by Holly Hook
The sun grows higher in the sky and passes noon as I continue along the river. The huge pines start to thin once I get down another two hills. I'm heading into a different area now. My stomach growls again, but at least the pain is gone. I'm not throwing up yet.
I search the trees to see what's changing, to see if there's any other lumber that might be useful. There are still huge boulders down this way and the ground's rising again on either side as if I'm walking into a shallow canyon of dirt. The boulders start getting farther apart and I pass a few pine saplings. The trees get shorter. They must be new invaders in this area. I'm leaving the coniferous forest behind.
But now that I'm down to a lower elevation, I catch a glimpse of some bushes with wide, flat leaves growing from the dirt. There's some more of those burnberries, too, but there are also new shrubs with huge leaves and clusters of whitish berries hanging from their branches. I might try those if I get brave. They could be edible or they could be even worse than the burnberries.
I spot my first regular tree once I approach the bottom of my third hill, rising above the small pines like it's welcoming me to a new realm. It looks like a tall, majestic oak with huge branches overspreading the smaller trees like a protective mother. It forms a giant green canopy. I'm crossing into a new area, all right. Another tall oak tree—it must not really be oak—towers over another tiny cliff. I try to stand on my toes to look over the wall of dirt that's keeping me between the river and the rest of the world. The ground's becoming more earthy here rather than rocky. Maybe I'm heading into some kind of flatter area. That might be good or that might be bad. If I can't find any more of those giant boulders, I might not be able to find a good shelter for the night.
I turn and check the huge cliffs behind me. No sign of anyone. I can't stop. That person could be climbing down the cliffs and might even be to the river by now.
Something that looks like a squirrel scurries away from the water and past me, dropping a twig. It darts up the dirt wall and vanishes. I blink. The squirrel has a bright red stripe down its back, one that might be pink in the light. Are all of the animals here bright and cool? Even the rabbit-dog that I've left at the first shelter had some cool magenta spots. I almost want to see more of them. The nice ones, that is.
I keep going. The oak trees grow thicker and the pines vanish. The river's cutting through earthy hills now, and some of them are short enough for me to climb over if I need to. Instead of the pine needles for a floor, this forest seems to have actual grass, a lot like that valley. There's different plants here. More of the shrubs with the white berries hug the tops of these hills, keeping the soil from toppling down on me. I really should get out of here. I don't want to have the low ground in case Larconi and Roger come this way. Or worse.
There's another boulder not far from me, right on top of another hill. I start to walk past it when I notice something strange.
There's a thick, but faint, purple line on it.
No. An arrow.
Someone's painted a purple arrow on this boulder that's pointing right into the forest.
The paint's very faded like it's suffered from years of weathering. I might have easily missed it. I stop. It's not my imagination. This is man-made.
There are other people out here after all. Or were. There's a reason this arrow is here.
My heart pounds with excitement. Maybe it's pointing to a safe house or a settlement or something. Maybe it's pointing to help or someone who can help me get my friends back. It might even be a signpost to a gateway, a gateway where I can get back to Earth.
Or it could be a trap.
What other options do you have? Shawn sounds really serious now.
I have to go for it, whatever it is.
I find an incline that's low enough for me to climb out of. My shoes dig into the dirt as I struggle up the hill and onto the grass. The arrow continues to point me into the forest.
I search around. No one. I walk through the thick grass. Whatever it's pointing to must still be distant.
It's warmer here than it was in the hills. It must be summer here, because the heat makes sweat gather at the back of my neck. I wish I had something to pull my hair up with. I just wish I had a comb. I rake my fingers through my mane. There's s knot on the right side of my head that's only going to get worse until I find a way to get it out. If I don't find a way to comb my hair soon, I'm going to look like a cave girl.
I pretty much am.
Right now, at least. I look down at my jeans. I haven't bathed since I got here and I know I'm going to have to take a plunge into the river soon. I don't want to stink even with no one else around. I have to maintain some sense of dignity.
The trees form a huge green canopy over my head. The trees aren't that close together, but they're so gigantic that they could each be an umbrella to a whole city street. The grass here is even greener than the stuff back in that valley. Beams of sunlight pour down through the openings in the emerald roof. I look back to make sure I'm not straying too far from the river. The ground dips there as if some heavy snake has made an indent in it. I can't go far. I just need to check the area out to see what I'm dealing with.
There's another huge tree ahead. They're so big someone could carve a small house inside their trunks. Butterflies flutter around in the shade, so thick at times that they form clouds. One flutters past my face. It's brown with gorgeous blue spots that shine in the light. This place is magical, almost. It's straight out of a fantasy story.
I wonder if there's anything to eat here. More of the bushes with white berries grow up beside the trees, but that's all. I can't hunt down one of those squirrels—can I? They wouldn't provide much meat, but neither did the fish. I'm already starving again. My body has taken every calorie it can out of what I did eat. I can always catch more, but it won't do me much good until I can find a way to cook them.
“Hello?” I call.
Of course, I get no response.
“Hello?”
The butterflies continue to flutter around. One lands on the trunk of a nearby giant tree. There's still no sign of civilization.
I get closer. There are vines growing down it.
They form a ropy green curtain in front of the trunk. That might be useful. Maybe I can make some kind of fishing line or net after all, or find a way to tie something with them.
I grab one. It's about half an inch thick, enough to be used as a rope if I needed it. There might not be any more of these downstream. I'll cut these and stuff some in my backpack for now. It's not like it's going to get much worse inside after the river.
I still have the pointed rock. I take it out. It's shaped like a blade. I wonder if anyone's actually shaped this rock this way. I can hope.
I cut at the vine. At first, it refuses to slice through, but then there's a ripping sound and the vine comes apart in green fibers. I yank off a length of it and curl it up, then another.
A lone butterfly lands next to me, on one of the vines as if it's upset that I'm cutting them away. The blue stripes on it look like a happy face.
I like it. Except for the fact that I'm still hungry.
I turn and catch a glimpse of yellow and red.
I jump. It's a Dweller, over by a small outcrop of rock.
A Dweller. In the daytime. They're not supposed to be out.
But this one is lying down on the ground, unmoving. There's two more next to it. They're limp in the ray of sun, unshielded by the shade from the giant trees. Why are they lying out there in the daytime?
They must be dead.
I can hope.
Then I spot the rock itself that they're lying next to.
Bright orange splotches cover it like splatters of paint. It's that same stuff I saw in that mine cart while I was making my escape and the same stuff that dotted those cliffs back in that mountain valley. The Dwellers next to it are dead. That alone makes it worth checking out.
I check the premises to make sure nothing's coming at me. There are no hol
es in the ground nearby. There must be some, somewhere. I must be miles from the mine now. Or maybe they're from a different colony of Dwellers or something.
I walk over to the orange stuff. Now that I'm closer, I realize that it's sparkling in the sun, like sand would on a beach. But this stuff looks like it has the consistency of clay. It's weird. I've never seen anything like it.
I rub my hand across it. Reddish dust falls to the ground like glitter. It's also...warm. Warmer than I'd expect from it just sitting in the sun.
There's something significant about this stuff, after all. I stare at the Dwellers on the ground. They're face down, so I can only make out the outlines of their sickening eyes. No nausea sweeps over me. Something killed them, and this stuff just might be it. I lean down to look at the closest one.
Residue.
There's orange, sparkling residue on the little clawed hands of the first Dweller. It was grabbing at this stuff right before it died. Maybe this is toxic to Dwellers like those burnberries were toxic to me. Or maybe they just got caught out in the sun and the light shocked them to death. Either way, this orange stuff might be useful.
Take it, Shawn says in my mind. Take it. Take as much as you can.
I rub at the stuff again. More dust comes down, but there's no burn. I don't feel like my lungs are closing or anything. It seems to be harmless to me.
I take the pointed rock out of my pocket. I'll chip off some pieces.
I scrape at the orange deposit again. It flakes easily and rains down on the ground next to the dead Dwellers, forming a small pile. I scoop it up in my hands. I can't believe all the sparkling. Is this some kind of valuable ore? But why was there some of it in the mine cart underground if it hurts Dwellers? Maybe they need humans to mine it for them for some reason.
The Dwellers must be attracted to it, then. These dead ones were grabbing for it when the sun came up and caught them off guard. That means I can make a trap, or something, or lead them away from me when night falls. It might give me a better chance.
I jab at it again with the flint, harder this time. The stuff's like hardened mud.
And then, the orange stone sparks.
I jump back. Smoke rises from the deposit and vanishes into the air. A butterfly flutters away from it.
This stuff sparks.
Crazy hope rises inside me. “Come on,” I say. I scrape at it again, jabbing with the rock.
Another spark.
And a small flame. It dies as fast as it came, but it was there.
“Yes!” I say. Maybe it's like coal or something and it's a good fuel source. I touch the stuff again. It's still warm. There's some kind of energy inside it waiting for release. I realize the implications of this.
I can start a fire now.
I can cook.
No more raw fish and no more raw food.
I go to work chipping, keeping an eye on the sun overhead. The stuff continues to rain down at my feet in shards and slivers. Sparks fly. Tiny fires start and die. Once, I burn my fingers, but I shake them out and keep going. It'll be worth it. I can do this. I have something that might keep me safe at night now and keep me alive long enough to find out where that arrow points to. I have to get as much of this stuff as I can.
At last, there's a small pile of glittering orange at my feet. I set my backpack down and scoop up as much of it in as I can. It's not very heavy. It might have the weight of the lava rocks that Garrett brought home to grill with one day. It sparkles bright as ever in the sun, a testament to whatever power this stuff holds. If I can strike it and make a spark in a pile of timber, that might be enough for getting a fire going.
My stomach rumbles again, worse than ever. It's done with the raw fish. I need something else. I can't live on one small meal a day.
I search the ground for any sticks. Any timber that's dry.
And in this forest, there's plenty.
It looks like sticks have been raining from the trees all over here. There's armies of twigs in the tall grass. I stoop over and gather as many as I can, until I have an armload. At last, I've gathered an I head back down towards the river, backpack sagging. I don't care if I have to lug this orange stuff around. I've done worse, carrying my lit book in here.
I find the same dip in the ground that leads back to the water. The faint arrow in the boulder still points me in the opposite direction, urging me farther into the forest. It might be old. Ancient, even. I'll head that way once I'm done eating. And once I head into the woods, I'll be much harder to spot from farther away. Anyone standing on cliffs won't be able to find me once I vanish into the trees. How close is the man on the cliff? He must be heading down the river, too. I check up the banks to see no sign of him or anything else. He must still be miles away.
And he might see the smoke from my cooking unless these huge trees block it from his view. I have to risk it if I'm going to go on much farther. And the riverbank is the only place clear enough of plants to start the fire.
I set the sticks down in a pile on the gravel, far way from the dirt wall that keeps the water enclosed. I don't want to set any of these huge trees on fire. They're too cool. Not all of this place is bad and I don't want to ruin it.
“Okay,” I say. I need to get the fire going.
I set the sticks in a pile, gathering them close. These are different from the crappy branch I had the night before. These are quite dry. I grab a piece of the orange stone out of my backpack and set it down in the middle of the timber. This has to work. I can't live on raw fish forever. My head swims again and a huge headache is starting between my temples. I've barely eaten anything in the past forty-eight hours, if this world even has hours.
I take the flint and swing it down on the stone.
A set of sparks go up. Smoke rises, then dies again.
“Come on!” I strike again.
The sparks are more intense this time and a small flame erupts from the stone. I turn the stone over with a stick so the flame contacts the timber.
And then, more smoke.
It rises in my face like some kind of gray specter. I cough and back away. More smoke rises from the pile and a small flame bursts to life. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Chapter Six
Second Night
I watch as the orange glow spreads through my pile of sticks. It grows brighter, flickering and hungry. I glance at the sun. It's late afternoon now. I have to catch more fish and work fast. At least I'll have a way to start another fire if this goes out. It wasn't too difficult.
I take my backpack and dump out all the stone. I've gathered maybe a few dozen pieces. That'll last me a while, if I don't find whatever this arrow points to first. It sparkles on the gravel shore and I turn back to the river. I have to fish again. Maybe the fire will burn brighter on its own while I'm doing that.
Then I have to figure out how to cook them.
One thing at a time. Just one thing at a time.
I head out to the middle of the river. It's shallow here. I dip the backpack into the water. Wait. I glance up the river, up the hills and back to the canyon in the mountains. It's foggy from here, hazy almost. I've come such a long way and the water once again feels good on my bare feet.
After about a half hour wait, I manage to snag two more fish and dump them off on the shore. The fire's gone out now. I might need something dry like dead grass to really get a good one going. That's no big deal. I take the two fish and set them down under a pair of rocks. That will, at least, protect them from being taken by birds. One's still struggling to breathe, but I smash its head in with one of the rocks and end its misery. I don't even feel any guilt about it now. I'm killing because I have to, not because it's fun.
I climb back up into the canopy forest and back into the magical green atmosphere. There's dead grass and shrubs near the river, right under one of those bushes with the milky berries. I grab several handfuls and return to my fire. I take out a stick and set the grass down on the pile. The single orange stone is
still there, blackened around the edge by the small fire it managed to create.
I strike it again and more sparks fly. Another flame rises. Hitting it hard must be the key.
And this time, the flame fully catches.
A small fire rises from the grass and spreads to the sticks around it. I add more, making the flame higher. Heat blasts against my face and the air above it wavers. I let out a victory cry. I've moved up to the stone age. I feel like a person again.
Now to cook the fish.
I search around for a long stick that I can spear them with. I find one and use the flint to turn it into a point. I lift up the rocks and take the fish, wash them off in the river, and bring them back to shore. The dirt's gone, at least.
Spearing the first fish is a bit tricky at first, and very gross. But at last, I get it dangling from the stick, impaled all the way through. I hold it over the fire like I'm roasting a line of marshmallows or a hot dog. We did that at summer camp and it's one of the things I didn't fail. It's one of the things that didn't frighten me and one of the things that got my mind off whatever was going on at home at the time.
How long do I cook the fish for?
I sit next to the fire, turning the fish over the flame to cook it evenly. At last, the aroma makes my mouth water. The fish sizzles and a whitish substance comes out. Fat? I'm not sure, but I don't care what it is. I'm going to have a warm meal. It'll give me a better chance of surviving this second night.
I set the first fish down on the rock next to me and go to cook the other.
I spend about ten minutes turning it over the fire. I should douse this when I'm done and destroy all evidence of it. If the Flamestone Society comes this way, it's bad enough that this arrow is here. They may or may not see it, but the remnants of a fire is unmistakable. At least Dwellers won't come close to the fire. It'll be too bright for them. Maybe I can sit here for the night.
No. I don't like the thought of staying out here, putting my back to total darkness. And I still don't know what made that screaming noise last night.
“You have to hide, Elaine,” I tell myself, setting the second fish on the rock. I go to work scraping off the scales. They slide off easily this time, leaving the opaque white meat of the fish exposed.