by The Awethors
* * *
It is night, but I know my way in the dark.
I remove the family pictures and shove them in the back of the bottom-most drawer, beneath the extra blankets folded there. Then I find the paper I brought from the city, and the pens and pencils, and light a candle.
Sitting at the window, a book for a desk, I fill page after page — and, in the writing, reconcile what I know with what I believe. Reconcile what I can no longer have with what I truly want.
As morning tints the sky, I set the pages aside and stretch, pulling out the past, reaching for the future.
Sam’s letter still waits on the floor.
I snuff the candle and, pulling the shawl close against the chill, put bare feet to the wooden floor. Elsewhere in the house, a board creaks. I pick up the letter.
Jaysha, I came to the Hinterland for two reasons. First, I was curious why you kept striving to reach it, even after your father thought he had successfully altered your desires enough to make you stay in Spectra and live a normal life. Second, I was running from my conscience.
I might not have come but for the Professor. One day in the museum, as I gathered courage to leave everything behind — my career, my comforts — and go off into a mysterious, possibly dangerous place, I stood looking at one of those faded tapestries from a couple millennia ago, the one with people hunting mythical creatures in the forest, and wondered how I could pass the Civilization Loss Prevention Units without being caught.
Professor Shinnegal said he was collecting people who were not there. Then he handed me a map and a packet of granules he said were vegetable seeds. He said I looked like a farmer.
Now he’s brought you to the Hinterland; I do not think he will go searching for other lost people. He was afraid the experiments would steal your soul as well as your mind. They very nearly stole mine.
I will not ask your forgiveness again, Jaysha, but I hope you live a life that is your own. Whether you stay in the Hinterland or return to the city, find your purpose. Laugh often. Be at peace.
Sam
Something whispers against the door, and a shadow shifts.
I lift the latch and open the door. Sam looks up from his pallet of quilts across the entryway. His hair is mussed, his clothes rumpled. He blinks against the growing light. Propping himself up on his elbows, he studies me for a long silence.
I place the letter on his chest, holding it there with the flat of my palm.
He covers my hand with his.