As I sit here near the night's fire and listen to the twigs crackle and twist, flinging themselves deeper into the flames. I want to believe. I want my life back. I don't want to have to fear death and the decay that follows. Now I even find myself praying to a God that I do not believe exists. Odd how religion comes to bulwark us in times of stress.
Truly, I know my days are few and that nothing but oblivion awaits me.
September 23
The headman called me to the edge of the village this afternoon. His trusted guards held a thin male, who could not have been more than fifteen years old. The youth pulled and tugged, but could do nothing under the strong grasp of the older men.
''He is for you," the headman quietly said.
I shook my head. What would I want with this scared child?
The guards immediately stripped the boy of the meager breechcloth he wore. He had a long scar from his groin to his navel, possibly from a secret tribal ritual he had undergone when he achieved manhood. The headman ran his fingers up and down it, indicating to me that it was important. The boy's penis became aroused and stood in defiance of the four men surrounding him.
"Your paper, your pen, where are they?"
I answered the headman by reaching inside my shirt and pulling out a ratty pad. The pen was secured to the breast pocket of my shirt.
"It must be flawless," he reminded, directing the men to spread the boy's arms while he tied the victim to the two trees crowding us on either side.
Although I understood what he wanted, I don't think the guards had a clue as to why I needed a drawing of such a nondescript adolescent.
The headman left me with the guards and my redemption. Strangely, I didn't feel foolish once I started to sketch. I worked as hard on that drawing as on any piece of work I've ever completed. Why not? The boy was going to rescue me from death.
Later, following the headman's instructions, I buried the drawing deep in the ground so that the rains would not flush it up. The guards released the prisoner. He returned, visibly unharmed, to his village.
"What will happen to the boy?" I asked the headman before retiring with his youngest daughter.
"He will rot into the earth" was his simple reply.
September 30
It is working, I'm sure of it. I must have had enough belief after all. My skin is no longer pallid under my tan; my muscles are again firming up. All the symptoms I had described earlier in this journal are retreating. Strength returns each minute. I will live.
39 - Truth
"What the hell are you doing?"
The journal slipped between Megan's bent knees and fell to the ground. Instantly, Megan stood, her hand grasping for the flashlight on the rock next to her. By the time she had it firmly in her hand, Carl had moved in closer. The beam of light flashed into his face, forcing him to shut his eyes. Carl extended his arm out in front of him.
"Shut that damn thing off."
Megan swiftly lowered the beam, so that Carl's naked feet glowed in the night.
"What are you doing out here, Megan?"
She could barely make out his features, but what she could see looked angry. His voice railed on about how she shouldn't be wandering off the path in the dark; besides, what did she expect to find here? Through it all Megan was silent.
"What is wrong with you, standing there like an idiot? Come."
Carl reached out to take her arm, but Megan pulled away and felt her foot sink deeper into the loose soil.
"Get off of that!" Carl lunged forward to grab her.
Megan leaned backward, but her feet didn't seem able to move with the rest of her body. It was as if they were stuck in mud or quicksand. She fell, her back hitting the dirt with a thud, and felt a faint shock of a burning pain racing down her spine. The earth was soft, almost muddy. What was happening? she wondered. The aroma of hyacinths intensified. Her hands were filled with dry dirt. Small, pink worms wiggled through the spaces between her fingers.
"Get up!" She heard his voice over her, demanding, scared. "Get up! For God's sake, help yourself."
Her right foot was wedged in the earth; her elbows dug grooves in the earth's slippage. Her skin crawled as if vermin fed on the scaling debris of her flesh.
She felt a jolt on her right arm. The socket ached. Her hands started clawing at air instead of dirt as she was lifted up and carried from the grave. Megan shivered, for she knew now why it smelled so sweet over that mound.
In rapid succession, she registered the firm mattress beneath her, her moccasins being yanked off, her clothes pulled from her, and then the cool sheets under the weight of her body. Carl pulled the top sheet up to her shoulders. She could see him move over her. He left. He returned with a glass. Water.
"Here, drink some water."
Megan stared at his face. The tan, aged wrinkles, the clear blue eyes.
"Drink." He placed the glass at her lips and threateningly tipped the glass. Either drink or he will spill it all over you, she told herself. And the water slid down her chin. Drops fell on the rounded bones protruding beneath her neck.
The glass and Carl disappeared. Megan looked toward the window. Moving slowly, as she started to relearn how to use her body, she inched her way to the edge of the bed. Her sheet-covered arms reached up into the air. The beige sheet skimmed the surface of her forearms as it slowly floated down. Megan reached out toward the window when one of her legs fell heavily from the bed to the floor. Soon she stood. She walked. But before she could throw open the window, Carl's arms were wrapped around her, gradually lowering her arms to her side.
"Come back to bed, Megan. You had a fright, but it was only a trick of the light."
Liar. Liar, she barked out silently through dusky eyes that wouldn't leave the window. Liar, she called him numbly inside her head.
He placed a cool towel on her forehead, then again pulled the top sheet over her body.
"Stay here. I'll get you a blanket."
Megan's body rigidly awaited his return.
Then he was back, clutching an old, tightly woven olive-green blanket, spreading it across the beige sheet.
She thought about what lousy taste he had.
"Comfortable?" He smiled, and his teeth glowered at her. "Can I get you anything? Maybe some wine? Or I could squeeze some of your favorite orange juice?" He kissed her fingertips. "Sorry I startled you. I was worried about you when I couldn't find you in the house. I suspected that you might have gone down to the river, so I decided to join you. Midway along the path I heard some muttering, and then I saw the light among the bushes. Forgive me, Megan. Honestly, I was worried."
About whom was he worried? she wondered. Was he afraid of losing his new victim? That's what she was, wasn't she? Sketched-out faces, trunks, and limbs floated across her vision. Two boxes full of drawings. How many hadn't he kept?
His hands were hot; she knew hers were icy. He tried rubbing her fingers; he blew his foul breath on them. Her hands tried to jerk back, but he held fast.
So many women boxed away to die. But he had to have buried a complete drawing in order to survive. The sketches she had found were only drafts, first tries at murder.
"I'm going to make you some hot tea. I want you to stay put. Understand?"
Now I do, she thought.
He hesitated, but she could see that he could think of nothing else to bring her around except hot tea.
"I'll be right back." He patted the blanket, completely missing any portion of her body.
One thought led to another inside her head. Obviously she was his next substitute. Had he already drawn her? The photographs; my God, the photographs! Wait, it had to be by his own hand. Certainly he could have drawn her accurately, between their love play and the photographs. Could he already have buried her figure? He didn't seem to be ill yet; perhaps the other person was still rescuing him. Beverly, she must see Beverly; the woman might know something about this. Wait! Beverly had the drawing of Carl. It had to be exact. Was Beverly trying to us
e the trick on him?
Everything stopped when she felt Carl's arm slip under her head as he brought a steaming cup of tea to her lips. The warmth of the cup soothed her lips open, and she gulped down the liquid, burning the roof of her mouth as she did.
"That's good, Megan. Take some more."
By the time she had finished the tea, a warmth was spreading from her tummy out to the rest of her trunk, returning a tepid sensation to her limbs.
She must be crazy to believe what was in Carl's journal. There had to be a logical explanation. He probably had some cure, or perhaps his disease was in remission. Megan refused to give credence to a tribal superstition.
"Feeling better?" Carl asked as he fluffed the pillow beneath her head.
Like taut rubber bands, her lips stretched into a smile. No sense asking him about the journal now. First, she would see Beverly, ask about her son's, or whoever's, illness. Why would he have lied about his mother?
Solicitously, Carl began to tuck the ends of the blanket under the mattress. He smoothed the edge neatly, wiping away the thick creases.
"Thank you, Carl." Her voice was feeble, but Carl, alert for anything she might say, immediately grinned at her, his even teeth barely visible.
"You're better?"
Megan nodded.
"Good. Please don't go wandering around at night by yourself. Sometimes I know I'm distracted, not attentive enough, but give me a chance and I'll be there for you."
"Will you?"
"Of course." The laugh lines around his mouth seemed to shiver uncomfortably.
Was he telling her the truth? Had he ever?
Carl bent over and kissed her on the forehead.
"I'm going to turn out the light so you can get some sleep. I'll be in the study if you need me." He was closing the door when he added, "Don't open the window. You're liable to catch a chill after the fright you had." He closed the door softly.
In the dark, Megan's faith in Carl was rocked again by the sketches. And who was Beverly? A part of Megan believed his mother had died many years ago. Another part was calmed by the hope that Beverly was his mother.
40 - A Gift
Beverly held the drawing of Carl between her leather-gloved fingertips. It was perfect. She herself could never have done such a superb job. The child had artistic talent. Lord knows she would need it. Afraid to lay the paper down anywhere, Beverly walked from room to room with it almost floating between the dark edges of her digits.
"Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall." Her fingers teased the paper with her light touch. She was tempted to let the paper fall to the floor, but what if it should get damaged? The child might not be able to duplicate it fast enough. It had taken her a very long time to produce this masterpiece. Oh, it was so perfect. She could visualize the tiny lines around Carl's eyes spreading as he smiled.
Room to room she went. The bedroom French doors were fastened shut. No late-night crawlers there. The kitchen nooks and crevices where air entered were muffled tightly against the evening draft. The bathroom was still splattered ugly, like the hall, but the office was quiet, with a wide, empty expanse across the top of her desk.
Holding the drawing by one edge, Beverly used a portion of her shawl to dust off the top of the desk. Gently she lowered the drawing down onto the surface. Beverly's youthful giggle belied the reflection in the monitor on the worktable. Souring as she glanced in the direction of the computer, Beverly readjusted the shawl over her head.
''Mustn't let Miss . . ." The name; why was she always forgetting the name? "Megan! Yes, mustn't let Miss Megan see me without my coverings. It might frighten her away." Another giggle jiggled her decaying body.
Her leather-covered hand reached inside her pocket to make sure the book of matches was still there. She took the book out, opened the cover, and counted the small sticks once again. Carefully she checked the blue caps to make sure they were strikeable. Nothing would go wrong. She would be ready. After closing the cover, she slipped the book back into her pocket and retreated to the kitchen.
Beverly opened the drawer closest to the sink and saw five knives, their handles raised high by the wooden holder in which they were resting. Her fingers skimmed the handles. One was way too small, another too unwieldy; another was only a serrated bread knife, another a butcher's knifeway too dramatic. Ah, but the one lying under the gloved palm was just right. Beverly dragged the knife out of its slot. Heft was fine. She would have no problem using this one, but was it sharp enough? After flicking on the kitchen light, Beverly began twisting her wrist to check the blade's gleam. Dull. Way too dull, like the brain of that . . . The name wouldn't come to her. "Silly child," she pronounced out loud.
Her booted feet scraped across the linoleum as she returned to the drawer. Where was the sharpening stone? She hadn't used it in a long time. As a matter of fact, she hadn't remembered using it in all the time she had lived there.
Beverly brushed aside a number of corks, some purplish from the wine they had protected in the bottle. Rubber bands way past their usefulness were congealed to the red plaid contact paper lining the bottom of the drawer. Coupons for food items she would never again taste were ripped by her rough, jerky movements.
"Think, Beverly," she whispered. "Slow down and think." Her body, motionless, paused in a frozen pose, her hand lingering over the now useless drawer. "You had it, Beverly, when you moved here. Remember, you took it out of the box. The big box with the silverware and the old rusty iron frying pan."
Beverly swung around and rushed over to the tall cabinet at the far end of the room. She twisted the handle and the door sprung open. A rusty frying pan lay on the top shelf, abandoned. She pulled it down, but there were only a few coffee filters inside. The pot smashed to the floor.
"Think, think, think." Beverly tossed the handle of the knife back and forth between her two hands. "Think, think, think." Was there something else she could use? ''No! Think, think, think."
Suddenly her hands clapped, almost making her lose her hold on the knife. She ran into the office, stood at the computer table, and rifled under several old newspapers until she found the stone. Beverly had used it as a paperweight. How could she have forgotten? She lifted the stone up and returned to the kitchen, where, over the sink, she began brushing the blade of the knife across the stone.
When she was finished, tiny metal splinters were scattered across the bottom of the white porcelain sink. Beverly found a piece of paper, which she sliced at with the knife.
"Perfect. As perfect as that girl's creation."
Where could she keep it? Beverly tucked it inside the cord around her waist.
"A sheath. A scabbard. That's what I need," she cheered, spitting fragments of chewed larvae into the air.
Proudly, she wore the blade as she marched through the rooms until she faced the bedroom mirror. Ridiculous, that was how she looked.
"Mmmmmegan." She stuttered the word out, unsure if it was the correct name. "Mmmmmegan wouldn't approve. Frighten Miss Mmmmegan away. She'd run off with the spider by the light of the moon."
Beverly untied the knot on her sash. The knife fell to the floor, narrowly missing the tip of her black leather boot.
"Ruin the point," she cried, quickly scooping up the knife. But the knife looked unharmed. The edge was sharp and the point straight.
She looked around the room for a hiding place. A place where she would be able to retrieve it with little effort.
The bed was bare, and she was afraid to put the knife under the mattress because it might get caught in the coils of the spring. Opening and closing a drawer might take too much time, and sometimes the drawers stuck and squeaked. She needed a simple, unobtrusive place.
Slowly she started to work the knife up her sleeve, point first. She barely felt the coldness of the steel; occasionally a live nerve would jolt to attention and warn her of the hint of the icy metal. But on the whole, it seemed the knife could rest upon the disintegrating flesh without discomfor
t.
This was no good, though. If the knife had nothing on which it could fasten, it might slip down below the end of the sleeve and become visible or, worse, fall to the ground.
Beverly slanted the knife so that the point faced inward against the skin. On her upper arm there was not much flesh left, but there were still remnants of a strong muscle. An impulsive, heavy-handed shove drove the blade into the muscle. There was little pain. She was surprised. It had been like getting a shot from the doctor, an immediate burn, then numbness. She patted down the sleeve. No major bulge. This would work. It all would work. Beverly wrapped the robe around her body and cinched the sash.
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