She was careful to keep the poisoned water separate from the good supply. Careful also to drink from it, or appear to. When he wasn’t looking, she’d pour some out of their makeshift jug, so the level dropped, as it should. He’d notice if it didn’t. As a result he got less of it than she would have liked, but less was better than none. The key thing was not to rush. Not to do anything to arouse his suspicion. She had to be patient.
She waited a day. Then another. She knew how to watch, wait, and observe, for having paid the price when she didn’t. She was happy to bide her time, though after a week, when he’d drunk more than his share of tainted product without apparent effect, she began to feel uneasy, as if, perhaps, she’d misjudged, either the plant or the man.
It wasn’t until the second week that the poison began to work its magic. He complained of thirst. Then of blurry vision. He lost his appetite, and this, in combination with the poison itself, made him weaker by the day. He had trouble raising his arms and lifting his legs. He managed to drag himself around, but he stumbled frequently, and one time fell. For his safety she insisted he lie down, until whatever he had went away. He didn’t argue. He seemed to understand that on his back was where he belonged. He spoke less and less, and eventually fell into what on the surface appeared to be a fitful slumber.
He stayed this way for days, waking on occasion, always in a confused state. She continued to dribble poison into his mouth, but not only poison. She gave him sips of plain water, too. It wasn’t in her heart to sit idly by while he died of thirst.
She wasn’t happy at having him harassed by animals either. Not the bushy-tails, which, if she wasn’t around, came out from hiding. She caught one of them nibbling his big toe. And not the black-feathered, sharp-beaked birds that had taken to perching nearby and were eyeing him with interest. Or the colony of red and black ants, whose scouts were on the prowl.
None of these intruders was to her liking. Her sense of fair play did not extend to having him eaten alive. The thought was barbaric. Even he deserved better.
But he would be eaten—or pecked, or nipped, or gnawed—if she left for any length of time. She was forced, therefore, to stay with him, sitting vigil while shooing off flies, brushing away beetles, and flicking off ants, which had now formed a line.
It was monotonous work. It was also unsustainable. She couldn’t watch him every minute of the day. She had to relieve herself from time to time. She had to get water and food. She had to sleep. Although to give her credit, she tried not to. When night fell, and her eyelids drifted closed, as they did, repeatedly, she repeatedly snapped them open. She stood and stamped her feet and slapped her face to stay awake. This only delayed the inevitable. In due course she sank onto the sand, her head drooped, and like butterflies, her eyelids fluttered, then like a trap, they shut for good.
She was jolted awake by a noise. Two of the oily black birds had landed on his belly. They were making a commotion, croaking and squawking at each other like irate consumers, as if to establish who got first dibs. She shouted and sprang to her feet, waving her arms, which was unnecessary, as the birds had already leapt up in alarm, spread their wings and fled. It was nearly dawn, and she knelt beside him, checking his body for signs of injury. His shirt and shorts were filthy but unpecked. His arms and legs—hairy, tanned, and flaccidly defenseless—were unharmed. His face was untouched, and for this she said a silent prayer of thanks.
His beard, she noted, was getting bushier every day. It softened the hardness of his eyes and mouth. Unconsciousness softened him, too.
Marl the Almighty, getting cut down to size by the likes of her. It should have felt better than it did. Her conscience was bothering her. He was the one supposed to be suffering. Not that she was suffering excessively, except possibly from a lack of sleep, but even a small amount seemed unjust.
She needed to come up with a better plan. She splashed water on her face and turned to the horizon, where the sun was getting ready to rise. Everyone agreed on the power of sunrises and sunsets to invigorate and inspire.
She had to get him off the ground. Leaving him at the mercy of nature’s divine mandate of eat or be eaten was not an option.
She could put him in a tree and wedge him in the branches. Better yet, truss him up in a basket of vines and hang him from a sturdy limb, like a bundle of fruit. She knew of two or three trees that were both climbable and stout enough. But getting him into the tree, and, more importantly, securing him so he didn’t inadvertently fall, seemed beyond a single person’s strength. Besides, so many of the jungle’s creatures could climb trees, or fly.
She couldn’t very well bury him. True, it would protect him, but burying was not for the living. It was more than barbaric, and not to be tolerated.
A raft was a possibility, built of bamboo woven tightly together with grass and reeds. She could pull or roll him onto it, then float him into the lagoon. Tether the raft to shore, so she could reel him in when necessary. He’d be safe from crawling and slithering creatures, as well as most creatures with legs, but not from birds. And if he happened to stir in his sleep, he might easily capsize and drown.
She had other ideas, all of them unacceptable in various ways. It was no no no down the line. She was frustrated, as if something were actively opposing her perfectly good intelligence, and she wheeled around, stalked up the beach, and put it to him. He was a smart guy. There was never a time when he had not known more about everything than her and everyone else. Never a time when he had not, in one way or another, informed her of his supremacy. What would he do?
She recalled one particular night, not long after she dropped out of college to be with him. He’d shown up unexpectedly at her apartment with an invitation for a romantic midnight walk in a nearby forest. She was thrilled. Yes, she said. How wonderful. Thank you. Yes.
He led deep her into the forest’s heart. They carried flashlights, turning them off from time to time to concentrate on the symphony surrounding them. Nighttime creatures were calling and signaling to one another, searching for mates. The air was heavy and warm. Her own mate was beside her. She felt his presence; she smelled his familiar scent. The whole thing was too much. She felt alive as she’d never been, intoxicated, in love.
Suddenly, without warning, he snatched the flashlight from her hand and vanished, leaving her alone in the pitch black darkness. To see how she’d handle it, what she’d do, what her threshold for discomfort was, how she’d react. He explained all this a half hour later, when he reappeared and congratulated her for not freaking out. He called it a lesson in survival.
She called it a lesson in allowing the wool to be pulled over her eyes. It was a lesson that had taken her longer than it should have to learn. A more together person would have left him immediately. A less together one would have crumbled.
Following that incident, her life took on a progressively unreal quality. For much of the time she was in a daze. She made herself sick, to the point of forgetting how it felt to be well. That’s how his poison worked.
The sickness didn’t stop when she left him. Sometimes it was worse, sometimes better, but it was always there. She vowed his would be different. Her poisoning of him would be swift, final, and therefore more humane.
Standing over him, their roles reversed, she wondered how he felt, if he felt anything at all, being at her mercy. Scorn and condescension were embedded in him. He wouldn’t believe for a minute she’d go through with her plan. Though maybe he would. Maybe the poison was already doing its job. Maybe the sickness it caused would teach him the meaning of surrender.
The sun chose that moment to show its face. It cast a long shadow of her otherwise short body on his inert frame, as though she were sharing that dark and shadowy part of herself with him. It was like sharing a lifelong friend. Darkness was home to her. It was familiar. In its way it was safe.
She remembered the cave.
It would solve a number of problems. Though getting him there would be a chore. But she had legs, and a
compact, muscular core, and shoulders and arms strengthened by all the water carrying. She was confident she could do it, and her mind didn’t change when she got him up and onto her back. He was bigger and heavier than she was—she was never not aware of his size. But slinging him across her shoulders, which was the way to go, then straightening her legs and taking a few preliminary steps wasn’t that hard. The burden of carrying him paled, she found, in comparison to the ones she’d already borne, so in that respect he was light.
Still, it took her the better part of the day. Her legs were shaking and her neck was one vast knot by the time she got to the mouth of the cave. The ascent of the sheep’s head rock was particularly harrowing. She almost lost him, and catastrophe was in her mind all the way to the final step, where she was able, at long last, to slide him off her back and rest.
She left him briefly to get water. The lagoon wasn’t far, and he wasn’t going anywhere. When she returned, she dribbled some into his mouth, then filled the cup of her hand and washed his face. He moaned and mumbled something unintelligible. His skin was hot, and she tore off a strip of her shirt, wet it down, folded it, and pressed it to his forehead.
For a second he seemed to come around. His eyes opened, roved in their sockets like a pair of rogue billiard balls, then fixed on her face. They were all pupil, making them appear both strange and of great depth and penetration. There was no accusation in them. Instead, he looked puzzled, as though he didn’t understand but would like to, would love to, as though he were eager to hear her side of things and to right any wrongs. He was such a snake.
She would have preferred an out-and-out accusation. She had answers for anything and everything he might lob her way. Did the answers justify what she was doing? Would they stand up in a court of peers? More importantly, did they stand up to her own conscience?
A good question, under constant review. For now, it was enough to know that the sentence had been meted out. For both their sakes it was best not to waver. She knew how to harden herself, and she did that now, meeting his quizzical, mildly demented look with authority and resolve. She added a measure of compassion, not a huge amount, but genuine. He seemed to draw strength from this. His breathing became easier, and his eyes rolled back and closed.
She rewet the rag and mopped his brow. Asleep, he seemed so docile. Childlike almost, and she was startled by a thought: could the poison possibly change him for the better? If she stopped delivering it and he survived, might he wake up a new man? Some people did after a brush with death. They saw the light and turned things around. It wasn’t impossible.
It was unlikely, however. And if she did back off and he recovered, and he was the same monstrous man, then where would she be? At the thought of the evil he would rain down on her, she shivered. The man was wily. He was working his poison on her even now, and she snatched the rag off his forehead, wrung it out, and used it on herself. Then she hoisted him on her back and carried him into the cave.
She didn’t go far, stopping where there was still enough light to see. Carefully, she lowered him onto his back, cradling his head in her palm so it didn’t bang against the stony floor. She was relieved to have this part of the journey over. She was exhausted, and longed to stretch out and close her eyes, but the opening through which she’d entered made her uneasy. It seemed an invitation to anything that cared to walk, crawl, or stumble inside. They were the only humans on the island, but humans were far from the only ones who used caves.
There were loose rocks outside, and she collected a pile of them, which she then began to stack into a wall. Big rocks on the bottom, rotated to find their balancing point, small rocks to plug up the chinks and provide stability. She worked from the outside, until the wall was a bit more than knee high, then transferred the pile inside and worked from there. When the wall reached her waist, she paused. The opening was not wide, but it rose a good distance above her head. Just how much of it did she need to plug?
If she went very much higher, she’d have trouble getting out. This was assuming she stayed inside with him, which, she realized, she intended to do. On a number of levels it would be easier the other way: stay outside, seal him in, wash her hands and be done with it. But this seemed as barbaric and cruel as burying him, and in fact no different. She would not rest, knowing he was entombed but alive.
She decided to make the wall chest high, which would permit her to climb out when she had to. Before doing this, she left to get more water, returning as quickly as her tired legs would allow.
A few more rows of rock, and she was done. Finally, she could rest. Leaning against the wall, she slid down until she was seated, then stretched out her legs.
She glanced at him. He was little more than an arm’s distance away. His chest, it appeared, wasn’t moving. So soon? Alarmed, she touched him with a trembling hand.
His skin was doughy and cool. She jostled him and called his name, but he didn’t respond.
She stiffened. The man was an asshole, a true asshole, despicable in an infinite number of ways, but did that mean he was pure, unadulterated, a hundred and one percent evil? He had a thimbleful of admirable traits. He was tough, for one: tough to like, but also tough to dislike. You’d hate him before disliking him. With Marl there was no middle ground.
As it turned out, he was also tough to kill. She didn’t believe her eyes at first, the sign of life was so slight. It occurred in his beard. Periodically, the snarled hairs shivered, like blades of grass in a whisper of wind. That was all the life force he had left. But she wasn’t going to quibble. He was breathing.
She wasn’t, but now she did.
She felt a wave of relief, then its opposite, frustration and anguish. She knew it was wrong to kill. She wasn’t a moron. Life was precious. You only got one. It was wrong to throw the door open and invite death into the house.
It was also wrong to let a killer go and spew his poison elsewhere. She had another look at him, spewer of poison and killer of souls. His body was limp and all but inert. It gave off an unhealthy smell. Save for his soundless, shallow, scarcely visible breaths, he could have been death itself.
She rose. She hadn’t slept in nearly two days, but couldn’t sleep now. She had to decide this thing once and for all. She went outside, clawing her way over the wall until she stood in sunshine and fresh air.
She found a rock and sat on it, watching the long day come to an end. At length the sun dipped below the horizon. She felt a burst of resolve. Then progressive calm, as night came on.
When the first star appeared, she climbed back down. She felt her way inside the cave, found his face, his lips, and dribbled the last of the poison into his mouth. Then she sat beside him, bearing witness, until sleep took her in its arms.
VIOLET
She woke. Her headache was gone. Shep was seated, eyes at half-mast, earbuds in, nodding his head.
“Who invited you back?”
He looked up, pulled the buds out. “Charlie Tuna. I love it. You’re awake.”
“You fucked up.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Did I really turn back?”
“You did.”
“That complicates things.”
Her body restraint, she noted, was gone. In a limited sense she was free. She sat up.
“Have you ever killed a man?” she asked.
“I’ve killed animals. Never a man.”
“Have you ever come face to face with evil? True evil?”
“I thought I did once, and I had it by the throat, but mercy stayed my hand.”
“I’d do it again,” she said.
He didn’t ask what or why. “Mercy takes practice.”
“Poisoning takes resolve. I learned the subtleties of poisoning at the hands of a master. I owe him a debt of gratitude, although I doubt he’d see it that way.”
“He sounds monstrous. Even so, I’m afraid you’ll suffer for what you’ve done, or imagined.”
“Not much.”
“Your consc
ience will suffer.”
“Whose doesn’t?”
“You have a point. Still, forgive me if I worry. What’s to stop you from using poison again?”
“My conscience.”
“Your conscience needs work.”
She remembered entering the water. Splinters of sunlight hurting her eyes, then the pain receding before a gathering darkness. A feeling of relief, then panic, as she sank beneath the waves and struggled in vain to surface.
“I couldn’t pull the plug,” she said.
“You chose not to.”
“Maybe suicide takes practice, too.”
He leaned forward and took her hand. “Let’s practice something else for today. What do you say?”
“I’m so tired.”
“Why not sleep a little more?”
“Will you be here when I wake up? Never mind.” She waved the question off. “Forget I asked.”
DAISY
She heard a voice. She heard it again, opened her eyes, and sat up.
There was a man in the air nearby. She couldn’t remember his name, but she remembered his dark, curly hair. And his beautiful, androgynous face. He looked like an angel without the wings. She pinched herself and slapped her cheek.
He drifted closer, and she raised her hand, expecting to be lifted. He gave her a heartfelt but no-can-do look, and kept his distance. At first she didn’t understand. Then it occurred to her that one hand might not be enough. He was afraid of hurting her, or of her slipping from his grasp. She was open to being picked up and carried, either in his arms, which would have been sweetness itself, or slung across his back, which would have been fine, but he wasn’t offering. She guessed he didn’t want to risk dropping her.
It was annoying but understandable. She was left with having to rely on herself. In other words, back to square one, with a notable difference: he was there to encourage her and give her moral support.
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