Nightwalker

by Ime Atakpa

  The lodge stares at me, it’s dark outer wall challenging me to knock. I look up at the second floor at the only road-facing window. During prior visits, I stayed in that very room, comforted by Rinaldo and his wife. If all goes well, I’ll find comfort there once more.

  I reach out to give a rap at the door. My weight falls against it in three distinct beats, and my mind immediately prepares a thousand scenarios wherein no one answers. And then I wait.

  And continue waiting.

  And wait hopelessly.

  It can’t be long after seven; I grapple with the possibility that Rinaldo has yet to stir from sleep. The thought irks me. For all my hopes that at last I’d discovered a bastion, it reveals itself to be hollow.

  Oh, but this shall not be the end to my journey home. I return across the street into the protection of the woods, now near fully illuminated by the sun. Within the hour, I know with certainty that light traffic begins passing through this area, and should I wait for those bursts of cars to come along, I may find myself a generous benefactor to conduct me home. Peace again falls upon my mind. I trust in the benevolence of man to reach out to his downtrodden fellow.

  -II-

  The Road Untrodden

  I gesture at the six-wheeled behemoth of a truck roaring down the poorly maintained road. It’s large and intimidating and the only vehicle to pass through the road in the last thirty minutes. I nearly fling myself in the midst of its path, weighing the odds of my collision with the vehicle against those of a successful rescue. The driver, a woman in her late 20s, doesn’t so much as offer a glance in my direction as she speeds down the incline out of sight. She makes five. I can pardon the first two for passing while I stood largely obscured by the thicket. As for all the rest, their apathy goes unforgiven.

  By now, the sun completely overturns the night and the possibility of my most promising benefactors welcoming me into their home stands stronger than ever. Indeed, warm lodging may not be far off. But before I take even one step forward, an adventurous impulse intrudes on my better senses. It reminds me of my first sighting of these bright red trees and the way they cast the sunlight.

  An old remedy taught to my mother by her own mother was to spend a night in a foreign place. Cutting oneself off from society and wildlife and familiar distractions somehow counteracted the night walks. Anywhere but the familiar. Grandmother considered these too “tainted by men’s intervention” and refused, long after her final night walk, to ever visit them. This explanation came courtesy of my mother as I never had the privilege of an acquaintance with my grandmother.

  Many other relics of wisdom were passed down along our line, each fortifying our toolset against this curse. From my mother’s own tongue: “your maw never woke up somewhere strange if she went to sleep somewhere unfamiliar.” Grandmother believed the body only traveled places it felt comfortable, but if it didn’t know where it was, it wouldn’t know where to go. She must have still had episodes, I’m sure, though they’d have been significantly safer. Grandmother pioneered the remedy and my own mother followed in those footsteps; for years, their experiments in isolation validated the remedy.

  Years ago, Mother conducted whatever rituals might stay me from my night walks, and for a while she devoted herself endlessly to her battle to keep me safe from the curse. Whenever my homeschooling concluded, she would drive me blindfolded to some faraway place. When the environment permitted it, we would set up a campsite and live frugally for however long we could bear being away from home and from Father (it only now dawns on me how much loneliness he must have endured in our absence).

  On these long journeys, I learned a little regarding the art of survival. Dire circumstances frequently emerged, unwilling to see us spend our time peacefully. We endured the worst of it, but each tale of triumph gave compliment to one of dearth. It seemed that everything Father had tried to teach me, under Mother’s instruction, stuck more easily—though I must admit, not nearly enough to prepare me for today). Me and her were alike in ways me and Father never could be. It all felt significantly more real with her.

  On one such trip, Mother believed the premature expenditure of our rations to be the work of a small, hungry animal. Even at the time, it seemed to me a fantastical excuse for a simple truth. Namely, that the wild spirit of negligence prompted she not adequately prepare our stock. I had been fourteen then, battling my way through unreasonable angst, and had half a mind to confront her on the matter. I thought better of it, all the good a conflict would bring. I quieted myself and conceded the formulation of a solution to her adult intellect. Was there to be any method by which we would survive, it rested in the sharpness of her wit.

  The circumstances underlying our situation were conspicuous at best but the loss kept us frugal and the vegetation kept us alive. Berries and mushrooms were scarce, and though we could very well have packed our things and returned home, Mother demanded we rough out the results of our—by which I’m sure she meant her own—negligence. So we did, and throughout the tumult of the days that followed, I never experienced a night walking episode. I may have been too focused on survival for my affliction to have taken root during that adventure of ours, or the truthfulness of my mother’s claim may have been proven then. If that in itself wasn’t rewarding, I had the benefit of waking to the sky’s morning hues scratching the bark of redwood trees and admiring how beautiful foreign places could be when one arrives at them of their own volition.

  When the pall of reminiscence dies away, I find myself embroiled in a frivolous chore. The long road stretches for miles, and I’m not entirely willing to make the journey home on foot. I may yet have a chance at Rinaldo answering the door. But what would Mother say? She’d admonish me for choosing the easy route over the seldom-beaten path. My journey home stands as another crucible, one I’ll look back on with fondness and admiration. Like those many nights spent with Mother in the wilderness, I can endure the hardships of this strange awakening. That success means nothing should I lean on the shoulders of others. I proceed along the road home, and the lodge shrinks beneath the horizon. I brave the temperate road.

  Some miles along, a foul stench slowly fills my nostrils. It reeks of blood, sundried flesh, and natural waste, and immediately the object to which the stench belongs dawns on me. Carried forward by my eagerness to bypass the odor’s source, I move headlong into the thick of it. Curiosity takes hold of me though, and I crane to spy the carcass firsthand. A short way forward, I pause on another scent, more mild than the first. It coalesces with the stench of rot, mixed in like an unnatural accent. This only augments my wonder.

  What organic body gives off such conflicting odors, both natural and synthetic?

  Aromatics aside, I wonder at the dangers I might encounter upon reaching my destination. I’ve often watched from the comfort of a moving vehicle as vultures picked at the entrails of roadside animals, but I’ve never thought to observe the feast up close. While my interest in examining this event is undoubtedly high, I must also wonder at the aggression of vultures, crows, and the like. What acts might they employ to preserve the glut of their meat? Would they flee or fight me off? Inquisitiveness drives me to greater speed.

  The first sliver appears many meters down the road, still unidentifiable. Road kill. I think back to the woman in the truck. A machine so colossal must exert tremendous force on the objects beneath it, particularly those with softer bodies.

  Intrigue fills me twice over, persuading my haste toward the unmoving object, and I spot the poor creature splayed flat against the concrete like an organic snowflake, its inner parts mashed together and painted onto the roadside with such harrowing beauty that its appearance there must be deliberate. I lower myself to more closely inspect the dead thing. The heavy odor of its rot rushes me in waves. The creature seems to look up at me in all its macabre beauty. Feathers blue, green, purple, and every hue between are arranged kaleidoscopically, lustering beneath the sun. What a cruel irony that death invites this passive beauty, the sp
lintered shades reformed and repurposed to fit my eyes and feed my mind these quiet, exceptional thoughts.

  Even on all the expeditions with Mother, I’d never stumbled upon a carcass up close, let alone one so brutally handled. Save the one circumstance, she took great care in preparing enough food to circumvent any necessity to hunt. Mother isn’t a poor shot with a rifle or pistol and proved as much, according to Father, on their rare hunting trips. When they brought back the spoils of those expeditions, they delegated me to my room to shield me from the carnage of dressing the kill for supper.

  It is strange that, given my inexperience handling gory subjects, I feel no apprehension or disgust at this. To have lived is a gift in itself; to die beautiful, a gift greater still. There’s room aplenty for envy.

  Keeping the image of the hummingbird soldered to me, I return adamantly to the road, thanking fortune for keeping me safe along the homeward path.

  -III-

  Homecoming

  When the pinch of exhaustion stings the flesh, only the brave or foolhardy would continue their journey. However, I felt none of this fatigue come upon me throughout my long trip home, not even during the final slog up the front steps. All of these symptoms are quite peculiar and worthy of investigation, but I’m content with explaining away my condition as the effect of a lengthy journey. I lost myself in thought, or in the absence of it, only now coming to my senses.

  In the driveway behind me, Mother’s sedan hums quietly; ahead, the front door is wide open, propped by the weight of a small cement block.

  I take in the smell of fresh produce and the sounds of my parents’ hushed words.

  “What time is it?” Mother asks Father. He sits cross-legged at a barstool overlooking the kitchen. Both his hands rest flatly on the warmed marble countertop which captures the vague reflection of his visage. Rays of light slip through the living room blinds and stretch into the kitchen, striping his arm with bright bands. A sharp reflection bounces from the surface of his watch, powerful enough that even he is taken aback by the luminescence.

  Father’s face scrunches. “It’s almost noon.”

  “He’s usually back by now.” Mother drops bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. Though Father had been watching her all along, it’s the sound of food against the counter that draws him from his daze.

  “Oh, I’ll get those.”

  Mother whispers a thank you and turns back to retrieve the rest of the groceries. She comes into view and begins walking toward the foyer. I start up to greet her but pause. Her eyes are little glass beads, unfeeling and unmoving as she trudges down the foyer, happens past me, and returns outside to fetch the remainder of the groceries. On her way back in, her composure never changes and her eyes refuse to cast me a glance. “I just hope he gets back soon,” she calls across the house. Father expresses his agreement over the sound of his putting away the food.

  I’m frozen where I stand, utterly confused. At a loss for words if ever I had words to speak. I try to reconcile her seeming indifference toward my presence here with fatigue, a sensory lapse, or any other unlikely explanation my mind can conjure.

  “Mother,” I call to her, my voice a muted screech. She continues about her business putting away the groceries. Of all people, to have her ignore me—I’m torn. I make haste into the kitchen where Father helps her put away the remaining groceries. Mother leaves packages of thawed meant in the sink. Then she leans against it.

  Father smiles at her. “He’s probably enjoying the outdoors. Beautiful morning. It’s summer anyways. What else does he have to do?” Mother seems unconvinced. She stares blankly at the ceiling. I, for one, am certainly unconvinced that the two of them could honestly remain so oblivious to my presence here.

  “Father!” I scream another muted noise. No reaction. They must have conspired at the hour of my disappearance to orchestrate this ruse, and while their performances leave little to be asked for, I’d much prefer they drop the façade.

  “Is his phone still in his room?” Mother asks, dropping her head on its side.

  “Far as I know, yeah.” It cannot be mistaken that he looks over in my direction as he says so.

  “Can you double check?” Mother’s wistful expression suggests some authenticity of her concern for me though Father plays a less concerned role. He smiles tenderly at her, inches forward, and places his hands on her waist.

  “He’ll be alright.”

  I move forward. Of course I’ll be alright. I’m right here.

  “A mother can feel these things.” She smiles sheepishly.

  Intuition is unnecessary. I’m right here. Tact having failed thus far, I go about causing a great ruckus. I slam my hands into the cabinets and my fists onto the countertop. This elicits no reaction from either of them. My rage builds; I circle around Father and kick the chair adjacent to him. It topples over, slowly, and hits the ground with a dull thud. They both look to it.

  Father shrugs. “Oops.” Mother looks away. Neither gives the disturbance a second thought. Their conversation continues, unaffected by my workings.

  “Please, can you check?”

  Father’s smile turns briefly but he catches himself and widens it, placing a heavy kiss on her forehead followed by two more, light and gentle. “Alright.” With that, he departs, Mother still unmoving and unmoved. Her eyes narrow intimately, gazing into the depths of a space not unknown to me. Absorption into this fiction has made her into a marvelous zombie, consumed by the emotions endemic to one who has legitimately lost one they care for. And the memory that surely churns in her head now supplements that authenticity without question. She wears a distraught and mournful face. It is not one I can easily forget.

  ***

  “Where am I?” I ask, eyelids flittering to life. Light filters through a lampshade. Indeterminate shadows gather around me with all the vigor of a procession of mourners hovering over a casket. A foul winter this has been, ferrying me to this place and that, leaving me cold and alone across the expanse of this state. And all of it has led me here, straight into the arms of unknown captors hoping to do who-knows-what with me. Given my weakness, which I easily recognize as a lingering effect of my night walk, I am in no position to gamble with the benevolence of these people. I can, however, bide my time until an opportunity for escape presents itself. This second possibility, I put little stock in; for the way the shadows gather around me, I cannot fathom that they’ll soon remove me from their surveillance. In the time between now and that potential escape, I’ll do precisely what it is they ask of me. “Never act before you understand your circumstances,” my father would likely tell me now. And proud he’d be to know I’m now taking full heed of his words.

  “We found you outside.” One of the shadows comes into view as a man of middle-age, running a hand through long, thick black hair. His tawny skin appears deep brown in the dim light, and his left eye hides behind the protection of a small patch. “Did you hear me?” he asks. “We found you outside.”

  In no other place could I have been found. I fidget in my captivity.

  “Right on the edge of the woods. I was concerned you might get mistaken for an animal. In the winter, dark as it is, it’s doubtful anyone would have thought twice about running you over.”

  And no reasonable man could mistake his fellow for a lesser animal.

  “Over here,” the man motions to his side, “is my wife. We run this place together.” Now the second shadow comes into view, partially. Hers is a fair face, devoid of the roughness I see in the man. Having been introduced, she’s quick to slip back into the darkness of the room with heavy, mechanical steps.

  Those corners of the room unobstructed by darkness are decorated as any bedroom might be. Lamps adorned with festive ornaments hang on the walls. Dressers, nightstands, and typical bedroom fare occupy the walls and corners, most of them bearing intricate carvings—be they sigils or tapestries, I cannot tell because they soon fall into deeper shadows as the moon makes its retreat behind thick clouds. />
  “Where am I?” I ask again, more clearly than when last I posed the question.

  “Oh, yes,” the man exclaims, turning to his darkness-shrouded wife and smiling, and then turning back to me, palms pressed together. “You’re in a lodge.” He pauses. I soak in his words. “If you’re worried about payment, fear not. Our…” He glances back at his wife. When his attention falls back upon me, so too does his eye upon my chest like a dagger in the night, silent and sharp and deadly. “Yes, my services come to you free of charge.”

  Though I’m appreciative of this gesture, it’s no small comfort when I can’t say for certain exactly where I woke or how far out this lodge is from there, or how I came to feel his gaze so intensely.

  “Where do you live?” he asks.

  The question is a necessary dread. I tell myself for comfort’s sake that most fourteen-year-old boys aren’t privy to such knowledge, particularly when curiously displaced. Self-pity is mine to bear, as I’m incapable of providing the address requested of me. The man sees this in my frantic eyes and smiles tenderly.

  “Alright, then. What’s your name? Can you tell me?”

  “Hubert Thrush.”

  “It’s good meeting you, Hubert.” He offers a comforting smile. I want to smile back but all I can manage is a small twitch and an unintelligible utterance. My consciousness fades.

  I awaken later to a frantic couple, ecstatic that I’ve come back around. “You must be tired,” the man speculates in a tone that sounds more like an order. I take it as such and commit myself to resting until I’m composed enough to return home. The man, Rinaldo, and his wife provide all the basic services to life and much more, checking on my health whenever time permits. And when his wife comes close to me, her mechanical motion gives way to organic smiles and affectionate touches. She lays freshly steeped lavender tea on my bedside table at my next awakening. She smiles and reaches out to touch my face, but never quite comes all the way. I see a tinge of sadness or longing in her eyes. Then she backs away and her humanity fades with her into the darkness. Through all this, the sun never rises, so I remain assured of the briefness with which these lapses of consciousness occur.