The Nightmarchers

by J. Lincoln Fenn

  “You don’t live with your family.”

  The truth hurts. She tries to think of a way to explain to a girl who doesn’t know about divorces and attorneys, courts and prenuptial agreements.

  Julia gives the rope a good hard tug. It holds. “Let’s just say I have to get the jewels from the witch. My husband left me in the woods to starve, because he wants Evie all to himself. I need the jewels to get her back.”

  “Ethan,” says the girl. “Ethan left you all alone.”

  “Yes.” Her heart clenches with a pain that still, even here, so far away from it all, nearly breaks her.

  This the strange girl seems to understand. Julia gets the sense that it settles something in her mind. “I will take you to the red flower tomorrow,” the girl says. “And you will give it to the witch and get her jewels.”

  It’s remarkable that the girl made the intuitive leap that the flower is the price she has to pay. Julia lets go of the rope and turns back to the gorge. If she doesn’t slip and fall, it might just be possible to get across, storm or not. If. Just the thought of it though makes her queasy.

  “But,” says the girl, “you will give me your map device.”

  This she wasn’t expecting. “Why do you want it?”

  “Because I want to walk the island and see it the way a bird sees it, from the sky.”

  “It won’t work for much longer,” Julia says. “It needs to be plugged in, like—”

  “Like the computer. I know.”

  “The church has a computer?”

  “No.”

  One of her competitors? Someone else on the island entirely?

  Beth?

  Noah?

  She needs to know. She can’t truly protect herself if she doesn’t know who to protect herself from.

  “The GPS . . . map device needs a special plug. One that fits in here.” Julia takes it out from her sodden bag, and the girl steps forward, curious. It’s insane, beyond insane to be standing in the beginnings of an approaching tropical storm, talking about plugs, but she can’t, of course, seem desperate in what is about to be a transaction.

  The girl leans in, peers at the bottom of the phone. “The hole is tiny.”

  “Exactly. So how about this: I take this back with me and plug it in, and then tomorrow when you take me to the red flower, you can use it. And when I leave, you can have it. But you’d have to keep it where the Reverend won’t find it.”

  “Oh, he won’t,” says the girl, in a tone that makes her seem much, much older. “He never sees anything I don’t want him to.”

  An unusual confidence. Julia waits, not daring to say another word.

  The girl looks off for a moment, then decides. “I will accept your offer.”

  A strong gust blows the rope bridge completely sideways. Great. But Julia is on this side, and the bridge is what’s required to get to the other. She needs to do it quickly, though, before the worst of the storm rolls in.

  “Where should we meet?”

  “I will find you, when it’s time,” says the girl.

  “Of course, if the storm really gets bad—“

  “Then we’ll get wet.” The girl smiles, like Julia is being ridiculous to even consider it a possible problem. She pirouettes on one of her muddy bare feet, and heads back into the jungle without another word.

  Julia watches her disappear into the brush like a sprite. Wonders at her Zen-like calm.

  She could use some of that calm herself, to get over that goddamn bridge. She should have packed at least one of the Jack Daniel’s.

  Not a particularly helpful thought. So Julia does the only thing she can, which is to put the GPS back in her backpack, zip it shut, sling the pack over her back, securing it as best she can with the straps, and then walk toward the bridge.

  She pauses at the gulch’s muddy edge.

  Odd. The girl used Ethan’s name. She doesn’t remember mentioning his name.

  Something to wonder about later. The storm is worsening, and she needs to get across soon. So she reaches out for the rope railings, such as they are, and takes the first step.

  Her weight keeps the bridge from swinging quite as wildly, and she tries to focus on the plank in front of her, then the next plank, then the next, her survival a moment-by-moment affair. Right hand, left foot, left hand—ignore the pain, don’t think about the pain—right foot. Below, the waters rage.

  Julia has never liked heights. Ethan surprised her once with a Napa Valley hot air balloon excursion, back when they were dating. She’d pretended to enjoy it, trying to impress. But being that far above the ground, held aloft by a flimsy bit of fabric and invisible gas, was not exactly her idea of fun. She’d held onto the gondola rail for dear life, white-knuckled.

  Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.

  Such a simple equation in front of her. Either she’ll slip and fall, or she won’t. Either the rope bridge will hold, or it won’t. The only thing in her control is her own focus.

  Control. Such a seductive idea, to have control, dominion over one’s self, one’s life. Almost as terrible as losing Evie was losing the sense that her life was her own, that the construction of the world she’d built with Ethan was something she’d had an equal say in. But it had always been at his pleasure. She’d deceived herself into thinking otherwise.

  A quarter of the way across. The rain hits her face like small pebbles.

  Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.

  Will the girl keep her promise to show her where the corpse flower is? Again, not in Julia’s control.

  Her boot slips on the next plank; she feels it hover over empty space for three heart-pounding seconds, and the sudden shift of weight causes the bridge to swing. Her left hand can’t hold on, so she grips the rope tightly with her right hand, feels a surge of vomit rising at the back of her throat.

  A bright burst of lightning over the ridge, behind the jagged peak of Kapu, then the crack of thunder.

  She swallows. Holds on.

  Evie, short for Evelyn. The name had been Ethan’s idea, after his grandmother, a woman on the cusp of death with a large fortune to bequeath. Not that he didn’t have enough of the green stuff himself, but there never seemed to be an end point of satiation, or to the competition with his wealthy compatriots. Always a bigger yacht to own, more houses scattered across the globe to buy, places to travel, the desperation of cramming several lifetimes’ worth of experiences into one. The fear that someone had something he didn’t.

  The gust dies away. It’s hard, almost impossible, to get her hand to let go of the railing for even a second, but she has to. Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.

  The constant anxiety that he would lose it all. A market fluctuation across the world could keep him up nights. Once she’d suggested they live slightly under their means, if he was so worried. Downsize to a smaller house. He’d reacted like she’d suggested he shoot himself.

  Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.

  Halfway there. Aunt Liddy’s fortune is a supernova to his star, and yet in the last, lingering days of her life, Aunt Liddy is still trying maintain control of it, or at least her legacy. The same sense of desperation.

  Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot. Only a few more yards until she’s on the other side.

  Her grandfather trying to control the genetic destiny of humankind.

  Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.

  Control an ancient human desire, from the beginning of Genesis. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea . . .

  God, the sound of the water below her. She imagines the free fall that could happen at any moment, the short plummet, the deathly impact, washed out to sea.

  Her body freezes. She wills her right foot to move, but it won’t. Tries to loosen her grip on the rope, but it’s like it’s been grafted there. Her breath comes faster, and she realizes she’s utterly petrified.

  . . . and over the fowl of the air, and over the
cattle, and over all the earth . . .

  The wind, a manifestation of pure fury. She tries to move her left foot, but it won’t.

  . . . and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth . . .

  So many creeping things creeping on Kapu. Each with its curious sentience. Her chest tightens, and her teeth start to chatter.

  I can’t.

  I can’t. She stares at her right hand, wills it to move.

  I can’t.

  Utter helplessness washes over and around and through her. But the Reverend said that dominion didn’t work on the island. Maybe the trick here is to relinquish control. Give in.

  It’s with that thought that all the others seem to fall out of her mind, or the ability to think, and instead she just feels . . . peace. Calm. A sense that whether she makes it to the other side of the gulch or falls into the waters below doesn’t matter much. The wind isn’t blowing against her; it’s blowing through her. She’s vapor. Empty. A ghost.

  Ghost, most, host.

  She registers, distantly, the tree across the way that the rope bridge is tied to yielding to a strong gust. The tree bends. She feels a momentary drop, watches idly as her fingers clutch the rope railings, instinctually, no need for her to think, or fear, or direct. She’s inside and outside, everything is the same, nothing is separate.

  Coast, roast, post.

  Her right foot edges a quarter inch forward.

  You’ll never get her back, says Ethan’s voice. Or not his voice, her mind using his voice. She doesn’t want or need you, just like I don’t want or need you.

  This is the thought that percolated under her skin, caused her to buy a box of wine when she should have bought a loaf of bread. Turned her into the lost, helpless person Ethan said she was.

  Everything around Julia is watching her. Waiting. Some kind of test presenting itself. Maybe it’s time to let the island decide, relieve herself of the responsibility. What the hell. If she makes it across, she makes it. If she doesn’t, then it won’t matter much anymore. A coin toss.

  It’s not logical, but it is.

  She lets go of the ropes, lets her hands hover above them. The wind blows the bridge to the right, but her balance accommodates it, naturally. Is she in control of her mind, or not? Is she in control of her body, or not?

  She doesn’t know.

  This is madness.

  Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Walking like an acrobat along a tightrope, arms outstretched. She could laugh. She could cry. Her eyes suddenly feel heavy, so very, very heavy, that she actually closes them. Takes another step forward.

  She remembers buying Evie a Russian nesting doll for her fifth birthday, how her daughter loved to pull it apart, find the next doll inside it, pull that apart, find the next doll, and so on and so on until she got to the smallest doll that was a single, solid piece of painted wood.

  Right foot, left foot.

  Kapu has things within things within things. It’s not a thought but a certainty, like her certainty that her hand is connected to her arm, that her arm is connected to her shoulder. But the center, the heart, is fuzzy, indiscernible.

  Right foot, left foot. She doesn’t fall. She doesn’t die. Another crack of thunder, and she doesn’t even shudder.

  What’s the girl’s name? It’s hard not to think of her as Agnes, because she fits the description so perfectly, but Julia can’t let her mind make assumptions, not here.

  Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot . . .

  . . . and then there she is, stepping onto ground that is solid, immobile. Julia opens her eyes. The path down to the resort is in front of her, and she hears the roar of the waters behind her. She made it.

  “I spy with my little eye,” she says.

  Why did she say that? Think that?

  She’s about to move forward, but doesn’t. Like there’s another Julia inside Julia, with a different idea. And it’s this inner Julia that raises her head to the sky, lets the droplets fall into her mouth. Water in the sky, water below in the churning river, water in the ocean and in every cell of her own body. Deadly in places, life-giving in others.

  She doesn’t know why, but she suddenly gets the sense that the girl, this stranger, is made entirely of wood, nothing else inside of her. No heart.

  CHAPTER 16

  NO ONE’S AROUND AS JULIA enters the resort’s periphery, everyone probably inside, sheltering from the storm. The harbor protects the bungalows on the pier from the worst of the surf, but the choppy gray water is high, only a foot below their floors, storm clouds thick all the way to the horizon. She wonders if they’ll have to double up if it gets worse.

  All I need. A roommate.

  She still feels dazed, shaken. Hurries to her own bungalow—she can only imagine what she looks like, covered in mud, and is in no mood to answer questions about it at dinner. If there is dinner in the pavilion. No walls was a great design decision for a sunny day, but with wind blowing the rain sideways, not so much.

  She unzips the front pocket of her backpack, pulls out the muddy key, unlocks the door with a shaky right hand, steps into the bungalow, and quickly closes the door behind her.

  God, the bed. One of the churchwomen must have come in and made it—hospital corners, a thick blanket neatly folded at the foot, a flower on the pillow—the best thing to happen to her all day. She’d like to just peel off her wet clothes, crawl under the covers, and sleep for the next year. Her body yearns for it. But she’s a mess, she can’t afford to muck up the bed, raise suspicions. And oh dear God, they’ve also left her a tray on the bureau top, plates with stainless steel coverings, a coconut drink with a red straw and a parasol sticking out of it. Something cake-ish under plastic wrap.

  She lets the wet backpack slide off her shoulder, heads for the tray, lifts one of the lids. Bread, cheese, fruit, hard-boiled eggs, salad, some kind of vinaigrette dressing on the side. She picks up one of the eggs, takes a bite, closes her eyes, savoring. Eat or shower? Eat sounds good. She’s about to grab a slice of mango . . .

  Did I leave the doors to the armoire open?

  Because they are.

  Whoever made the bed must have left the armoire open.

  Right?

  Still, something about the room though feels . . . off. She walks quickly over to the armoire, and finds the suitcase still locked. Nothing else looks like it was disturbed. And yes, there are two clean spare towels on the top armoire shelf.

  She should take a shower. But the tray, the food . . . No, she should take a shower. It will help clear her mind, which is still having a hard time focusing, returning to the present. Everything has the feel of a dream about it.

  She takes one towel, thinks about it, takes the other, too, and heads for the bathroom. Clicks the light on.

  No light. The storm must have taken out the electricity. No electricity, no charging her GPS phone.

  Fuck.

  She races back to her sodden backpack, pulls out the phone—power is down to two percent. She quickly shuts it off.

  “Goddammit!” she shouts to an empty room.

  If the girl comes back for her—no, when the girl comes back for her, she’ll take Julia to where the computer is, where there must be electricity . . . unless the power is out there, too. She remembers the solar panels on that shed in the church village, and Isaac had mentioned something about a backup generator.

  Shower. She should shower and then think about it; nothing is going to rectify the situation, not in the next ten minutes.

  One thing at a time. One foot in front of the other. Right foot, left hand, left foot, right hand. Speaking of which . . .

  She tugs the dirty muslin strip off her left hand, inspects her palm. The cut actually doesn’t look as bad—the bleeding has stopped, the red puffiness gone down. Even the blisters seem smaller. If the blue pills really are antibiotics, it’d be smart to take a couple.

  But if they’re not . . .

  Something to think about after a shower
, some food, when her mind is clearer. She grabs the towels, stands, breathes, and goes back to the bathroom.

  The bottom of the toilet paper sheet has been neatly folded, but otherwise everything is exactly as she left it—even her toothbrush is still balanced against the back of the sink. She turns on the shower faucet—turns it to hot . . .

  No electricity, no hot water. Right. Ironic, to have come to one of the most expensive eco-resorts in the world only to be taking cold showers again. She should be used to it by now, but somehow the interlude of having warm showers makes it harder to think about stepping into the cold spray.

  She sighs. Pulls her destroyed tank top off, lets it fall onto the floor in a wet, muddy pile. Feels a pang of guilt for making a mess. No, she’ll have to rinse her clothes out thoroughly afterward, mop up the floor like it’s a crime scene. Those women might not talk to guests, but she’s sure the gossip about her filthy clothes would reach the Reverend’s ears.

  She wonders if the girl will get in trouble too, turning up covered in mud. If she were Julia’s daughter, she’d be grounded for sure, disappearing during a major storm like that. Would she confess to save her own skin? It’d be understandable if the girl told the Reverend what Julia was up to. But Julia gets the sense that the girl operates according to her own set of rules, and will somehow find an opportunity to slip away, come find her, if for no other reason than it’d be something different to do.

  Julia catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

  Jesus H. Christ.

  She looks awful. Mud on her cheeks, clumping her hair; bits of leaves and twigs clinging to her skin in places. Even where her shirt had been, streaks of mud, nasty-looking scratches. Eyes red and puffy. Bloodshot. A slight trickle of blood runs down her neck from the mound of an ugly insect bite. That damn flying cockroach, or whatever it was. She tests the bite with the tips of her fingers. Swollen, painful.

  She unbuttons her pants, tugs them down off her hips. Even worse here, mud almost completely covering her legs and belly. Some more raised red bumps—insect bites or a rash, hard to say. And there’s a largish twig stuck to her skin just below her belly button. She reaches down to pull it off . . .