The unrelenting hornets droned fitfully around the peak of the frame, just outside the mosquito netting, intent on their construction.
“They want their colony here,” Fitz mumbled, his eyes half open. “They sense we won’t be around for long.”
My heart thumped as I fought off the sadness left in the wake of my dream. I wanted to tell Fitz, but I saw that his spirits were down. “Fitz, we’re still here,” I said. “We have to keep fighting, no matter what.” I knew how frustratingly hollow I must have sounded. “Let’s see if more snails grew on the logs.”
The bees hovered over our skin as we lowered ourselves into the swamp. “We can’t do this much longer,” Fitz said, wiping his cheeks with mud.
I looked at his gaunt face and knew he was right. I wanted to speak, but I didn’t know what to say. I felt on the edge of crying.
We slowly clambered back onto the deck to catch our breath. We were safe from the bees for a few minutes, as long as the water trickled down our skin and wiped the sweat away.
“But so far we’ve been lucky,” I said, breathing heavily, trying to rally, to find optimism, as I watched the swirl of current around slick brown logs far out in the channel, my hand on Fitz’s.
Fitz agreed but said that our raft was so close to the water that anything could happen.
I reached down the outermost log of the raft and felt for snails. “Here.” I handed five to Fitz. I found five more along the raft’s edge.
He looked between each log but had no luck. “There aren’t enough to cook up. Let’s just eat them raw.”
Fitz’s face glistened with perspiration, his eyes tightly shut as he forced the snails down.
“I love you,” I said as my eyes welled. These had been tender days of quiet understanding between us.
I suggested we look for berries. We found twenty ripe ones where I’d seen none yesterday. Many had been picked over by the birds. Others were small and green, not yet edible.
We continued paddling. I caught sight of a three-inch-round frog under a leaf. “Fitz, a frog!” I mouthed, pointing to the spot. Fitz was in the stern and would drift by her after me. He lunged for it.
“I missed.” His hands were still clasped together. “Wait. I feel something.” He looked down to find the frog was pulsing in his hand. He immediately stabbed it with the knife so it wouldn’t jump away.
We cooked it with the snails. The frog had considerable roe and a little meat on its legs that we tore with our teeth. Chewing felt good, like our jaws were doing what they were meant to do.
We ate the berries for dessert. This was our second-biggest meal. Feeling hopeful, Fitz went out after dinner to fish, putting the frog’s head and intestines on the hook. Again no luck.
We lay down to sleep long before the sun set. While Fitz slept, I watched the shadows of the bees dip down and up along the outside of the tent. Something heavy smacked against the plastic. My body stiffened. I was too scared to look at what had hit the tent. Fitz looked so peaceful, a half smile on his face. I closed my eyes again and tried to picture Zelda waiting by the front door for her morning walk.
Chapter 38
Time Meshes
MARCH 14
Twenty-fourth day trapped
We slept about eighteen hours before waking to find the sun already high. Sitting at the stern of the Pink Palace, we watched two small birds building a nest in a bush that grew out of the water just six feet away. As usual, bees were crawling all over us.
“I’m getting used to them,” Fitz said, as if being stung incessantly was somehow normal.
I nodded, aware of the bees’ little feet on my neck. I tried to ignore them as I focused on the birds.
Despite my hungry impatience, the birds’ antics entranced me. The female chirped at her mate constantly. I wondered if she was prodding him to hurry, or if she was telling him he wasn’t placing twigs correctly. Perhaps she was cheering him on, though her tone sounded insistent. They were taking so long we began to wonder if they had another nest and were using this one as a decoy. I knew this was absurd thinking, but to us, so desperately hungry, they seemed intentionally slow.
“I don’t think they’ll ever finish,” I sighed.
“They’re outwitting us.” As Fitz spoke he raised his hand unconsciously to whisk the bees from his ears.
We pulled the medium raft up against the Pink Palace so we could climb onto it. Then we dunked in the water so we could keep the bees off us while we paddled away. If we could get even ten yards from the Pink Palace before our skin dried, the bees wouldn’t follow us.
Paddling along our quiet cove, we were surprised by two enormous birds, flapping into the air from the marsh.
“Look at those beauties!” I followed them with my eyes, my stomach not far behind.
“They might have a nest in there!” Fitz exclaimed, turning the raft in the direction of where they’d launched.
“Their eggs would be huge!” I threw my weight behind my paddle.
We maneuvered the medium raft down a narrow channel through the marsh until it could go no farther. Despite our feebleness, we secured the balsa and lowered ourselves into the mucky water. Fitz swam ahead, pulling himself deep into the reeds. He found two nests, but no eggs or young birds. They must have already hatched and flown away.
“Look!” he called out, pointing to a high pile of sticks. “That must be the goose nest!”
Adrenaline pushed me to catch up.
He reached the pile first. “Don’t come,” he said in a barely audible voice. “Just a bunch of dead branches.”
I watched him pull himself back over the logs and through the grasses, swimming when he could, hardly able to raise his arms, kicking his legs to get back to the raft. It was excruciating to see him move so slowly. I felt so completely helpless, as if I were falling down an elevator shaft.
Spots whirled in front of my eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I apologized after he arrived at my side.
“We’re starving, Hol, we need to lie down.” Fitz put his arm around me when we got back to the tent.
When I woke, Fitz was sitting next to me impishly grinning. “Look what I found while you were sleeping.” He handed me the metal can. It was filled to the top with miniature frogs.
I stared at them in disbelief.
“The rain must have brought them out. There’s about thirty in here!” His voice was ecstatic.
I gently embraced him. “Let’s get the grill going.”
Fitz sat beside me on the logs, trying to get comfortable. “After snails and frogs, I can’t wait for some birds’ eggs.”
He placed twigs into the stove and lit them with pages torn from our paperbacks. Soon about a half inch of brown water was bubbling in the frying pan. He dumped the can of frogs into the hot water then covered the pan.
A minute later, I peered into the pan as Fitz held it away from the fire. “Fitz, they’re wonderful.”
Fitz quickly dropped a frog down his throat then pushed the pan closer to me. We alternated until only one was left. I gestured for Fitz to take the last one then we sat together, feeling almost full.
Fitz leaned toward me. “How do you feel now, Hol?” His voice was soft, his brow brooding.
“Much better.” I kissed him on his bearded cheek. “Where’s your mouth under that mustache?”
Fitz pushed his whiskers aside and kissed me.
“Do I taste like frogs?” I asked.
“Umm. Delicious.”
MARCH 15
Twenty-fifth day trapped
“Fitz, come see,” I whispered, peering out of the tent at four big birds that had appeared in the swamp.
Neither of us had ever seen anything like them before. The largest bird was brown and yellow, with long, thin legs that she used to scamper across the disklike lily pads. Her three young were almost her size but were light tan in color. They teetered awkwardly, still learning to use their long, slender toes to balance.
They were su
ch fun to watch that I almost forgot how good it would be to eat one. I inched silently out of the tent and sat on the raft to get a better view. The birds were only five feet away, but they ignored me, intent on pecking at minuscule bugs that I couldn’t see on the lily pads. I asked Fitz if a slingshot would hit one of them, but he said it would take a lot of practice, and besides, we didn’t have any stones. Soon the bird family pecked their way across the lily pads and around the bend, beyond our sight.
We’d slept all morning. Fitz complained of feeling very faint. Fortunately, I was doing better, so I went out to look for food. By the time I’d crawled onto the medium raft, Fitz was right behind me, assuring me that he felt well enough to help.
I found two dozen smooth black berries. We didn’t wait to test them. They were mouthwatering. The clunky raft kept getting caught on vegetation waving in the murky swamp.
“This marsh is so beautiful now that spring is coming,” I whispered, glancing at the green and yellow reeds against a backdrop of black branches in the marsh, and a brilliant blue sky above. I felt as if I were out of my body, detached from the young woman who was starving to death. A huge sun-yellow frog lay in the water in the reeds, staring right at me, at least five inches around. Fitz tried to net it but it jumped backward and got away.
“Tiny frogs!” Fitz yelped. “This is where I found them yesterday.”
I leaned beyond the little raft toward a frog and plucked it from the swamp. Dozens of them were floating in the sun-drenched water, their spindly legs stretched out behind them. I grabbed any within my reach. Fitz did the same. We plopped them in the can and quickly covered it. My heart jumped at the thrill of filling the can.
“Forty-six frogs and one snail with a shell. It’s the best catch so far.” My heart was pounding as I looked over at Fitz.
He was still searching the water with fast-moving eyes. He relaxed and sat back as I spoke. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he kissed the nape of my neck.
“This is like the Garden of Eden. Food is springing up everywhere.”
“Well, almost,” Fitz cautioned.
We were always in sight of the Pink Palace, but now she seemed so far away as we tried to paddle back to her. I looked back at Fitz. He was having trouble, too. The sun bore down on us with such ferocity that it seemed like a personal attack. Sweat spilled down my back. I guzzled water then tried again.
Along the tree line I spotted a small fruit that looked like a cherry tomato. When Fitz reached for it, his shaking hand fell to his side. We waited for a minute, not saying anything. Then he reached again, pulled the fruit off the branch. The inside was brown. “Too risky,” I concluded, dropping it into the water.
“We’ve got a great dinner coming up,” Fitz said, sounding lighter than his slumped body showed. “Can’t wait to put the fire on.”
I plopped my paddle into the water, straining to push it forward. I envisioned filling my concave belly, if we could just make it to the raft.
—
After supper, as dusk descended and the mosquitoes made their appearance, we crawled into the tent.
“This was a good day,” Fitz said, trying to hold up his head, his skeletal arms and legs slightly trembling as he eased down on the sleeping bag.
“Yes. Twenty-three baby frogs each. A feast!”
We were actually weaker than we had been before, as if the energy spent to find food exceeded the nutritional gain. I lay next to him as I pulled the snapshots of Zelda and Liza from the camera bag. The photos were worn and water-stained, but I could still see their little faces with the flashlight. I pressed the photos against my chest then shifted onto my side to put them back in the camera bag for safe-keeping. When I turned to face Fitz he kissed me.
“I’m so lucky to have you, Monkey-face.”
“I’m so lucky to have you, too, Jerry Julep. Good night,” I whispered, touching his sunken cheek.
Chapter 39
Chasing the Monkey
MARCH 16
The twenty-sixth day
During the night I awoke to high-pitched, angry shrieks roaring back and forth. They seemed closer than ever. “Fitz,” I whispered, but he was in a deep sleep. My muscles were taut rubber bands, ready to snap. For several minutes I didn’t move, waiting, open-eyed in the dark.
After the screeches ceased, I didn’t hear anything beyond Fitz’s short, hard breaths. Then they stopped. “Fitz!” I listened to his chest. “Fitz!” I poked him.
He groaned and turned onto his side.
It was just a matter of time before animals found us. I was amazed they hadn’t already. A loud splash outside the tent made my heart stop. I lay rigid, trying to picture my hand sinking into Zelda’s thick ruff, warm and soft.
—
The bees again. Their thumping against the tent woke me in the morning. Parrots prattled like people, making me feel more alone than ever. I put my hand on Fitz’s shoulder for assurance then began to trace his cheek with my fingers, feeling the bones beneath his beard, his jutting jaw. My love. Since we’d been trapped, I’d wondered every night if we’d wake up in the morning.
Fitz was so still. So quiet. I listened for his breathing. I couldn’t hear it.
“Please, Fitz, wake up.” I nudged him.
He didn’t stir.
“Fitz!” I said, frightened. I shook him. His arm fell limp across his chest. My heart raced. Was he going to die in my arms? Was he already dead? I took in a deep breath. The Pink Palace felt like a double coffin. If we had to die, I wanted to go first.
“Fitz!” My voice was shaking. “We’re going to make it out of here. I just know it.” I kissed him. I didn’t know at all.
He stirred, opening his blue eyes, grayed over, cloudy windows to a body consuming itself. “Hi,” he whispered.
“Thank heavens!” I kissed him again. I wanted to squeeze him, but it would be too painful. Our rice-paper-thin skin hung over our bones with no layer of fat. I placed my hand gently on his ribs.
“I love you!”
He kissed my hair but said nothing.
I guessed it was around nine o’clock, but the heat and humidity inside the plastic were skyrocketing. I was sure it was 100 degrees. Our perspiration pooled onto the synthetic sleeping bag.
I fanned Fitz with the small parrot fan. It did nothing but move the stagnant air around.
“It’s brutal, Fitz. I’ve got to open the flap.”
His body stiffened but he nodded.
It took a few minutes to haul myself to my knees then push the netting aside and open the tent flap. A light breeze soothed us for barely a second before the bees invaded. The two hornets hovered at my face then flew to the tent peak to continue their mud construction.
I froze, waiting for the bees to land. Hundreds swarmed to Fitz’s legs and arms, up his shorts, into his shirt sleeves. He lay motionless as they settled.
Sweat poured from my forehead and burned my eyes. Bees crawled over my cheeks to my eyelids and stung me as I inched back to the sleeping bag. “I’ve got to get in the water,” I whimpered, turning toward the tent opening again.
The bees hovered above me as I immersed myself in the channel, clinging to the side of the raft, letting my legs float behind me. For these few moments of cool weightlessness I felt human again. My foot banged against something. I held my breath but nothing moved around me. Just a branch? Slithery bodies brushed my legs.
I tried to pull myself onto the Pink Palace but couldn’t get a grip; I was even weaker than I’d been yesterday. A soft hum in the distance caught my ear. I looked up: a black dot in the sky was heading toward me, growing to glistening silver. “Fitz! It’s a plane!” Leaning on the raft with my left arm, I tried to force my right arm up to wave but it refused to work.
The plane flew fifty yards to the right of me. I continued trying to wave until it disappeared. A few minutes later, two more planes flew overhead, one after another. My heart soared again. We hadn’t seen a plane in weeks. Now three planes in one morning!
This must be a sign.
I watched them bounce away over the trees, listening for them to circle back. They didn’t.
In my heart I knew no one was looking for us. No one was coming. I hauled myself onto the raft and crept back to the tent, feeling more sorrow than I ever knew existed.
Fitz’s eyes were closed. The bees covered his entire body, even his flaking lips.
“Fitz, I just saw three planes. They might…” I faltered, looking through the bees for my husband. I waved at them, they rose, and I took Fitz’s hand.
He opened his eyes and gave me a wan smile. “I don’t feel too well,” he said.
“What hurts, Fitz?”
“I feel so weak, don’t know if I can get up.”
I tried to keep my voice steady, trying not to think of how strong he’d always been. “You need water, Fitz.” Reaching for the canteen, I put it to his lips, carefully supporting his head. He sipped until he’d drunk it all.
“That helps,” he mumbled, turning his face toward me. I had a second container by my side. He took a few sips from that bottle then grimaced.
“Pretend it’s a cold beer,” I urged, keeping it at his mouth.
Shaking his head, he finished off the bottle then closed his eyes and let his head fall back on my arm. His skin was gray.
“Fitz,” I pleaded. “We’ve come this far…”
I felt tears. They trickled down onto my cheek then fell onto his, disappearing into his beard. I gripped his hand, as if that could keep me from losing him. Hand in hand, I remembered, we had often run downhill at Squantz Pond near our rental cottage, with Zelda zigzagging back and forth at our sides. We ran through grass, later through snow, laughing, falling, embracing. Zelda barking for us to get up.
The memory strengthened me. It seemed to generate a kind of clarity, as if a dense fog had lifted to reveal mountains I’d never known were there.
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