It was time; and it should have been time much earlier. I turned from the carnage and started walking away from it, retracing my steps into the forest. I began to jog, my pace soon quickening to a run, and then to a wild sprint, the pain at the bottom of my foot fading from my mind. I would have to beat them to the firepit, I would have to draw them away from it, keep them from ever noticing that it was there - and then, I would lead them as far from this valley as was physically possible, running until I was too exhausted to continue. And when they finally caught up with me, I would lash out like the monster they believed I was - like the monster that we are. I would gnash my teeth, claw at their faces, gouge their skin, and I would do this until they severed the life from my body. That was my plan.
The forest began to thin, and then to thin even more. I sighted the meadow through the trees ahead of me, terrified energy jolting to my legs, and I ran into the wide-open space, searching for the crew, wishing that I wasn't too late. And I wasn't. I could see them moving down the slope from the ridge. They were pointing at me, screaming flustered commands to one another. I'd surprised them.
I felt the grass on my feet, saw the firepit out of the corner of my eye as I passed it, careful not to look in its direction, and headed toward the ridge that was opposite the crew. I started to run up the long slope, and had ascended half of it before looking back. When I did, I sighted their tracks, the darkened lines in the grass where they'd run across the meadow, and I could see that none of them had come close to the firepit. I smiled. I felt reckless, free. I felt like I'd won. I screamed out, goading them, laughing. But they weren't paying attention. They were concentrating on closing the gap between us.
As I climbed higher, the grass thinned, and the rocks became more exposed, sharper. I had to focus on where I was stepping, unable anymore to look back, to know how far they were. Though, I could hear them behind me, scrambling through the rocks as well.
I was almost on the ridge when I stumbled for a moment, and as I was getting back to my feet, I picked up a fat stone and flung it over my shoulder, listening to them holler as they scattered out of the way - their voices nearer, always nearer. They were gaining on me more rapidly than I would have given them credit for, and I bent myself on running faster, gouging my feet with each stride, determined to lead them deep into another valley before they could catch me.
I crossed over a saddle and started down the other side, moving fast. But the new slope was filled with giant boulders, and was surprisingly steep. I did my best, sliding along them, over them, between them, scraping my hands along the surfaces of the rocks to slow myself down.
The crew neared. Until it started to sound like they were right on my heels, like they were close enough to throw their spears. And I pushed myself to go even faster, to jump further, to teeter on the edge of losing control. I had no choice.
Then I leapt over a low, massive boulder, and when I tried to land, I faltered, holding onto my balance for just an instant, my hands clawing at the air for something that would keep me there, something that would stop me from falling. Nothing. I watched the slope spin around me, holding out my hands, trying desperately to stop myself from tumbling a second time. But I couldn't. My body kept falling, kept turning. Again. Again.
Time slowed. I remember plummeting down the slope, I remember the odd silences that hung in the air between impacts, but mostly - if this is even possible - I remember thinking nothing. My mind was void of all thought, of all cognizance, it was only my body, twirling uninhibited, almost peacefully, interrupted by instants of complete violence, of pounding against the rocky slope, the quick snapping of bones, and then back into the thick air again, hanging suspended inside of it, quietly, waiting, waiting for the final impact to come, and when it did, everything turned black, and I felt like I'd plunged into nighttime water, suddenly slow and alone in a liquid silence.
* * *
44
It wasn't like waking up. It was like coming to the surface at night through the same heavy water it seemed I'd plunged into. Everything was black except the sounds, which were slowly losing their muffled tones. The monotonous cricketing of insects moved toward me through the dark, gradually becoming crisper, clearer. The next sensation I remember was an unimaginable thirst. I opened my mouth and felt my lips parting as dry as fingers. Then I swallowed, felt my saliva wetting the walls of my throat, spreading life through it, sensation. I tried opening my eyes but had to shut them again, the brightness being unbearable, almost painful. When I'd instinctively tried to cover my face with my hands, I found that I couldn't move them. They were behind my back, and either damaged beyond belief, or simply tied there. So instead, I squinted as hard as I could, carefully letting flickers of light in, slowly adjusting to the intensity, blinking the water from my eyes, until eventually, I could see enough to begin taking a few things in.
I was in a forest, and there were a few boulders amid the trees, which probably meant that it was just below the slope where I'd fallen. The air felt crisp, fresh, and I guessed it was sometime in the morning. I was perched upright, and as best I could tell, bound to a tree. No one else was around.
Naturally, I tried to squirm free of the ropes, but was instantly countered with shots of pain from all over my body. It took me minutes to recover from this; breathing steadily, deeply, until the sharp sensations began to subside. I didn't try moving after that. And I'm sure that, even if I could have untied myself, could've miraculously broken free, there was no way I could walk. The jabs of pain I felt when I tried to move were almost certainly the results of splintered bones grinding against themselves, because even after the pain had gone, I could still feel a disturbing tingling sensation. I looked down at one of my ankles - slowly, my every movement measured - and could see that there was something about it that wasn't quite right, though couldn't exactly tell what. I was surprised that I didn't feel anything strange with the shin of my other leg, as it was also slightly misshapen in some indistinguishable way. There might have been other broken bones as well - I think one of my shoulders, maybe a few of my ribs - but I couldn't be certain.
However, considering the amount of damage that was done, so long as I didn't move, I wasn't in a lot of pain. Of course, there were areas of my body that would sting for a few seconds, but other than that it was mostly all a soothing kind of numbness, a complete lack of sensation merging into patches of my skin that felt awake and intact. For instance, I couldn't feel the leg with the broken shin, nor move it, but I could feel a thread of liquid running down the inside of it, tracing a line through the hairs on my calf.
I began to think about what it must have been like when they first touched my body on the slope, and how unlike the monster, which they were convinced they were chasing, I must have looked. Limp, broken, almost lifeless - rather inadequate as far as monsters go. After having prepared themselves for gnashing teeth and claws, all they came upon was a meagre heap of dead weight. They'd been denied their furious battle, the promise of thrashing weapons, of spurting blood. Which, I realized, wasn't good. Because if they'd felt a lack of gratification, they would have to find a way to compensate for it.
Exactly. Compensation. I understood why I was still alive. It would have been far too anticlimactic to kill an unconscious man, to stick a knife into someone who doesn't react in the slightest way, who doesn't even feel it. Yes, that was the reason I was tied to the tree. It was in the hope that I might become conscious, in the hope that they would still be given an opportunity to play with my life, or with what little capacity I had left to feel pain. And once they'd realized that my body was mostly without sensation, that their blades running slowly across my skin didn't really affect me, they would probably move on to trying to injure my dignity - pissing into my face, shoving disgusting things down my throat. Maybe they even planned on feeding me the dismembered parts of my body. Whatever was going to happen, I could be sure I was going to suffer, that there wouldn't be any mercy. I was going to meet with the most degrading and
agonizing end imaginable.
But, I told myself, I had to remember that I'd come to this end intentionally, that this was all part of the sacrifice I knew I was making. And most of all, I had to remember that in making that sacrifice, I'd actually succeeded in luring them away; albeit a much shorter distance than I'd intended.
Which meant that I might not have succeeded. Anything could happen. Maybe there were recent signs of people in this new valley as well. Or maybe they would climb back over the ridge - for reasons that could be as simple as wanting to find out why I'd been running toward them instead of away, or to return to the sea the same way they'd come, simply thinking it most efficient to retrace their steps - and accidentally stumble upon the firepit. And if not, who knew how long they might live, journeying in search of people.
But I also understood that it was over. This was the end - or at least my end. What happens after our death we have no control over. (Though, not that I had much control over things while I was alive, either - apart from my thoughts.)
My thoughts. I stopped to fully appreciate that for a moment. It was amazing that my brain was even functioning. The impacts against the boulders were enough to break bones, and I'd smashed my head hard enough to be knocked unconscious, yet, the damage wasn't so severe that I couldn't use my mind. In fact, I felt completely coherent. And the more I thought about this, the more I recognized it as a kind of salvation in itself. I wasn't at a total loss, I still had my mind and everything in it - my opinions, beliefs, feelings, attitudes, ideas, and memories - and these were all things that the crew could never degrade or lessen, no matter what they did, no matter how hard they tried.
Yes. I could use my mind. I could rummage through my thoughts, think of the conclusions I'd come to, the experiences I'd had. I looked around again, hoping to find some clue as to where the crew had gone or when they would return, to even get a vague estimate of how much time I would have to do so. I noticed their spears piled on the ground between some trees a little distance away from me, but couldn't figure out what this meant. However, before I even began to guess at it, I stopped myself. There was no real need to know when they would return. I would have as much time as I was given. And that was all.
So I thought. I thought about everything, the things that I'd learned, the people who'd taught me, even the particulars of the landscape that I'd travelled through - everything that was important, which had helped bring me, in one way or another, to this very tree. There were times during the day that I would become so frustrated, so exasperated that I would begin to fidget or squirm, but the pain that I met with when I moved always had an incredibly pacifying effect, and so I've come to make the mistake of shifting less and less.
And now, having recalled my story, I find myself thinking of the other people throughout history who died horrible deaths at the hands of their own kind. Because there were others like me - countless others. I wonder how they might have managed the pain that I'm about to experience. Maybe they'd found a way to completely separate themselves from their bodies, or even from their fear. Actually, come to think of it, I remember seeing a picture in a book where a few extremely disciplined religious men set themselves on fire to prove a point. As is usual, I forget what the point was, but I remember the gruesome picture perfectly. They are sitting cross-legged in the middle of a street, their posture serene, tranquil, and meanwhile, their bodies are burning, their flesh becoming charred as the flames lick their skin and crown their heads. It must have taken a while for them to die, and I imagine their bodies were capable of feeling pain for quite some time, yet they looked as if they were sitting in the middle of a field on a beautiful day, gently drawing air into their lungs. What kind of discipline is required for that? I can't even guess, but I can be sure that I don't have it. As much as I admire those people throughout history, which have attained such an exceptional level of peace that they could entrance themselves into nullity, I realize that, not only am I incapable of it now, I don't think I ever would be.
Yet why? Why is it that peace is something so difficult to achieve? I think of the few times I've experienced something close to it, and realize that it's never been a distinct feeling or insight. I don't really know what it was, but I know that it was there, beneath the surface. Which I think is an accurate description, because I've often had the suspicion that peace was an entity imbedded inside of things, that it was within the overwhelming complexities of nature; in the atoms of chemicals and the structures of plants, in the pulsing of creatures' organs, the interconnectedness of everything that has lived, in the relationship of time to those beings, and to geology, to the asteroids crashing into the earth's surface, and in the gravity that pulled those asteroids into our atmosphere, in the sun, in the wobbling orbits of the planets, the spinning galaxies, in the composition of the universe itself. I had the notion that one couldn't point their finger at peace, couldn't touch it, but that it also wasn't all that abstract. And I still hold to this. I'm convinced that it's something here, now, something that is both around me and inside of me, and not nearly as indistinct as I'm describing it. I think it's something palpable; and for some reason, I'm convinced of this.
I look down at a few of the plants growing under the shade of the trees, their leaves fanning out to catch the little bit of light that happens to make its way through the branches above, and these plants suddenly strike me as exceptional. I have the sensation that there's something here, something all around me, a kind of secret, which I might have been able to uncover had I had more time, or been more dedicated. Maybe I was on my way to uncovering it while I was living on the terrace, before people came back into my life. Though, maybe not.
I think of all that I'd learned from my experience with the raven, all the tranquility and simplicity that I felt. I was surrounded with beauty, and I think I was growing inside of it, flourishing even. But none of this can alter the fact that it only takes a few severe conditions for us to instantaneously regress back to our natural ugliness. Whereas the previous day I'd been walking quietly through the fruit trees, feeling that I somehow fit, that I'd become kind, even beneficent, the first few minutes of the following day would find me willing rocks to pummel the existence from people who had been my friends, hoping with all of my being that they would be injured, even wishing them to suffer - and probably with the same intensity as they are wishing me to suffer now.
Maybe, though I feel like I was so close to some kind of understanding of peace, I had always been far from it. And perhaps this is because so little of it exists inside us that we can never actually experience it. Perhaps what I experienced on the terrace and in my childhood was merely a heightened appreciation of its ideal, a romantic admiration of its possibility. And now I'm smiling, because even if it was, I'm glad to have at least felt that much.
I focus on the dull green of the plants again, and am suddenly filled with contentment to have had this day. I wouldn't have traded it for anything. And I should feel fortunate that I still have some time to look closer at my surroundings, to mull over the details of the trees and rocks that are...
The sound of a twig snapping in the distance stops me. I'm listening for something else. And there it is again. Only this time, it's a larger stick that breaks. It's not an animal. I can hear distinct footsteps.
* * *
45
Now I can hear leaves rustling as well, but it doesn't sound like the whole crew. I'm sure that all of them walking through the underbrush would make more noise than this. Yes, I think it's only one. But one is enough. And maybe they've planned it this way, for everyone to have their own turn.
I'm trembling, I'm so afraid. I am so completely afraid!
He's getting closer. He must be able to see me. He's approaching from the front, probably on purpose, hoping to savour every moment of my mental anguish. He'll probably sharpen his knife in front of me. Or dull it.
I want to scream.
No. I can't. I won't give them the satisfaction. I refuse. I just have to
keep looking at the plants between the trees, and try to stay calm. I have to stay calm. I have to stay calm.
I can't stay calm. My breathing is already out of control.
Whoever it is has stopped walking. He's a little distance in front of me. I can feel his eyes on me. He seems to be waiting for me to look up at him. I'm trying not to. But I don't think I can stop myself. I have to look; I have to see who it is. I raise my head.
Our eyes meet right away, and I'm completely surprised to see him. I could have imagined any one of them coming first, but not Mikkel. I'd imagined him distancing himself from it all, whittling a stick out of earshot while they had their fun. But instead he's here, and this somehow reassures me. I breathe out an enormous amount of air from the top of my lungs, and feel drained once I've done this. I find it odd, but nevertheless appropriate that a grin should come to my face. He grins back, apparently also finding the moment odd. Our eyes stay fixed on each other as he comes a bit closer.
Because this is Mikkel, and I certainly couldn't picture him torturing me, I have no idea what's going to happen, and I'm even more curious when I recognize something like sympathy in his expression as he looks over my body. "Are you in pain?" he asks. His words are quiet, sincere.
I've forgotten the spell that Mikkel puts on people, the one that makes you want to win his respect. But it's important to remember that he's part of the crew, and that he's almost certainly come here on behalf of them. And so I open my mouth to lie, to give him some tale about the agony I don't really feel, even stopping to think about the tone of voice that would suit a suffering man. But I abandon this idea at the last second, only because nothing I could say would fool him anyway. "Well... well, to be honest, not really. I'm mostly numb; as much as that must disappoint you."
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