Afterward, Carl stood tall, his mouth rancid, sweat dripping into his eyes, and his nostrils flaring.
"Beverly, Beverly, Beverly." The name echoed in the wood and haunted the river.
Carl looked down at his naked upper torso and wondered at the fullness of his flesh. Visually he followed a protruding vein from his wrist to the crook of his arm. Using a thumb, he pressed down on the midpoint of the vein, stopping the flow of blood; then he released it and marveled at the rush of liquid.
He sat on the ground, weeds almost hiding him except for the silver of his hair, which glowed in the oncoming twilight. Should he spend the night here? he wondered. This grave was different from the previous ones. Yet he wasn't sure why. It wasn't just his feelings for her. No, there was something reaching for him here, waiting for him. Carl looked at the grave. The petunias were still whole, the dirt under them dry.
Carl had made a marker in the shape of a cross. It swayed a little in the evening breeze. He thought about designing more of a memorial to her. Perhaps he would plant seed, bring fresh flowers. . . . Yet none of this would happen, he knew. They were always forgotten. Carl couldn't remember where he had buried the earlier ones. However, Beverly was different. He would care for her grave.
That first night filled with knowledge would be the worst for her. Later she would resign herself. Maybe if he spent the night there, it would help. Perhaps she would sense his presence near her grave, enabling her to draw strength from his love.
Night had settled across Carl and the grave. He switched on the flashlight and shone it across the mound. Petunias huddled against the night chill, dried-out daisies waited to be blown across the soil, parched earth covering life, and a bent wooden cross waited to break apart in the first storm.
As he held the flashlight in his right hand, Carl used his left hand to rub down the goose-flesh cropping up on the opposite arm. He stood. To stay out in this chill all night would be hazardous. What if he caught pneumonia? He certainly didn't want to be ill during the first flush of his resurrection.
Against his will, Carl was drawn closer to the grave. He squatted down to touch the mound and say good night to Beverly and thought the earth had moved, but he noticed that the petunias and dust from the daisies were untouched. With his right hand he dug into the soil. If only he could touch her to give solace and say he was there. The hand went deeper into the loosely packed soil, feeling the tiny pebbles and twigs mingled with the dirt.
His tan face paled and his mouth dropped open in a silent scream, for a hand was touching his, fingers were intermingled with his own. Soft, slender fingers stroked the knuckles of his callused hand. Quickly he withdrew, feeling the other hand weaken and fall away.
Leaping to his feet, he flashed the light on the grave. No movement. No life. Just a bundle of petunias and rotted daisies. Carl brought his hand into the light, turning his hand back and forth, seeing nothing but dirt-clotted fingernails, calluses, and dirty joints. Relieved, he reached up with that hand to sweep back strands of hair from his forehead. As the hand rose, a smell overtook him. Hyacinths. Beverly had always loved the flower. They grew in her yard, not his. He covered the area with a blaze of light. No sign of the hyacinths there. Again he brought his hand to his nostrils. Hyacinths.
This all could be an illusion, he thought. To make sure, he would go out to her place the next day. She shouldn't go too fast, or he would need a replacement sooner than planned, and as of now he had no potentials.
Carl used his bare foot to kick the rotted daisies and still-fresh petunias off the mound. He placed the flashlight on the ground beside him and pulled out the cross, broke the sticks across his knee, and flung them into the surrounding bushes.
One last look at the grave. He knew that by winter it would be hard to find.
Carl scooped up the flashlight and headed back to the path leading to the house. Once inside, he would go through his bathing procedure all over again. Not a hint of Beverly would remain this time, he swore.
3 - Neither Living nor Dead
When Beverly had first moved into the house, she had deemed not having a telephone an advantage. No temptation to call friends and chat for lengthy periods of time. She would be unable to casually invite friends for a visit without the sobering boat ride to town with Carl. Now the lack of a telephone and her lack of transportation endangered her life.
Beverly sat at her desk, staring out the window. If she followed the winding bank of the river, she would eventually reach town. But her cries and tantrums had exhausted her. Hints of dusk were starting to shadow the landscape. Would she be able to make it to town before dark? Probably not, and she would face the risk of falling and not having the energy to keep going.
Her office was a mess: papers scattered across her desk, writing utensils tossed to the floor, the wastebasket toppled by a kick. The childish hysteria hadn't solved any of her problems. She sat and contemplated taking a nap before she started out. Dawn, she thought. That would give her an entire day to march to town and would even allow short rest stops to regain her strength.
She slid her chair back on its rickety rollers and stood. Beverly walked through the house to the covered front porch and opened the door. Indeed, tomorrow she would take the dusty path down to the river. She studied the trees that obliterated the sight of the water. The leaves moved languidly in the summer zephyrs. The branches had been naked the previous winter, weighted down with snow at times or whipped by merciless winds that had broken some loose from their limbs. The trees had appeared to be dead, decaying. But the healing balm of spring had restored their hidden life.
"Carl, why did you lie to me? Why didn't you help me?" Teardrops blurred her vision.
There was a tickle in her throat. A funny wiggly movement. After rubbing her neck with her fingers, she closed the front door and headed for the kitchen. She couldn't remember when she had last drunk any liquid. With a glass of water she sat at the table. Somehow she didn't have a taste for tap water. She emptied her glass into the bonsai rosemary plant on the table. As soon as she had, her throat itched far more than before. Spotting a bottle of Cutty Sark on the kitchen counter, she rose to refill her glass. This time she stopped pouring when the glass was half full.
"Perhaps water would be better, but I need something to help me fall asleep." She slugged back a mouthful of the amber liquid. A slight burning washed down her gullet. "A few more gulps, and I won't have a care in the world." Her voice, thin and squeaky, barely rang in her ears.
Quickly she slammed her glass down on the tile counter. Choking sounds erupted from her throat. She kept trying to swallow, but a wad of viscous matter forced its way into her mouth, and she spewed it out onto the counter. When she brought her hand up to wipe her mouth, she could feel something inching its way down her chin. Beverly captured the gyrating soft body and peered at it. Larva. She squeezed her fingers together, and the insect's juice stuck to her flesh. When she checked the counter, she could see that the white mass contained maggots which were trying to dig into the stained grout.
In a frenzy she knocked over the half-glass of Cutty Sark. The whiskey flooded the maggots, causing them to bob and weave violently. Her stomach heaved as she ran to the sink. More of the larvae splattered the yellowed porcelain. Beverly fought for control.
When the wave of nausea had subsided, she ran for the kitchen door that led out to the garden. I need medical help now, not tomorrow. She tripped down the back stairs and landed on some flagstones that had been arbitrarily laid out. Convulsive coughing brought the writhing insects up into her mouth. The maggots bubbled out between her lips, coaxing their way down her chin or falling to the earth, where they swiftly buried themselves. Beverly spat out saliva and larvae for several seconds until she could vaguely feel one lone survivor poking around under her tongue. Using an index finger, she scooped the vermin out and smeared its body against a flagstone. She looked at her hand and cringed. She hesitated before wiping her finger across the front of her shirt. Gasping f
or air, she tried to calm herself.
Slowly she climbed to her knees and stood unsteadily. Night had already embraced the wood. But she had to get help. If she suffered from internal as well as external tissue necrosis, she couldn't have long to live. Perhaps only a few hours.
The dirt path led her down to the river. Confused, she tried to remember in which direction the town lay. The water was peaceful and black. A quarter-moon cast a faint glow across the river and the land.
Unable to stand any longer, Beverly sat on a small boulder, the river side of which had been covered with moss. She was neither cold nor warm. Faintly her body ached, but not as much as it should, given its condition. She sat silent, still, attempting to recapture her former acumen and puzzle out her next move. She felt as if the still night were revolving around her.
She shivered, but not from cold. When she looked down at her body, she grimaced to see the stinking blotched flesh.
Yes, Beverly now knew the direction to town, but she did not think she could complete the trip. She didn't want to become carrion for the animals. No one would be out walking in the dark or, for that matter, rowing on the river. If she could survive until dawn, she could attempt the trip in daylight. Beverly panted, trying to replace the oxygen that her body seemed to use so poorly now.
Patiently, Death waited, soundlessly, painlessly offering her the peace of oblivion. However, she didn't want the gift. How had she managed to live this long in her condition? she wondered. And might she not last until dawn? She looked back in the direction of the house, which promised protection against the night's predators.
4 - The Hiker
Megan packed up camp immediately after breakfast. She hated to travel alone, but her roommate, Hester, had wimped out three days before, taking a bus to the nearest airport to catch a flight back home. ''None of this roughing it for me" were her parting words as the driver loaded her backpack.
Megan refused to give up. She wanted to cross the state on foot and would do it. However, she might have to do it half asleep since, alone in the woods, she found it almost impossible to sleep through the night. Occasionally she would doze, then find herself sitting bolt upright when an animal cried out or the wind rustled the leaves too loudly. She was definitely not the pioneer type, having been raised in large cities throughout the country. Ah! The life of an Army brat.
Once her sleeping bag was rolled up, she met her greatest challenge head onnamely, trying to fit it back inside the sack. While doing this, Megan broke her last surviving fingernail. Looked stupid anyway, she consoled herself.
To a 22 year-old straight out of college, traveling seemed like the best prospect in a depressed economy. Didn't cost very much to sleep on the ground, and when she felt a bit gamey she would find herself a motel with a real shower instead of the chilly stream water she had been dabbing on her face. She was experiencing life in the raw. Hester couldn't appreciate the wonders of nature.
A long-legged spider crawled out of the sleeping bag sack. Megan dropped the sack and let out a tiny, disgusted squeal. It must have been in the sack, not her bedroll, she kept telling herself over and over again as she waited for the spider to leap from sack to ground. When it became apparent that the spider was probably as frozen from fear as she was, Megan lifted a branch and with a jerking motion slid the branch across the sack, sweeping the spider to the ground. She hoped that was what had happened, but she couldn't be sure since she couldn't find the spider.
She lifted the sack and held it at arm's length, slowly turning it to inspect for intruders. It appeared that only a few leaves and twigs hugged the bright orange material. She dusted the sack off and put it with the rest of her equipment, then loaded the whole bundle on her back.
Megan pulled a small compass out of her jeans pocket, checked the sun, returned the compass to its close quarters, and resumed her march down the path she had been following the day before. Her hiking boots crushed the debris on the trail. She stumbled over a rock that was partly raised from the soil and landed hard on her right knee, skinning the palms of both her hands.
"Grrrrww . . ." she growled, angry and hurt.
When she looked down at her right leg, she saw that her worn jeans had split open at the knee, revealing a not-very-deep cut. She sat on the dirt-packed trail, wondering whether the wound was worth pulling her backpack apart to find the first-aid kit. She used spit to clean away most of the dirt from the cut. There was some blood, but not enough to panic over.
Megan slipped off the backpack and went digging for bandages. By the time she found gauze and tape, the wound had crusted over. She smeared antiseptic across her knee, just in case, and covered it with the bandage. After repacking, she started to stand.
"Ow . . . ow . . . ow . . . ow," she whispered as the skin on her wounded knee began to stretch. Once she was standing, Megan lifted the backpack and slid each arm into the straps, then continued down the trail, limping.
By noon she was walking with less of a limp; however, her stomach was complaining audibly. Just ahead she caught a glimpse of a watery reflection. She could stop at the lake, stream, or whatever, have lunch, then bathe in the water. Perfect, she thought.
It wasn't a stream, Megan realized as she approached the wide river. Walking along the water's edge, she looked for a good place to stop and perhaps catch some fish. Inside the backpack were fishing line and flies. Megan remembered fishing with her father. He always baited the hook; she never had to touch the squiggly worm at the end of the line. If either caught a fish that they wouldn't want to eat, Dad would gently remove the hook and toss the panting fish back into the water. Up until age twelve, she had loved those expeditions; then her mind had turned to boys, and Dad's favorite hobby had taken a backseat.
Up ahead Megan spotted a rowboat. She could tell it had recently been taken out of the water, since the underside, which was lying upward, was shimmering in the strong midday sun. Megan approached slowly, for she had not yet met any of the locals and didn't know how they would react to trespassing.
Eventually a slim smokestack appeared through the trees. Pushing away some of the bushes, Megan left the trail and headed toward a small house that was barely visible. Finally she could see several wicker chairs arranged in a semicircle around a glass-topped table on the porch of the house. The jalousies were closed against the hot sun.
Gosh, it would be great to sit down to a home-cooked meal, she thought. What's the worst they can do? Shoot me? Megan bravely proceeded up toward the house, the gravel crunching under her steps.
As she approached the house, her senses were flooded by the smell of hyacinths. Megan took a deep breath, enjoying the sweetness, and walked around to the back of the house to see the garden. As she pushed open the waist-high gate, Megan was awed by the variety of flowers. There were roses of various colors and shades. There were carnations and daisies, both yellow and white, but the prevailing odor in the air was from the hyacinths. Megan walked to a big elm that sheltered a whitewashed garden swing.
She was about to sit when she heard a door slam. Swiftly she turned to see French doors, the filmy curtains on the inside rustling with a life she could not make out.
"Hi, I didn't mean to intrude, but . . ." What excuse could she give? She wondered whether she should quietly retreat from the garden. Suddenly the outline of a body slammed into the curtains and the French doors. The doors gave a little with the force but remained closed. Abruptly the figure withdrew and the doors gave up their sag and the curtains fluttered to a free-hanging standstill.
Megan scratched her head. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to come up to the house.
She strode toward the gate. At first it seemed to stick, but with a firm nudge from her good knee the gate flew open. While making a face toward the French doors, Megan closed the gate and pivoted around to walk back to the river, occasionally turning to look at the house. It was freshly painted a pale yellow, with antique white on the trim and the porch. Ivy crept up the stairs while flowering bushes surr
ounded the front of the house. It would be inviting except for its occupant.
As she drew closer to the river, she could see one of the jalousies move slightly. Whoever it was must have decided to watch, perhaps to make sure the intruder moved on. Megan peered back as if she could see through the obstruction. Suddenly she toppled over the rowboat, injuring her cut knee once again.
"Damn," she squealed. "Why must I be so clumsy?"
Megan clasped both her hands over her reinjured knee and held her breath for a few seconds, waiting for the pain to subside. Finally she released the knee and slowly straightened her leg. The gauze was soaked red. She groaned. Now she would have to change the bandage.
Megan threw off her backpack and searched for the first-aid kit again.
"You'd think I'd learn. Do I pack it toward the top so it's easily accessible? No. I just throw it in anywhere it fits. Megan, you have to put some order in your life if you expect to survive this trip," she loudly scolded. The sound of her own voice gave her courage.
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