“Okay. You pull them loose and hand them to me,” I say.
“No way. You have to wait outside again. There’s no reason for us both to be in here.”
“Fine. Then I’ll do it, this time.”
“Nope. You’re not as tall or—sorry—strong as me. Besides, if this roof gives way, I need you to be outside and safe. Who else is going to dig my miserable ass out of the wreckage?”
“So, I’m strong enough to dig you out, but not to—”
“Layla, please go?” He smiles and adds, “And wear your boots, this time.”
I make Luke promise me anew: I’ll wait outside as long as he stays safe.
Bundled up and be-shoed, I wait beyond the cabin door, ears tuned again to any and all signs of distress. Luke uses a saw he found leaning against the woodpile outside a while back. It’s covered in rust, but must still be functional, because I can hear it squeaking and chewing at wood as I wait. There are other sounds, too: some disturbing creaks from the cabin, snaps of branches that ricochet through my head, the inevitable groans of metal that make my insides twist upon themselves. Thankfully, everything stays put. All, except for the chimney. That comes out in pieces, but not until Luke arrives at the door to tell me he’s finished. He has two sections of twisted metal tubing in his hands, which he tosses aside before coming to wrap me in his arms.
“See? We both kept our promises,” he says, kissing me. “Holy shit your lips are cold.”
Once we’re back within the four walls, the plan is to build a fire and hope for the best. That’s it, end of strategy.
The hole made by the tree proves surprisingly helpful, providing an escape route for the smoke, which might otherwise have been stuck circulating through the cabin’s interior. A lot of heat drifts upward and outward right along with it, but we’ve learned to take the good with the bad.
Once we’re pretty confident of the shortened chimney’s safety—save for the risk of sparks, which will be a danger from now on—we lie down stiffly on the bed. I unzip my coat and Luke pulls me inside his, so at least we can feel each other’s heat. We cover ourselves with blankets and stay huddled together for a while, talking quietly here and there, randomly dropping kisses on one another—cheeks, temples, eyelids—until our shivering wanes and we nod off.
Luke wakes me while extracting himself from our cocoon. “Starving,” he says, by way of explanation.
I offer to make dinner, and Luke adds more broken branches to the fire. Neither of us makes any jokes about rice and beans.
After we eat, sitting cross-legged on the gray-stained floor before the stove, with sawed-off branches hovering in the space above our heads, Luke leans over and drags me into his lap. “Hey, do you remember how we used to tell each other stories in the tree house?”
“Of course.”
“So, who can we be now?”
I frown. “Feels like we’re arctic explorers.”
Luke smiles, indulging my glumness. “Forget how it feels. That’s the point, remember?”
I remember. So many times, we traded stories to take us out of our lives, to blot out the emptiness or the pain we’d carried from home or from school.
“Somewhere warm, then,” I say. “Would Hell work?”
“Funny.” Luke’s the one to frown this time.
“I don’t mean it’s hell being here with you, although I can think of other places I’d rather put us. Just…fire and brimstones don’t sound so bad right now.”
Luke’s frown lifts, but the darkness in his face doesn’t.
“Do you know the myth of Hades and Persephone?” I ask, curving my body into his.
He rests his chin on top of my head. “I should. We had that whole unit on Greek Mythology last year. But, no.”
I smile at him, even though he can’t see. “Well, there are at least a few versions, so I’ll share the one I know, starting with Hades: he was the ruler of the underworld, but he was lonely down there with all the dead. One of his sisters, Demeter, had a daughter named Persephone…and this Persephone, she was pretty perfect: beautiful and good, spread light wherever she went—that kind of person. When Hades saw her, he knew he had to have her for his own.”
Luke lifts his head. “Fell for his niece? What kind of story is this?”
I glance up at him. “That’s how it was with those Olympus types, remember? Persephone’s dad was Zeus, Hades and Demeter’s brother, so I guess they liked keeping things close… Anyway, it’s a myth. Plus, even if the underworld wasn’t full of hellfire, it had to be warmer than this cabin, so let me keep going.”
“Got it. Suspending disbelief.”
“Good. So, Hades wanted Persephone, and with Mother Earth’s help, he got her. While Persephone was in a meadow, gathering flowers, she picked a narcissus bloom and the ground split wide open. Out came Hades, charging from the death-y underworld in a chariot, pulled by these glorious black horses, all manes and tails and gleaming flanks. He snatched up Persephone and took her, screaming and sobbing, back to the underworld. Her mother, Demeter, overheard her daughter cry out and searched everywhere for her, grieving terribly.
“Meanwhile, Persephone was trapped against her will in the underworld, still unhappy. She wouldn’t even look at Hades. Plus, she couldn’t eat, because there was this rule that if she ate something while she was there, she could never leave.”
Luke tips his head so he can see my face better. “So, she was basically starving.”
“Makes your stomach hurt, doesn’t it? But, yes, she couldn’t eat a thing. And while she was stuck in the realm of the dead, her mom, Demeter, found out the real story—that her brother-slash-baby daddy, Zeus, had told Hades he could have Persephone for his wife—and in those days of Ancient Greece, a father’s permission was enough to make a marriage happen, never mind the daughter’s consent.”
“That’s bullshit,” Luke says under his breath, frowning.
I nod. “Demeter thought so, too, and because she was the goddess of the harvest, she made the seeds stay dormant beneath the ground. Famine ensued, the people suffered, and they could make no offerings to the gods. Zeus sent a bunch of immortals to try plying Demeter with gifts, but she refused them all, saying she’d never ease her hold over the land until she’d seen her daughter again.
“Finally, Zeus gave up and sent the messenger, Hermes, down to the underworld to plead for Persephone’s return. Hades, hearing of what was happening up above, agreed that Persephone should go to her mother, but he also reminded her of a few things: one, as a top god, he’d make a better than average husband, and two, as his wife, she’d get to be queen of the underworld. Persephone thought this all sounded pretty good, but to help cement the deal, Hades slipped her a pomegranate seed as she was leaving. Persephone ate the seed and went off to find her mother.
“She and Demeter had a great reunion, until Persephone confessed to eating the pomegranate seed. She made it sound as if Hades had forced her, even though he hadn’t. Maybe she wasn’t ready to share the truth with her mother, but I think she’d discovered that the underworld had a beauty all its own, and she probably couldn’t miss that there were few men hotter than Hades. Get it?”
I look up at Luke, find him watching me with a little smile on his face. “Good one, Layls,” he says. I take a deep breath.
“Anyway, Zeus learns about the whole pomegranate-eating episode, and since he gets the final call, he decides that because Persephone has eaten only one seed, she’ll spend part of the year with Hades, ruling over the dead, and the rest of the year with her mother, acting as the goddess of spring. Her coming and going causes the change of seasons: when she’s with Demeter, the earth is warm and fertile. When she’s gone, Demeter is grieving, and the earth is cold and barren. But the thing is, after Persephone makes her choice, she’s known best for her time in the underworld, and she and Hades end up having one of the greatest and most faithful of all the immortal marriages.”
I lean forward to look at the gray sky outside the windo
w, then turn back to Luke. “So, which setting would you choose: springtime or underworld?”
He holds my gaze. “Does she love him?”
My heart gives a wobbly thump. “I think she does.”
“Then, Persephone should be with Hades. They’re in the underworld, they’re happy and warm, and they’re together.”
“Okay.” I wrap my arms around him. “Happy and warm, and together.”
“Plus,” he says, settling his chin on my head once more, “she gets to eat as much as she wants.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Across the next few days, we learn to move slower, so we can save our energy. We take our time standing, too, because it eases the lightheadedness. The tree has blocked our access to the remaining bottled water, so we drink snow—gathered, boiled, cooled. Once a day, we eat, the portions small enough to fit inside the centers of our palms. The rest of the time, we huddle together in bed or in front of the fire to help keep warm, and try to ignore the gnawing aches deepening inside our stomachs.
“Happy and warm, and together,” we remind each other, every so often.
If Hades was anything like Luke, it’s easy to imagine why Persephone fell for him. I could accept the world of the dead too, if it meant being with Luke. I just hope neither of us has to.
Sixteen
Conserve, Meaning to Save or Protect
Iwake to the softness of kisses layering the side of my face, and turn to smile into the blue-gray gleam of Luke’s eyes.
The light coming through the windows is hazy, but the air in the cabin feels warmer than usual. It’s only January eleventh, though, so spring can’t even qualify as a distant hope.
I’m lying on my side, and Luke has risen onto his elbow behind me; he traces fingertips down my spine. I squirm when his touch reaches my lower back, becoming ticklish, and another sensation rises inside me as he trails his fingers up again, along my thigh. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, “I know we need to conserve our energy, but what if we get too weak to…”
I roll over to kiss him and start peeling off his shirt as my reply.
This might be our last time.
I can’t help having the thought, and something about the way each of his touches drifts over me slowly, like he’s memorizing my skin, makes me think he’s feeling the same. This could be the final time we have the strength to be together, or even if we’re saved somehow—a miracle sent from Persephone and Hades, maybe—there’s still the option of going home and ruining everything.
For now, though, we have each other, and that’s pretty much all we need.
♦ ♦ ♦
A low rumble, somewhere in the forest, breaks through the sounds of our breathing, our whispered words, the soft noises rising from our throats.
“Did you hear something?” I ask and Luke pauses; his lips hover over the hollow beneath my ear, warming me with his breath.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing. Thought I heard something.”
He pulls back; his eyes catch mine and hold, his gaze deep and dark with lust. His fingers slide over my skin and he goes back to kissing me, his lips brushing over my mouth before returning again with greater intention. His body moves against mine.
Never mind.
He stops again. “Wait,” he says, “I think I heard it. Shit. Should I go check?” He asks the question like he’s hoping I’ll say no.
I push on his chest, unraveling myself from him, from the space of us, needing to reclaim my senses, to devote them to listening. “There it is again. It really is something, Luke.”
“Better be the army coming to our rescue, if they show up at a time like this.” He raises himself and leaves a disgruntled kiss on my mouth, saying he’ll be right back.
“I can’t see anything,” he tells me, leaning to peer out the window, “but I think the sound’s getting louder. It could be an engine. Maybe a plane, or even a…truck?”
He turns to me, his eyes widening. “I want to come back to you.”
It’s about sex, his comment. I couldn’t be in the room and not know this, but there’s fear in his eyes, too. A look that echoes the panic I’m feeling. This moment could be a beginning—a chance at survival, exactly the kind of beginning we need—but, if so, it’s also the end of something else.
A beginning, and an end, something to celebrate and to fear.
Seventeen
With and Without
The silence between us stretches on, becomes noticeable.
“Luke,” I say, “the sound stopped.”
The low droning, which might have been the noise of an engine, which possibly heralded our rescue, has disappeared, replacing our fear of leaving with panic of another kind: if this is our chance to survive, we could be losing it.
We dress, quickly, and are pulling on our boots, when words boom through the woods like the voice of God. “PEAK COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT.”
I jump at the first syllable and Luke lets out a curse; he stares at me as the words continue, thunderous.
“WE HAVE A SEARCH WARRANT. OPEN THE DOOR.”
Luke’s features drain of color; he moves toward the door mechanically, like he’s operating on auto-pilot, and stops in front of the wooden boards.
“Shit. It’s barred,” he says, his voice just within the range of my hearing. “It’s barred,” he yells out, cupping his hands around his mouth to concentrate the sound. “Gonna take a minute,” he adds, quieter again, and no one hears but me.
Movement at the window grabs my attention. “Luke.” I hiss out the word and watch his gaze move as if in slow motion. It takes in: me, my hands rising into the air, one window, the other window. His hands go up after mine.
There are officers stationed at each of the boarded-up windows, one per rectangle of glass. Their faces peer beneath the shadow of the wood barriers; their guns are drawn and held there, too.
“Shit,” Luke says again, under his breath, glancing back at me before repeating to the men at the windows, loudly and with clear enunciation, “The door is barred.”
The officer at the kitchen window shifts his head slightly, calling out Luke’s words to another person, out of view; his eyes and gun remain trained on us all the while.
The voice from the bullhorn returns. “Why is the door barred?” The question forces itself up against the windows, squeezes in around the door frame, drifts down through the gaping hole in the roof.
Luke calls his answer to the face above the kitchen sink. “There was a crazy guy…some hermit.”
I have the worst-timed urge to giggle. Peeping Hermit Killer. My God, it must be the fear testing my sanity, but if something happens to Luke because I laugh, I’ll deserve to be shot.
“Who’s speaking?” the bullhorn demands. “Identify yourself.”
“Luke. I’m Luke Owens.”
This too gets repeated, passed along. It’s like that old game, “Whisper Down The Lane,” but with guns and booming voices. I sincerely hope Luke’s translator gets everything right.
“Mr. Owens, is Layla Marshall inside with you?”
Luke looks at me as if to check. “She’s right here.”
It’s my turn. “Hi,” I say to the armed officers at the windows. The word is supposed to come out loud and clear, like Luke’s, but it doesn’t; my voice is weak, my mouth dry. With hands still raised, I offer the men a little wave. Their faces barely change, save for a small rise at the corner of Kitchen Officer’s mouth.
“Miss Marshall, are you unharmed?” The bullhorn voice again.
“I’m fine,” I call out, louder this time. “Thanks for asking.”
Luke gives me a sidelong glance and I answer him with a raise of my eyebrows and a modified, raised-arm shrug.
“Mr. Owens, you need to unbar the door immediately,” says the voice.
“Okay. Working on it.” Luke grabs the only available hammer, and I go for the flathead screwdriver.
“This is one scary rescue,” I whisper, helping him wrestle
with the first board.
“Yeah it is,” Luke says, wincing as he squeezes his fingers beneath to pry it off.
“You think they’re arresting us for being in the cabin?”
“Dunno. Hope not.”
Before long, Luke is yanking the second board free and stepping back. “Okay, boards are off,” he announces, sounding winded. Luke never sounds winded. “Should we come out?” he calls.
We await the repetition and reply of his question.
“Do either of you have any weapons?” the booming voice asks.
“No.” Luke’s eyes go to the kitchen drawer. “Well…there’s a couple of kitchen knives in here, but…”
The echo takes up his words, and the bullhorn sounds again. “Mr. Owens, leave the knives where they are. Open the door and come out, with your hands laced together behind your head.”
“O-kay,” Luke says, his eyes locking with mine.
“Be careful,” I tell him. “Move slowly. Do whatever they say.”
I’m still giving instructions when Luke opens the door and steps into the doorframe. There are two armed officers facing us at a distance, in addition to the two at the windows. The officer holding the bullhorn lowers it, telling Luke to come forward; when he does, the second officer goes to pat him down and tells him he can lower his hands.
“No weapons,” the man confirms, staying near Luke while the bullhorn officer addresses me.
“Miss Marshall? Please come out now.”
I follow Luke’s example, lacing my hands behind my head, limping into the doorway.
“Her ankle’s hurt,” Luke tells the officers as I pause to figure out how I’m going to navigate the cabin’s two front steps with my injury, no hands, and a pair of unlaced boots.
“Are you able to walk, Miss Marshall?”
“I should be, but can I tie my boots and maybe use a hand to hold the railing?”
I’m allowed, so I tie the boots, grab the railing with one hand while the other rests behind my head, and hobble my way down the steps. At the end, I look up to see the concern in Luke’s face. I want to tell him I’m fine, but I’m not sure either of us can say that just yet.
Picturing You Page 15