The Book of Kell

by Amy Briant

  The small bag of food Nancy had given us, plus what I’d stashed in my pockets from the feast, only lasted a few days. That first morning, I took stock of the bag’s contents while East made breakfast. (Perhaps all that time in the kitchen tent hadn’t been a total waste.) Besides the food, there was a map, telling us how to find our way back to Tres Hermanas. The freeway ran along the foot of three almost identical hills, which the map called The Three Sisters. Tres Hermanas must have been named for them. The hill we’d descended was the middle one. The map identified other landmarks and gave relative distances to places both remembered and still existing. I ran my thumb over Nancy’s handwriting and thanked her again in my head. I missed her already, the first real friend I’d ever made. Not like East, exactly—I couldn’t make up my mind what East was to me. Or I to her.

  My plan was to hike up the 80 freeway about thirty miles to the Carquinez Bridge Nancy had mentioned. She had also said the bridge was out, but the Segundo crew would have gone that way, I thought. I was following in their footsteps, I hoped.

  It took a little more than two days to reach the Carquinez Strait. We didn’t see another living soul, which was a relief. We found it was easier to walk beside the freeway instead of on its once smooth surface. There must have been major earthquake activity in the area. It was as if the road had risen and writhed, shucking any vehicles to the sides. After a while, I quit my attempts to scavenge those vehicles. There was nothing left. It had been too long.

  There was no sign of pursuit from the women we’d left behind. I saw East cast a few glances over her shoulder almost as if she wished there were, but we didn’t discuss it. There was nothing to say.

  We’d seen so little of each other at Tres Hermanas, it was almost like we had to get to know each other again on the road. On the morning of the third day, East finally broke her self-imposed silence to say, “You cut your hair.” It was a moody, overcast day with a light rain falling. Just enough to be annoying. Not enough to easily fill our water bottles.

  I touched my damp locks self-consciously. Nancy had trimmed it one evening after supper, joking that the Utility crew was known for a certain fashion sense. Marta gave one of her snorts, saying much without saying a word, and Alma giggled and clapped her hands. It was a small, warm, happy memory. I’d probably never see any of them again.

  I don’t know what look was on my face. But I was glad for the rain then, hiding my tears.

  “It looks good,” East said, not entirely believably.

  I wiped my face and cleared my throat, wondering why I bothered to hide my emotion from her. I lengthened my stride to move a few paces in front as we neared the top of a hill.

  “Hey, check it out—the bridge,” I said, stopping in my tracks.

  We had been climbing steadily since the previous afternoon up a series of hills, some gentle, some challenging. We now emerged onto a plateau overlooking the strait, seemingly gashed out between two halves of a mountain. Steep hillsides ran down to the water. To our left, the strait broadened to meet the Pacific in the distance. To our right, it continued up into the hills.

  What had once been a town could be seen across the water. It must have been a port in its day. The remains of a gigantic cargo ship or maybe more than one were smashed and scattered upon a rocky shoreline. On both sides of the water, enormous cylindrical tanks once painted in pastel shades dotted the hillsides. Many were badly damaged or knocked askew, but several still stood tall. I had no idea what they were.

  Just as Nancy had said, the bridge was no more. It had collapsed in what must have been spectacular fashion across the strait. I could see parts of it still rising from the whitecaps below, like some fantastic, half-submerged, aquatic beast. East and I walked as far as we dared to the edge of the road. Looked like several hundred feet down, maybe half a mile across. There was no question of crossing here, on foot or by swimming. Even from on high, the water looked black and foul. Maybe some of the huge tanks had leaked into it. The winds were strong off the water, the formerly light rain now pelting us unmercifully.

  “What’s the plan?” East asked.

  “I guess we’ll have to follow the water inland until we can find a place to cross, then cut back to the freeway on the other side.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She glared at me from under her brows. I waited, but no words followed. I didn’t know what to say to her. After a moment, I turned and started walking in our new direction. After another moment, she followed.

  By nightfall, we had hiked several miles along the shoreline. We found shelter in the ruins of another, although much smaller, collapsed bridge. I hadn’t even known there was another one in the area. Which was a reminder that I had no true map and was navigating by faith and instinct. I kept my worries to myself.

  Wildlife was abundant in this watery region. We saw rabbits, foxes, deer and elk, and countless varieties of birds. Not to mention the bugs. No sign of fish, however. Even if the black water’s appearance had not been so disheartening, the lack of fish warned me not to try swimming across it.

  In addition, the strait showed no signs of narrowing. On the contrary, it had widened significantly as we wandered alongside. Its character had changed as well. What had clearly been a harbor deep enough for ships back to the west was turning to more of a swamp the further east we traveled. Presumably shallower, but no less treacherous. All I could do was hope an opportunity to cross it would somehow soon arise.

  Although teeming with flora and fauna, this was a ghost land, this marshy country. Apart from the second bridge, I hadn’t seen a single sign that another human being had ever set foot here. And all the little creeks and streams feeding into the swamp with its tiny islands—so different from the redwood forests of San Tomas. And so quiet after the noises of Tres Hermanas. Women calling to one another, little kids running and playing, the thunk of my shovel digging into the warm earth, the dinner bell, the singing of the cooks in the kitchen tent…

  “Sing me a song, East,” I said that night. We sat inside our tent, each of us cross-legged on our sleeping bags, as we did every night after dinner. Twilight was waning, but I could still see her in the shadows as she sat across from me. “Sing one of those songs you learned back there.”

  She cocked her head to one side, considering. I thought she would say no, but then she sat up straight and prepared to sing. I was hoping for one of their rollicking, bawdy work ditties, something to enliven the mood, but the song she chose was more a lament, a slow and melancholy ballad Gran would have labeled “country western.” East’s voice wasn’t strong, but she could hold a tune. It sounded sad but sweet in the gathering darkness of our tent.

  No angels

  Watching over me

  Lately

  I’ve begun to see

  If there’s a heaven up there

  It’s only blue sky and air

  And memory…

  Won’t you throw down a rope for me?

  We were quiet for a moment. An owl hooted in the distance. Finally, I reached to switch on our little lantern, then clapped softly and said, “Hey, thanks for cheering me up.”

  She laughed and threw a balled-up sock at me. I batted it away, then got up on my knees to “douse” her with a cup she didn’t know was empty. She squealed and tackled me, pinning me down. I admit I put up little resistance. We were both laughing by then. Flat on my back, I had a particularly excellent view of her breasts in a thin T-shirt as she labored to catch her breath.

  She seemed to become aware of this. I can’t say the temperature actually changed, but it felt like that. Like the chemical composition of the air itself had subtly altered. She was still on top of me, still pinning me down. But there was something different in her eyes, her breathing, the way she held her body above me.

  I suddenly felt acutely uncomfortable, like some small creature of the night hearing the rush of wings, knowing it was about to be carried off into the dark sky by un
seen, fiercely gripping talons.

  I wriggled out from under her, mumbling “sorry.” I wasn’t quite sure why. She seemed to have lost interest as well, shrugging it off with a gusty sigh as she climbed back onto her sleeping bag and lay down. She was silent and avoided my gaze. I felt like a fool. Why didn’t she speak?

  I cast about for something else to occupy ourselves with—something, anything. “Hey, remember Mr. Giovanni’s little red notebook?” I finally said when the silence seemed like it might go on forever.

  “The one with the Aptitudes list? Sure.”

  “So would you have done it? Been a Pioneer, no questions asked?”

  “Well, yeah, of course. It was our duty, right? We had to do it.” She paused, frowning. “Why? Wouldn’t you have done it?”

  “Probably not.”

  “But you have to. I mean had to,” she said seriously. “It was your job.”

  “It was my job if I was going to stick around the Settlement, but that wasn’t my plan. As soon as we graduated, I was going to leave for Segundo.”

  East looked both surprised and troubled at my theoretical desertion.

  “But you owed it to the Settlement. That’s what they taught us. For keeping us safe and fed, fulfilling our Aptitudes was how we repaid the group.”

  An almost word-for-word quote from class.

  “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but fuck your group. I don’t remember them keeping me safe when I was getting beat up in school, or chased through the forest after class. They didn’t feed me—my Gran did, and I fed myself after she died. And in case you haven’t noticed, those fucking Aptitudes took your brother and my sister away from us!”

  I was getting a little heated, but it felt good to be mad. I was mad. Shit, why was I always apologizing to her? I hadn’t done anything wrong. And anything was better than feeling stupid. Anything was better than the fear that I was leading us to our deaths. That I would never see Gabriel again. The fear that seemed to have doubled inside of me since we hit the road again. The fear that I could never speak of to East.

  I was hoping she would argue with me, fight back. I didn’t know why. Instead, she was silent and looking a little sad.

  “What?” I said, still fired up. If she started crying, I would feel like a prize jerk.

  “Nothing. It’s just that, if you did become a Messenger, maybe you would have run into Baird. Maybe you would have both ended up in the same place. Maybe you could have helped each other.”

  “Oh, East,” I said, compassion welling in my chest.

  “You’re not the only one hoping to see family again, Kell.”

  “I know.”

  I could hear her breathing. Not crying, but not far from it. Maybe I should have left it alone, but my curiosity got the best of me.

  “East, did your brother ever talk about the Messenger stuff? Like training or instructions?”

  Maybe they had given the Golden Boy a few extra tips. If so, we could certainly use them now.

  “He didn’t really talk about it with me. I’m just a girl, you know.” She gave me a lopsided smile.

  We were quiet then, stretched out on our bags, listening to the night sounds of the marsh—water trickling, frogs and insects in full concert mode. A coyote howled, far away in the darkness.

  “You would have been a kickass Pioneer, East,” I eventually said by way of a good night.

  “I always thought they’d make me an Educator,” she replied languidly. Her almost falling asleep voice.

  That surprised me, since she hadn’t been much of a student. “Teaching what?”

  “If you come over here, I could show you.” Her languid tone had shifted to something I hadn’t heard before.

  “Ha, ha, very funny.” I decided to answer as if I hadn’t understood her. She was making me nervous and I didn’t like it. The rush of wings…

  I heard her sit up.

  “Come on, let’s talk about it, Kell. We can talk about it, right?”

  Coaxing.

  I sat up too and wrapped my arms around my knees.

  “Talk about what?” I said warily.

  “You know. Like, did you hook up with anyone back there?”

  “What?” I wished the word hadn’t come out so shocked-sounding. I hated how she made me feel sometimes—like a kid. Like an ass.

  A freak. Always the freak.

  Her sleeping bag rustled as she crept to my side. My heart was in my throat. I started as her arm brushed mine.

  “Jeez, chill out,” she chided me. “We’re just talking, all right?”

  I was trying to steady my breathing. Trying to be cool. Trying to not be me.

  “Seemed like you were pretty tight with those women—Nancy and Marta? I just wondered, you know…”

  “They were my friends, East,” I said gruffly. “Just friends.”

  She lay back, propped up on her elbows, long legs sprawling across the tent floor. It was so easy for her, so comfortable in her own skin.

  While I was jumping out of mine.

  She said, “I made some friends too.” And left it at that.

  Was I supposed to ask her if she had hooked up? I didn’t want to know. And I burned to know.

  “Kell?” she said softly.

  First, there were fingertips, gently touching, tracing unknown designs on my skin. Her hand finding mine and placing it on her back, under her shirt. She was warm, even hot to the touch. Lips on my neck. Hips pushing against me.

  I panicked. I pushed her away, stumbling over my words. “Wait—I can’t…I never—”

  How could I tell her what I meant, how could I make sense out of the jumble of my thoughts? I’m a boy, East, I’m a boy. What you’re touching, that’s not really me, that’s not how I’m supposed to be.

  But it’s all I have. And it feels so good.

  What if this was my only chance—ever? How many days and nights had I dreamed of Elinor Eastman touching me, kissing me? Of anyone wanting to be with me? But I felt so agonizingly self-conscious. So mortified and confused. I couldn’t say any of it to her. I never had, not to anyone. Not one word.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered after a bit. And blew her gusty sigh again as she returned to her sleeping bag, switching off the lantern on the way. “Good night, Kell.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The Coyote

  The next morning wasn’t as bad as I had feared, mostly because we had our routine, our mundane housekeeping tasks to perform as we did every morning. Breakfast, packing up, breaking camp, resuming our hike.

  We didn’t talk much.

  I couldn’t tell if she was pissed or not. Hell, I couldn’t tell if I was pissed or not.

  The marsh seemed never-ending, but I could tell by the sun it was taking us due east. North was not yet an option—the swamp was too broad to traverse, and the nearly vertical hills on the other side looked unclimbable as well. We plodded eastward, cursing the sun that blinded us, the thorny vines that clutched at us, tearing our skin and clothes, and our soggy boots that never failed to find puddles much deeper than they looked. Not to mention the one million insects that called the marshlands home—clouds of gnats, swarms of mosquitoes, wasps and dragonflies, caterpillars and worms.

  Ravens cawed at us from the tops of tall, dark green pine trees, then flapped away to some unknown avian destination. There were more, wheeling high in the sky above. When I was little, Gran taught Gabriel and me a rhyme or a riddle about ravens, something rattling around the back of my brain that I couldn’t quite recall. How did it go? The raven follows the…something. Or the something follows the raven? If all the bugs hadn’t been driving me to distraction, I probably could have dredged it up. Instead, it played over and over in my head, another random singsong shred of memory. The raven follows the…what?

  “Hey,” said East behind me. “Can we take a break?”

  We had been walking along the side of the black water for a couple of hours. The footing was difficult and the sun was hot. I agreed—ti
me for a break.

  One of the tall pines, complete with noisy ravens in its branches, was nearby. I wondered what had them so frisky today. Were they reacting to us, the interlopers in their territory? We sat down at the base of the tree. East mopped her brow with her sleeve as I murmured under my breath.

  “Raven follows…tree? Wind? Water?”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “Something my Gran taught me. Did you ever hear that one? Something about ravens and following? I can’t remember if it’s a poem or a saying or—”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” East interrupted with asperity. She was always crankiest just before she ate. Plus, she was most definitely still pissed at me for the night before.

  We were down to the last of our food—a couple of government issue protein bars. I wanted to conserve them and eat off the land as much as possible, but our last real meal had been the squirrel I’d snared two nights before. A scrawny squirrel at that. Even with the plentiful game in the area, there was no guarantee I would catch any of it. I felt like I was getting better at my hunting skills, but the critters didn’t always agree. So I broke one of the protein bars in half and handed East her portion. They tasted awful, but it was something to chew.

  We sat quietly for a few minutes, savoring the break and the slight breeze that cooled our faces. I kept an eye on our surroundings as always. The water there was not nearly as dark as before. It had changed from black to the deep brown of very strong tea. Still no fish, though, and still fetid and slow moving, with little hummocks of islands occasionally dotting its expanse. One such tiny island was directly across from us. Its sole inhabitant was a hardy-looking shrub. There was a lot of happy bumblebee activity going on. I took a closer look—blackberries! But fifteen feet of nasty brackish water separated us.