was relentless. Rivulets of water chased down my arms and splashed on the floor, disappearing into the puddles and waterways that welled upwards. Rumble, one, two, three, four, five, crack. Swollen seeds, uncurled leaves floated and spun. Only the sound of the sky could be heard. It deafened yet thrilled me.

  The wind lanced through the air. The grass bent. The trees twisted and curled, branches stooping low. The smell of smoke chased the wind, riding on the tails of its power. I stumbled over an exposed root, losing my footing.

  Down, the side of the ravine raced to greet me, or I it. My hip and ribs were rattling as the falling stones ground against them. There was a blur of browns and greens. My hands clutched at the murky emptiness. I was falling. I was out of control. I love you, you are my hope. Leaves hit my face; the spray of water stung my skin as the smell of honeysuckle engulfed me. I ripped the bush from the ground, the roots giving in to the pull of my desperation and the soft earth. With a crash I stopped: a rotten tree trunk. Curling in the shade of the fallen tree I clutched my sides and breathed, greedily drinking in the air and soothing my raw throat. My hands were almost black, my nails broken to the quick and bleeding. Grit covered my face, I could taste the green, the browns and blacks of the forest.

  The flaking bark fell like snowflakes on my jeans and top as I pressed my back tighter against the tree. My ankle too sore for me to walk, or move, I would have to wait. Back, shoulder, side, head, ankle, pain flared throughout. Minutes passed, the storm howled through the forest, hunting for something, someone. Rumble, one, two, three, crack. Wriggling free from my pack I glided it along the mud and under my head. The aroma of salt, fish and wood filled my nostrils. Closing my eyes I caught the scent of baby powder and pressed my face into the tightly woven material and breathed in again. It was gone.

  It had changed. Sitting up, the wind had calmed, the rain thinned. Huge droplets splattered lazily on my skin. Rotating my ankle and satisfied it no longer
throbbed and only ached I stood and shrugged the pack onto my back. My top was stuck to my skin and I longed for a hot shower. There was a silence that unnerved me. The symphony of the storm had quietened and now came the rests. I was sure there was more to come and I needed shelter before nightfall. It was time to move.

  Looking up, I could see the crumbled path I had walked along high above. The winding root of the closest tree was exposed from the side. It was thick and gnarled. Turning, I pulled out the compass and headed west. I needed to get far away. Inland and away from the community. My boots sunk in the mud and with each step the resistance grew, begging me into the ground. I grimaced as my thighs protested at the exercise. I was so out of shape, stupid, so very stupid. I should have prepared better. For him though, I did this for him. The pain was back, deep and merciless. I had to leave him. Freedom: he deserved an unshackled life, and so did I. I deserved it. It sat uncomfortably within me, as though I was reciting the words and trying to convince myself I was worthy. But I was, wasn’t I?

  The rain was back. It answered me and the hunt was on once again. At first a light shower poured from the sky and released the damp smell from the nooks and crannies of the earth. Licking my lips I tilted my head back and drank: warm, dusty and smelling of strange chemicals. Unnatural. Rumble, one, crack. Rolling my shoulders and neck I pushed forward through shrubs and foliage I couldn’t name, sliding in the deep tracks that pooled with water, snaking their way to the well-worn and forgotten road. I was sure I was lost. Shaking and numb I stopped.

  Lovers curled around one another. Their heads bowed and touching, lips so close, eyes stared at one another, lost in dreams and forgotten promises. Arms splayed, legs like a marionette’s. Eyes full of blame and hurt: yet all empty. My dreams burnt away in the rain, replaced with smiling families cold and drained. No laughter or life. Brown. Yellow. Green. Grey. Slick. I turned and slipped in the wet ground, falling backwards into their embrace. Crawling now, the mud oozed through my fingers and my knees and shins rubbed against the hard and unrelenting bodies of the bloodless. Of fathers and mothers. Sisters and brothers. A welter of faces and more than I could count. A welt on the face. I paused and stared, a corrosive burn in my throat, moving inwards and deeper. She stared back and the stretched and split skin moved to accuse me as the earth moved around her. The smell, earth and mould, decay that lingers. Smoke and blood. I cannot forget this. Dreams are drained and yet I still moved. Surrounded, I was trapped and would never escape, never be free.