by Huss, JA
I point to my eyes, then her. Then close my eyes. Then open them and point to her again.
She gets it. And she sighs, maybe letting down her guard a little. Because she slouches down, her foot bumping against mine, and closes her eyes.
I watch her, fascinated, as I wash up. And then I do the same. I slouch down and stretch out my long legs, then decide to prop my feet up on her bench, brushing them against her hips.
I peek, just to see if she will object to that with a sharp look. But she doesn’t open her eyes. Instead, she props her feet up on my bench. Brushing them against my hips.
And then it’s my turn to sigh.
The buzzing of the rice cooker down the hall wakes me and I sit up, a little bit disoriented. Anya is as well. She rubs her eyes and breathes heavy as she tries to make sense of her surroundings. Like she was in a deep sleep and it came with a dream that had nothing to do with me. Then she looks at me and her gaze is one of understanding.
I get out of the tub, grab a towel from a shelf, wrap it around me, then go looking for clothes. I find us t-shirts and shorts and take them back up to the tub room.
Once we’re dressed, I take her into the kitchen, scoop the rice and meat mixture into two bowls, give her a fork, and signal for her to follow me out onto the training platform. We sit on the hard concrete and lean up against the wall. Normally I like to eat up top. I sign this to her one-handed as we both shove the food into our mouths. But the birds will steal the meat right out of your bowl since you’re new here.
I don’t think she understands, but I don’t care.
If it really were just me out here tonight, I’d be signing things to the General—that’s the name I gave my old bird buddy. I’d be filling him in on the last eight months of my life. So having Anya here instead, this is like a bonus, even if she doesn’t talk back.
The General never really did either. I mean, I always gave him points for trying, but while his vocabulary is interesting, it’s not very big.
I’ve done a lot of research on the albatross over the years. They are monogamous birds. They find one soulmate and that’s it. Just one. And even though they live solitary lives when they’re not breeding, soaring over the ocean for months and months at a time without ever touching solid ground, they meet up every other year to raise a new chick.
The General is somewhere around thirty years old right now. And he’ll live another thirty, if he’s careful. So I guess I did win in the end, didn’t I?
I do have a family. A rather big one, actually.
The General has raised ten chicks on this rig with his mate, who I call Seeker. I don’t know where he found her—and it’s entirely probable that they were mated before he got lost and she actually found him after he disappeared—but either way, they live here now.
Ten chicks over twenty-two years. It’s not a bad record for an albatross.
And every single one of those chicks has left the nest, has found their own wayward mate, and has come back here every other year to meet back up.
This rock of death is an unsanctioned breeding colony for the largest flying bird on earth.
This prison, this punishment of a place, is also home to something a little bit… magical.
And that’s only one of the many reasons I love it.
Dinner is over too soon. I catch Anya staring into her empty bowl, wishing for more.
I explain that things are scarce here at the moment. And even though she doesn’t know any signs and I get the feeling that this vow of silence is something she takes very seriously, she nods her understanding. Frowning though. It comes with a frown.
I take our bowls back into the kitchen and dump them, wash everything up, and put it all away. Then I go back out to the platform and find her standing near the edge, looking out over the dark ocean.
Night out here can be one of two things: deeply terrifying or indescribably peaceful. I know what my first night on the Rock was like and even though Anya’s position is much more advantageous, it’s got to be unsettling.
I walk over, tap her on the shoulder, and motion for her to follow me. Then I open up one of the huge shipping containers to reveal stacks and stacks of sleeping mats. I hand her one, then grab one for myself, and direct her to follow me up the stairs.
It’s night now, and there are at least a dozen albatross chicks sleeping on makeshift nests and another dozen adults with their heads under their wings, also sleeping. There are twice that number up in the air somewhere. Most are far, far away. Out hunting so they can bring food back for their mates and their chicks.
They’re quiet at night. And they don’t even look up as we walk past them, out towards the southern edge of the platform. I lay down my mat and Anya does the same. Then I ease my aching body down, trying to be mindful of the ribs, and let out a long breath.
I overdid it today. I think it’s because I was still high on the Lectra and the drugs. But all that has worn off now, and every time I breathe, that sharp pain is there to remind me of what happened yesterday.
It’s easy to forget. At least for me. I’m so far away from that ship right now—so far away from everything that reminds me of who I am and what I do—that it’s just too easy to forget.
But Anya isn’t me. And she has not forgotten.
Anya sits down on her mat, but she doesn’t lie back. She hugs her knees and stares off into the distance. There is a shipping lane about fifty miles south of here that I sometimes like to watch. And on the north side of the platform I can see the city lights of São Luís, the capital city of Maranhão. If I were in a pensive mood, I would imagine I can see my base camp, which also lies in that direction. But I’m not pensive tonight. I’m content.
I point to the barely visible sliver of moon out of habit, glancing over at Anya to make sure she sees this. She does, but she’s not interested. So I put my hands behind my head and look up and study the stars. I don’t know a single constellation name. When I’m out here, I often wonder what they’re really called and how to figure out which one is which. But of course, wondering things out here does me no good. There is no internet to look things up. And when I’m back at home, I don’t have time to watch the stars. No one gives a fuck what stage the moon is in. The sky is just the space above us so I have never bothered to learn the names of the things up there.
Anya sighs and lies back just as one of the birds wanders over to me and sits down next to my head, snuggles in to me and then tucks her head back under her wing and falls quickly back to sleep. I catch Anya smiling out of the corner of my eye when another one wanders up and does the same, pushing her large body against my broken ribs until I wince. Then all the adults are wandering over. They have missed me.
Anya sighs and this makes me turn my head so I can see her face over the large back of an albatross.
What does she think of all this?
Does it scare her? To be out here so alone? Among these giant birds that could, if they wanted to, rip her to pieces with their massive beaks?
Or does she like it the way I do? Does she feel free and safe?
I would ask. I want to ask, actually. But she won’t answer, so I don’t bother.
I just look at the sliver of moon and settle back into life on the Rock.
And then, before I even realize it, I’m out.
There is no hope of sleeping past sunrise on the Rock.
The gulls scream the moment the sun first peeks out over the horizon. They circle and squawk, soaring above us and diving down to poke at us, and Anya is on her feet, waving her hands in the air to ward them off.
The albatross who huddled with us all night are gone now, either tending to chicks or out looking for food. But the damn gulls—they prefer to steal their breakfast. And now that I’m back, they remember how to do that.
We pick up our mats, go back down to the training platform, and there they are, dozens of gulls waiting patiently near the door to the kitchen. I chase them off, but this is a losing battle. The albatross don’t
come down here. They prefer the open air of the top platform. But gulls are a different kind of bird altogether. They don’t breed here, thank God. They would quickly take over the platform and there would be no way to get rid of them once that happened. But they are curious, and smart, and will steal anything they can carry unless you’re diligent.
I don’t need to be diligent in the morning. Because there will be no breakfast.
Anya follows me over to the container and we drop our mats inside, then I close it back up. I can hear her stomach growling and I know she is expecting food. Maybe even coffee. Which makes me internally chuckle. But bringing her to the Rock with me wasn’t in the plan and even though we have food, when we left here last year, we only rationed enough for me when I came back. So there isn’t enough food to feed two people for the length of time that we will be here.
So. One meal a day and that’s still pushing it.
I go over to the jump ropes, pick them up, and then hold one out for her.
She doesn’t take it.
I drop it at her feet and shrug. She will skip rope today. She will do a lot more than that too if she wants to eat tonight. But she can pretend she won’t for a little while, if that makes her happy.
I start skipping. My ribs are still screaming and they will continue to do that for at least a month. But it is what it is. A few broken ribs aren’t enough to interrupt my training schedule. I casually make my way down the length of the platform, then back again.
Anya has gotten herself a drink of water and she’s dragging her finger over her teeth. I stop skipping and stare at her, shaking my head a little.
She doesn’t get it. And I suddenly understand that she might have the willpower to withstand my rules and decide I need to make a point here in the interest of saving time.
So I walk over, take the cup of water out of her hand, dump it out so it splashes up her legs, drop the cup on the ground, and point to her jump rope.
Her expression never changes.
And… we’re back. Petulant Anya has decided she is too tired to jump rope, or she is too sore to jump rope, or she is too hungry to jump rope, or maybe she is just too fucking good to jump rope.
She picks up the cup, fills it with water, walks back over to me, brings it to her lips.
I take the cup, dump it out, throw it on the ground, and point to her jump rope.
She picks up the cup, fills it with water, walks back over to me and throws it in my face.
Cold water hits me in the eyes and runs down my chest. I look at it. Then back up at her. She is still defiant. No expression. Just a flat line of a mouth.
I grab her arm. Hard. Hard enough to make it blanch. She tries to pull away, but there is no hope of that. Her arm is a spindly thing and my hand is so large in comparison, I almost completely encircle it. If she wants me to leave fingerprints on her skin, I will. And there’s no one here to stop me.
I pick up her rope with my other hand and shove it at her.
She refuses to take it.
You get one chance with me. If I were talking, I’m sure this little rebellion of hers could be squashed with one or two harsh threats, but I’m not talking, and she never talks, so the easy way isn’t an option.
I drag her over to the stairs. She resists, of course. But now I’m fucking pissed.
I drag her down one level, throw her on the ground, and then shut the squeaky chain-link gate and clamp the combination lock closed on the latch.
She just looks at me from the floor. Unmoving. Disbelieving.
I sign at her, my hands and fingers moving quickly. Believe it, princess. This is happening. And I’m only going to do this once. Do it again, and you will go in the ocean.
She doesn’t understand the signs. But she gets it. Because she stands up, rushes over to the gate, wraps her fingers around the chain link, and rattles it.
I turn my back.
One chance. That’s all you get with me. I’m not fucking around.
I leave her there, climb back up the stairs, and start my workout.
And you know what the nice thing about her is? She’s silent.
There is no screaming, there is no kicking, there are no hysterical threats.
She is easy to forget.
So that’s what I do.
I forget her.
CHAPTER NINE - ANYA
All night those birds bothered me. They nipped me with their long, thick beaks, they flapped their wings at me, they stretched their necks and threatened me, eye to eye, until I rolled over, covered my head with my hands, and just didn’t move until morning.
I know how this sounds. Birds are out to get me. I am insane.
But these aren’t just any birds, they are one meter tall and four meters wide when they open their wings. And when they decided that they didn’t appreciate the fact that I was sleeping in the middle of their nesting grounds, they held it against me.
Stupid Sick Heart couldn’t even wake up once to control his flying beasts. And they wouldn’t let me get close enough to shake him awake.
I didn’t sleep. Not a wink all night.
And when I figured out that he wasn’t gonna feed me breakfast, well—it was a breaking point for me.
Call me naïve. Fine. I guess my expectations for being one of Sick Heart’s concubines were unrealistic. Because I thought that position would come with an actual place to live. A place with a bed, and a roof, and food.
That dinner last night was pathetic. Barely a cup of rice. Probably more like half a cup, if I’m being honest. And a few meager scraps of rehydrated meat? Are you fucking kidding me? After I burned… what, two thousand, three thousand calories jumping rope yesterday?
And then no breakfast? Just, Here’s your rope, Anya. Get busy.
Well. Fuck you.
I rattle the chain-link gate. But he’s gone. Cort van Breda is already skipping his stupid rope. I can hear it on the concrete above my head. Snick, snick, snick.
It has been a long time since I had the urge to scream, but I have that urge right now. I want to open up my throat and wail. But I can’t.
Because I’m silent. And I will stay silent, goddammit.
My voice is the only thing on this body that is mine and mine alone. Even my baby toe has been claimed with this monster’s mark.
He will not get my voice. Ever.
I look around the platform and realize it’s a lot like the one above. Except there are a lot more containers. In fact, there are so many containers, they form a steel-box perimeter around the entire level. Front-facing and locked up tight, with no space between them at all. So I have no view of the ocean. But I don’t need a view to understand that it is very close.
The stairs go down another level at least, but from the sound of the ocean, I decide it’s probably not a level. More than likely, it’s the base of the topside.
The wind is strong today. Even with the containers forming a makeshift seawall, it finds a way into the space, whistling and whipping my hair around my face. And every once in a while, the waves are big enough to splash against the containers and a puddle of seawater seeps underneath them and stains the space around them with dark wetness.
I try to open the containers, but they are all padlocked. Then I go back over to see if there is a way to climb over the gate. I’m not at that stage yet, but it’s good information to have.
The gate is not scalable. It fits snugly to the top of the frame. Not even room for a finger to squeeze through.
So I slide down a steel beam in the center of the space and wait.
I sit. Quietly. Straining to hear the workout going on above my head.
I am good. I am calm. I am silent. I am compliant.
But Cort van Breda doesn’t come back.
It’s times like this that I wish I did speak. Because I could call up—Hello? I’m sorry for overreacting. But I’m hungry and your birds didn’t let me sleep last night. I can’t breathe through my nose, my lip is split, my entire body aches, and I don’t un
derstand what’s happening. And a reasonable person would at least listen to me.
But I can’t say any of that and Cort isn’t acting very reasonable today.
So I sit. And I wait.
There is water down here. A steel spigot that sticks up from the floor, connected to dubious-looking rusty pipes which lead up top. Is this water potable? I have no idea. But by late afternoon, I no longer care. I turn it on, stick my mouth underneath the spigot, and gulp it down. It’s not salty, so that’s something.
Then I wait some more.
Surely, once his workout is over, he will feed me. I get it now. One meal a day. I can deal. It’s fine.
But he doesn’t feed me. The sun sets and I sit. And he never comes.
The sound of his workout faded a long time ago. And the curious gulls who kept me company for most of the afternoon disappear.
I know where they are. Up top, begging for food or trying to steal it out of his bowl.
My stomach cries. It twists, and gurgles, and whines for something to take the edge off. But Cort never comes.
He doesn’t come at sundown. He doesn’t come at dinnertime, he doesn’t come in the morning.
He leaves me here to rot.
At least, I don’t see him come. At some point in the night I drift off, defeated by utter exhaustion. And when I wake up—no, Cort isn’t here. But he was here. Because in a little pile on the first step outside of the gate is a jump rope.
My hands are small, but not so small that fitting them through the hole of this chain link fence doesn’t come with pain. Nonetheless, I’m able to press my arm forward just enough that the tips of my fingers are able to reach the rope and pull it through to the other side.
Message received, Sick Heart.
I start skipping rope.
It takes him several more hours to appear at my gate. And then he spends at least five more minutes signing things at me—furious fingers flitting through the air, his eyebrows knit into anger and frustration, his mouth tight, his breathing heavy. I have no hope of keeping up with all his signs, but he doesn’t seem to care if I understand his words. He wants me to know one thing and one thing only.