Robinson Crusoe 2244

by E. J. Robinson

  Robinson rounded the crevasse and swung the rebar with everything he had. He hit nothing but air. He swung it again and again and came up empty. Each attack, he put his whole body into the swing but never got close to hitting his target. The Old Man never appeared frightened or winded. Why should he? Robinson was defeating himself.

  Only when the boy stood gasping in the street did the Old Man answer. He expected it on the shoulder or leg, but the first swing hit him flush across the mouth. Blood sprayed across his shirt and he fell to the ground just in time to put a hand up as the second blow followed. It struck him just above the elbow. He felt his arm crack on impact.

  Robinson rolled to his right, groaning with pain, just as the next strike hit the ground inches from his face. He tried to rise but the flat end of the staff slammed into his stomach with so much force he thought his guts would explode. The next shot came down on his clavicle. The one after that pounded his calf.

  He struggled to his feet, but a strike to his ear had his entire body off balance. He felt blood streaming down his cheek and chest, but the pain only followed in thuds, dull and blunt. Sound faded until there were only a slight ringing and the Old Man’s exhalations that accompanied each strike.

  For his part, the Old Man went about his task with grim proficiency. When he’d started, his thrusts had moved faster than the eye could see. But with each strike that followed, Robinson began to see the art of it all. His body moved fluidly, using the inertia of his weapon to lead him. Each route spurred by the impact of its predecessor. His body mimicked the boy’s, as if caught in a dance—leader and follower, puppeteer and marionette—so that every direction his energy flowed, his staff would be waiting to meet it.

  The final blow struck Robinson just above the temple. The ground rushed up to meet him.

  “Gousufi,” the Old Man said.

  When he was certain the message was delivered, he turned and walked away.

  “Well, Rabbit,” he heard Jaras say. “You know how it’s done.”

  Robinson strained to look up, but all he saw were stars and sun.

  “Just give us a whimper, yea? A little snivel and it’ll all be over.”

  He tried to smile, but all that came out was blood.

  “Come on, Rabbit,” he said before drawing closer to whisper into his ear. “It’s who you are.”

  Of course he was right.

  He’d always been right.

  The Old Man was halfway down the block when the scrape of metal halted him in his tracks. He was slow to turn, certain his eyes would confirm his ears’ mistake. But he did turn, just in time to see Robinson rise unshakably to his feet.

  He remained motionless for what seemed like forever. But when he started walking back, Robinson knew it was to finish him off. The question wasn’t whether he would succeed, but how the final blow would come.

  Then he stopped in front of the boy, his face unreadable. Robinson hadn’t realized he was crying until the Old Man wiped a single tear from his face. Then, with his handless arm, he maneuvered his staff to the rivulet of blood running down the boy’s leg. He raised both the staff with blood and his finger with tears.

  He was asking the boy to choose.

  There was no option.

  Robinson chose blood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Drums

  He thought things would get easier. Or that by earning a modicum of the Old Man’s respect, he might also earn his favor. But neither were the case. The only courtesy Robinson received was a single nod before the Old Man turned and headed back in the direction of the library. Following was the longest, most painful trip of his life.

  Once back in the safety of his haven, the Old Man pulled the blankets from his bed, revealing a cache of weapons, both scavenged and forged. Unlike the rest of his possessions, these were kept in perfect condition and were neatly arranged.

  Beneath the weapons were several small satchels of herbs. He drew them out and used them to fashion poultices that he applied to the boy’s wounds. When he rubbed a particularly nasty balm deep into the cuts on Robinson’s feet, the boy cried out. A backhand split the bridge of his nose.

  He never cried out again.

  Four days passed before he was allowed to leave the stairwell and venture back into the light of day. By then, the Old Man had scavenged a pair of boots and some clothes for him to wear. They fit surprisingly well. His body was bruised and tender. His elbow was swollen and bloody. But it worked, so the boy didn’t complain.

  Robinson’s biggest surprise was that the Old Man was not a great hunter. Or, at least, he wasn’t an active hunter. He preferred to trap and snare instead. He had made cages out of old wire and deposited them around town, usually in the areas where larger renders had trouble getting to. Each morning, they would set out in a circular route to check them. When one had an animal inside, the Old Man would kill it, strip it, and put it in his bag. If a trap had a rendered animal inside, he would kill the animal, then take the trap to the closest source of water to clean it thoroughly. Afterward, he would replace the trap and leave a dollop of paste made of nuts, mushrooms, and insects as bait.

  The Old Man also carried netting. Whenever he heard birds chirping from a bush, he would approach carefully to toss the net over it. His hand would then dart in, grab hold of the bird, and snap its neck between his thumb and forefinger. The first few times he did it, Robinson jumped and won a stick across the legs for his squeamishness.

  Atop the library, the Old Man kept several large drums to collect rainwater. When it was hot, he would cover them with a tarp to keep it from evaporating. He had other reservoirs along the food route too. Robinson once tried to explain the dangers of bacteria. Pain taught him silence was more important than cleanliness.

  On days too hot, they would head to the river where the Old Man would drop a fish trap into the shallows. They would rarely net a prize—at least one that was edible—but he refused to leave the shore.

  At night, or on those days darkened by storm, they stayed inside the hovel, where the Old Man critiqued his charge on his skinning skills. Clip the skin near a squirrel’s tailbone, earn a nod. Cut too far across the tailbone, get a slap on the ear. Rid the skin in one neat, uniform pull? You get to eat! Forget to remove the arms and tear the skin? You starve. Robinson got so good he was allowed to do it full time. He loved the feel of the knife and how easily it slid through muscle and bone.

  In the late afternoons when they had gathered enough food, the Old Man took Robinson around the city, showing him what areas to avoid and how to determine if a building was likely to shelter renders. Scent was always the first clue, but there were others. Blood was one obvious sign. Scratches were another. Bones were a fourth. The absence of visible animals was always a good clue too.

  When they ran short of supplies, they delved into the old stores, though never any place that wasn’t well lit or bore an overpowering scent of infection. Sometimes the Old Man cut swaths of clothes off wooden human forms, but more often he trudged through stocking areas where pre-wrapped fabrics might still be found.

  Along the way, Robinson saw many relics of the past. He collected them for a while, but the Old Man would smirk with disdain until he gave up.

  The one thing he couldn’t stop Robinson from doing was read books. With a library at his disposal and little to do at night, he sat in front of a candle and read whatever relevant subjects he could find. American history was interesting to a point, but the books stopped just short of its final story and it was the only story he really wanted to know.

  He had a fascination with science. Half of the discoveries that men had made seemed like rudimentary applications of common sense, while the other half were so revolutionary that it hurt to ponder the extrapolations. Of all the studies and disciplines, his favorite was the one called horror because it most closely resembled the life he was leading.

  Even as the weeks passed, the one thing that never eased was Robinson’s sense of loneliness. The Old Man on
ly taught him about survival. He rarely spoke. Even when he did, it was no more than a few words at a time. The boy tried to engage him, offering to exchange the names of things, including their own, but he always refused. It soon became clear to Robinson that not every scar a man bore was exposed. Some—perhaps the most damaging—lay deep within.

  On occasions, he’d see the dog. They’d be walking the food route or scavenging supplies and he’d see him sitting in an alley or under a tree, watching him. It should have made him nervous. The dog was afflicted after all. But those eyes were so aware. He wondered what stories they could tell.

  It was late summer when everything changed. The day was hot and muggy and they had just finished collecting food when they stopped at a hidden reservoir for water. As usual, the Old Man sunk his head deep under the surface and groaned with relief. But when Robinson tried to cup his hands for a drink, the Old Man swatted him. Robinson leaned close only to feel his face thrust underneath. When he came up, the Old Man was laughing. Robinson splashed the water at him. It was the first time he’d seen him smile. But just as quickly as it appeared, the smile faded, replaced by a look of horror.

  At first, Robinson thought he’d seen something at the bottom of the reservoir. But then he realized it wasn’t what was in the water, but on it. Across the surface, the reflection of the moon took shape.

  “What?” he asked lightly. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a full moon.”

  “Chanvamo,” he yelled. “Na-ora!”

  The staff clipped Robinson against the back of his shoulders, but he was already in motion. If something was dangerous enough to make the Old Man afraid, the boy knew it was to be avoided at all costs. Unfortunately, they were still twenty blocks from the shelter and the sky was already growing dark.

  They were running as fast as they could when they arrived at the bridge to the north. Usually they made their way around it, but this time the Old Man kept going. They both leaped the gulf easily enough, but when Robinson landed, the satchel of food slipped off his shoulder. He slowed to retrieve it, but the Old Man screamed, “Ladiexe!” and they kept going.

  They were only a few blocks from the library when the drums sounded—deep, thunderous reverberations that rolled through the city like a tidal wave, echoing off the steel facades and growing in volume. The pulsating thrum boomed again and again, shaking the streetlights and dislodging glass that rained down from the towers above.

  The Old Man’s head snapped around. His mouth was open, tongue lolling. At one point, he threw up his stunted arm to cover one ear. Robinson was afraid he might be going mad.

  Two blocks from the library, they heard the first render cry. It emerged from a sewer grate that exploded outward and landed with a clang. It wasn’t even dusk, but the drums were rousing them. They weren’t waiting for night. Something had come calling and the renders were answering.

  Sunset was half a turn away when they spun onto the library’s street. Like a starving man bounding toward a feast, the Old Man spurred forward, a desperate snarl in his throat. Only when they reached the final block did Robinson glimpse it out of the corner of his eye. His feet slowed and his mouth fell open.

  The crimson sigil billowed stout with air, riding along the surface of the river. The drums echoed up and over the arcade, through the corridors of towers, and across the entire city. His mind raced to catch up with what his eyes were taking in.

  “A ship,” he said breathlessly. “A ship!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Waiting on the Moon

  The Old Man screamed, but Robinson was powerless to heed his call. A ship meant people. People meant civilization. Civilization meant a way home.

  He was already turning toward the water when the Old Man’s movement drew his eye. The windup came in a blur. Half an intake of breath was all he managed when the spear flew just past his ear and impaled the render just behind him. The Old Man snatched his stunned charge by his shirt and pulled him into the library.

  When they reached the third floor, Robinson stopped.

  “I want to see,” he said.

  The Old Man shook his head vehemently.

  “Who are they?” he asked. “What are they to you?”

  Pain lit the Old Man’s face and for the first time, Robinson saw something vulnerable in him. But it quickly turned to anger, as he grabbed the boy with his one strong hand and shoved him toward the stairwell door.

  For a turn, Robinson stayed busy making a meal of their emergency supplies and cooked it over the fire. But his mind was elsewhere.

  After supper, the Old Man stared blankly into the fire. When the flames dwindled, he lay down and faced the wall. Even in the deep recesses of their haven, they could still hear the drums pulsing like the heart of a great beast as it lorded over the city, hypnotic and suffocating. What did they mean? Who was behind them? And how could they terrify the fiercest man Robinson had ever known?

  As the fire ceded to embers, Robinson noticed something in their dying glow. With each pounding strike outside, the Old Man’s fingers traced the inverted V scar on his upper arm. The movement was subtle, surely subconscious, but it said something.

  Robinson had always understood that in the natural world, contrary forces were interdependent. Light and dark; hot and cold; life and death; two sides of the same coin; none could exist without the other. But only here had he begun to understand that there were a few, rare forces with the power to both attract and repel. One of these was the unknown. The unknown could be a thing, an influence, an area, or a factor. It could inspire men to great deeds or strike them frozen with terror. In his heart, he knew those drums to be evil, but he needed to see its face. He needed to know its name. This was his home now. For better or worse, the next time they called, he would not turn away.

  When they headed out the next day, the ship was gone. The Old Man was not surprised. Still, he gave the river a wide berth. The pair fell into their routine, but the Old Man’s heart wasn’t in it. Something had changed. For one thing, he had lost his staff. It had snapped in two when he’d skewered the render, saving Robinson’s life. Also, his smock had torn during their flight and he didn’t seem the least bit interested in repairing it.

  The task of checking cages and snares fell to Robinson, but unlike before, he was never disciplined when his knife ran afoul. Infected animals were cast aside rather than destroyed. Even the birds the Old Man craved now sang with impunity as they passed by. The only time he ever spoke was when Robinson dallied too long while collecting fruits or nuts, and even then, his rebuke was little more than a harsh grunt.

  The days grew longer and hotter. They stopped for water more often, but the lack of rain was quickly shrinking their supplies. Even bathing was a luxury they couldn’t afford and their haven soon adopted an intolerable stench.

  On the rare days when they still ventured into the city to scavenge for goods, the Old Man was increasingly careless, often bounding into stores or buildings that only a month before he never would have entered. Robinson found it ironic that somehow their situations had become reversed; he almost felt as if he were taking care of the Old Man. His hope was that this fugue state would pass and he would see a glimmer of the man he’d known before the full moon.

  Robinson’s own transformation was no less significant. He felt comfortable in his own skin. He might not be cut from the same cloth as his companion, but he now believed if something happened to the Old Man, he could survive. He could find food, water, and shelter. He even had a rudimentary understanding of herbs and how to find them. He still had much to learn, but he no longer felt like a child. He might not be a man, but when he walked by a dirty storefront window one day and saw his reflection, he blanched. Gone was the fat from his face and midsection. He now had ribs and cheekbones. His skin had gone from the paleness of a babe to a dull bronze.

  At the same time, Robinson knew his body was being deprived. His hair was oily and snowflakes from his scalp dotted his shoulders. His skin broke out in acne.
His teeth and joints hurt. Even his urine had become a troubling shade of amber.

  But he was alive. He was alive and he intended to stay that way.

  So life became rote for the next few weeks. And as the brunt of the work fell on his shoulders, Robinson saw an opportunity to prove his worth. Hopefully, the Old Man would recognize the progress of his teachings, and if luck favored them, it might also buoy his spirits.

  In the mornings, Robinson would draw him from bed at the break of dawn and they would set out to hunt and gather. In the evenings, he would prepare the meals and oil and whet the blades until they were razor-sharp. At night, he would lie in bed and read books from the library aloud by candlelight. The Old Man might not have understood the words, but they seemed to give him comfort as he sat and listened without complaint.

  One day after a rare September shower, the Old Man came back early and lay down for an afternoon nap. Once he was asleep, Robinson raced out of the library to the edge of the nearest park and brought down a branch that he’d been eyeing for days. He took it back to the stairwell where he hid it on the second level. Each night after the Old Man fell asleep, he would sculpt and shape it. Finally, when the deed was done, he presented it to the Old Man. He took the staff with his one good hand and looked it over. It was a crude thing—of that there were no illusions—but it made him smile.

  Unfortunately, the sentiment didn’t last. Each morning as they walked, the Old Man’s eyes were cast down, his mind lost to the demons of his past. Each afternoon, his head was in the clouds, looking for a future that would never come.

  In some ways, he sympathized with the man. Despite the loss of Tessa, he couldn’t get her off his mind. At times, he imagined her stepping around the corner of one of these desolate streets, having crossed the ocean on her own accord in search of him, and they would swear to never be apart again. But he knew dwelling on such things was folly and that it betrayed a weakness of character that shamed all those he had loved and lost.