The New Wilderness

by Diane Cook

  Then at some point it seemed like it was all downhill. The ruts came and went from view or were covered under mosses, rock slides. But the path forward was obvious. The rushing sound of rivers multiplied until it seemed they were surrounded by falling water. The air changed from sharp to cool to wet, and their clothes never felt dry. Small spores of mold colonized their clothing.

  As they walked, the hum of water became a howl, then the roar of what must have been a large, epic river just out of view. They called it the Invisible River because it sounded as though it ran right under their feet, but they could see no glimmer of it. The forest was now so thick and lush with waterlogged greenery, they lost sight of the ruts. They were disoriented and some vocally regretful, convinced the ruts had long ago veered another direction, and they were never meant to travel through this jungle of mottled light.

  But Agnes scampered along, certain of the feel of ruts below her feet. She saw them like an owl might see a mouse under a covering of leaves or a sheet of snow. But even if they weren’t ruts, she knew this was a good way to go because, for all its imposing darkness, she had seen the glint from animal eyes. She felt their ease. This corridor was safe for them. Their bright eyes didn’t dart. They watched not from fear but from languorousness. The ears swiveled mechanically, following sound the way a clock works, a clock without an alarm. Agnes felt safe. And she tried through the ease of her shoulders and her chipper whistle to make the others feel that way too.

  Then, one day, as suddenly as the darkness had surrounded them, they broke out of it, at a cliff’s edge, so suddenly Agnes might have tumbled over it if Carl hadn’t grabbed the back of her tunic.

  The forest had given way to nothing. The soft land crumbled down to water that stretched far, far, far across to another cliff face, which glistened green with colonies of wet ferns clinging to it. They’d never seen so much water in their lives. The Invisible River was a monster.

  Above the fern-decked cliff rose endless fir tips sloping up and up and up into new white mountaintops. And a tall, steel, seemingly electrified fence in front of it all. A border. They looked at their map. What was the land? The Woodlots? Where were the factories and the smoke then? The river seemed a mile wide. But it was not on their map. Had they gone the wrong way?

  There was no crossing this river. The fence looked as though it might be electrifying the water. Agnes thought she could hear the buzz of motors, but she was no longer sure what that sounded like, and how it differed from the roar of water. Or a horde of insects. It was all noise. She touched her fingers to her ears and found they were vibrating.

  Agnes scuffed her feet at the soft ground, feeling for the ruts. She felt nothing but root and rock. She looked over her toes to the river below. The cliff face angled down, and jagged-trunked trees stuck up from the mud-and-rock mound. She scrunched her toes through her moccasins into the loose soil. The cliff hadn’t always begun here.

  To the left, Agnes saw that the trees retreated and a headland rose up. There, Agnes saw the ruts pock the ground and curve their way skyward. She tugged on Carl’s hand and pointed.

  “This way,” Carl said to the others.

  Agnes smiled. He’d done what she’d wanted and she hadn’t even needed to speak. She felt like an animal of few words but imperative work. She felt like the alpha. With a nod or a snort, the herd followed. How long before they followed simply because she moved?

  They wove through a last thicket of dark trees and broke out onto green high grasses that bent in the wind, which jostled them now that they weren’t buffeted by the trees. Their skin tightened and pinched as the moisture they’d collected in the forest was stolen by the sun-dried air. They felt thirsty and tired immediately. At the highest point of the headland they could see the ruts head down, down, down to where the river released itself into what looked to be a tidal plain miles ahead. The cliffs softened themselves into rolling bluffs and spits that got swallowed up or exposed with the invisible tide. And far, far, far out they could see whitecaps at the river mouth and wondered if it could possibly be the sea. Consulting the map, they saw only a border marked by Xs. No other symbol. They’d always assumed it would be more of the same. Desert. Grassland. Mountain. They inhaled. Brine. Their mouths watered. It had to be the sea. There must be some mistake.

  The newly visible river widened as they walked along, and the imposing fence across it veered away from them until it seemed quite small. Was the river theirs?

  The ruts dropped them to the shore, and they continued next to the enormous river. It was more water than they’d seen in their lives. Moving so swiftly it looked to be hardly moving at all.

  Now closer, they could see the riverbanks crowded with submerged debris. Old wood, planed but warped. Engines from large machines. Tires bigger around than six people circled finger to finger. Old rusted blades from big trunk saws. And furniture. Couches that at one time were plaid, or plastic. Old recliners with waterlogged woodland-scene upholstery. A whole intact side of a small log cabin.

  Carl went up to a pile of fabric, wood, and muck and wrenched out from it a rusted crab pot. Farther down the beach he found a rod and reel. He twirled the spinner and it whirled. There was no line. He propped it across his shoulder and kept walking.

  They were caught off guard by the sun’s descent. So much of its arc happened behind the shrouded forest. They set up a rough camp near the riverbank. A quick meal of jerky, and then Carl and Dr. Harold tossed the crab pot in. The thick, salty air made them drowsy and they were asleep before the sky properly darkened.

  In the morning they were roused by the high tide stinging their legs. A large moon was falling below the frothy horizon at the river’s mouth. A differently mooned night and they might have stayed dry. At first they assumed the sting was from the coldness of the water. But then they discovered they were covered in a rash wherever the water had licked them.

  Four were sent with the Cast Iron to find fresh water to wash with. They came back with cool moss water and sheets of sphagnum, and they all wiped down with them. The sting eased.

  Carl pulled the crab pot up, careful not to touch the wet line with a bare hand. There was only mud, a couple red-shelled clams, and a yellowed crab with one eye and far too many appendages.

  The Invisible River was a poisoned river. A clean version of the river would have provided all the food they could ever want. In another era they might have stayed along a river like this as long as they could. They would have fished for their food. Found mushrooms, or what else there must be to forage. They would have set up buildings and smokehouses for salmon and trout and deer and elk and bear. They would have started a new civilization on a river like this if it were clean and thriving. The Rangers would have had to force them to leave.

  But the Poisoned River was a ghost river now, barren of most species, only mutated muck eaters at the bottom. They had barely noticed that above the sound of the raging water no birds called, no peepers croaked in the mud. The animals stuck to the dark protective woods, and they couldn’t be blamed for steering clear of this poisoned shore. The Community did find feral grapes and hard beach plums that colored their shits with their stout purple skins. But otherwise, it was a dead landscape.

  “Can we turn around yet?” Debra said.

  “No, we haven’t reached Post,” Glen said.

  “Do you really think there is a Post around here? Nothing else has been right on the map,” Dr. Harold said, always supporting Debra.

  “I think they are trying to kill us,” said Val. “If it weren’t for that fence, we definitely would have tried to cross. We’d be burning alive in this poison water.”

  “Which is why they put a fence there to stop us,” said Glen. “Fences aren’t meant to entice.”

  “I’m always enticed by a fence,” Val said. “It’s a challenge.” When Carl nodded approval, she smiled.

  “Well, Val, generally fences are a sign to stay away,” Glen said. “It’s not a challenge. A fence is a rule.”

/>   Carl snorted. “If you saw a No Trespassing sign, what would you do?” he asked.

  “I would not trespass,” said Glen.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course! Land isn’t made to be owned.”

  “But all land is owned.”

  “Not this.”

  “Yes, it is, it’s owned by the Administration. You waited until you had permission before you entered this land. You didn’t just sneak onto it.”

  Val said, “I hate this conversation. It’s making our life seem so boring.”

  “It is boring,” Glen said. “Isn’t that kind of the point?”

  Carl’s jaw dropped.

  Agnes did not care about this conversation. Who cared about why or how? Who cared about would or wouldn’t? She never understood why the adults were always discussing these words. Should and shouldn’t. Can and can’t. “Is and do,” she muttered to herself. That’s all that mattered. Is and do. Being and doing. Right now, and a little time from now.

  Agnes walked along the tree line, away from the tidal zone and the Poisoned River. The ruts were gone again. She tried to picture a time when this river had been clean, inviting to shorebirds and osprey. She might look out and see fish so plentiful the water churned, their tails splashing her from the shore. It was from a book one of them had brought. About pioneers of a different sort who, upon landing on a shore, were first greeted by hordes of curious animals. That water roiled with life. And the land crawled with four-footed walkers, and yet there was enough for everyone. It was one of the tales they told around the fire at night. One that she found hardest to imagine and believe. She tried to believe in them all. That is something her mother told her to do.

  Her mother had been the best storyteller in the Community, though she told stories least often. But she knew the magic of the unexpected, whether in story form or in real life. Agnes remembered her last birthday in the City, waking in the twilight, the banished sun peeking around edges of the drawn curtains. With groggy eyes she thought she saw something glowing by her bedside. A small plain white box. Inside it, a small pendant set snug in cotton. It was an orange-and-brown butterfly edged in yellow gold. Butterflies were gone, but she knew what it was from the old books her mother had shown her. It was the most elegant thing she’d ever seen, but what bewitched her was how it had appeared as if by magic. She knew, somewhere in her heart, that her mother must have snuck in during the deepest night so it would be there when Agnes woke up. But when she came out of her room, she didn’t thank her mother and her mother didn’t mention it. Didn’t make note of it glinting around her neck. Her mother joined her silently in this game she’d started, where a piece of jewelry was so special, so important, it couldn’t even be seen. Just felt there at her throat. For as long as she had it, Agnes pretended it was a gift from some other realm. From a place where everything was lovely and charmed and delicate. And her mother let her.

  When she lost the butterfly necklace in the Wilderness, it was the Community’s first fine.

  * * *

  Walking along the shore, in and out of the headlands, they came upon several old recliners positioned in a circle around something that must have been a firepit. There was an indentation, some stones thrown about, but no fire had burned here for a long time. Tin cans were strewn around the circle and the children picked them up, turning them over in their hands, unaware of the rust or dangerous edges. The adults had forgotten about these things too until Brother cut his finger and the children were forced to drop their new toys. How long had these been here, and who had left them? Derelict Rangers? Had this corner been forgotten in the re-wilding? Escaped workers from the Woodlots? There couldn’t possibly be escapees from across the Poisoned River. They wouldn’t make it, would they?

  “Sometimes it feels as though civilization is half a day’s walk away,” Debra said, eyeing the fence. The adults nodded solemnly. It was the kind of feeling Agnes knew her mother had. Why are we even here? What is the point? She never heard the children ask these questions. The answers were everywhere.

  Beyond the circle of chairs, they found an old baby seat, one that a parent might have swung in the crook of the elbow or hooked into a car when cars had been useful. “A car seat,” remembered Debra. Tied to its handle was a note, marker on plastic-covered note card, weathered but readable: Her name is Rachel. Please take care of her. There was no Rachel anymore. Their shoulders hunched again, weighed down by the greater world.

  Agnes’s hackles rose, and she lifted her eyes, nose, and circled, scouting what she could. The others dumbly circled around this empty omen as though wondering just where they were heading and what was waiting for them.

  “Well, ahoy there!” a voice called.

  Above them, at the zenith of the next headland, straddling the ruts, stood a man in a navy-blue tracksuit, a safari vest weighted with items like binoculars, knives, a bird book, and a poncho hanging out of its pockets, and a rifle held up, cocked and ready. He lifted a hand in a wave, his eye still trained through the scope.

  “The gang’s all here,” he said. “We’re just over this hump.”

  The Community’s hands were on their knives, ready. They hadn’t even had a moment to gasp.

  The man lowered his rifle from his eye, his eyebrows raised. “They told us you’d be meeting us here?”

  The Community slowly unclenched their hands and turned their heads to Carl, whose mouth was disappearing into a thin razor-sharp line.

  “We’re the new recruits you’re picking up?” the man said.

  They blinked.

  Juan muttered, “Pickup location.” He shook his head. “Pickup location?” He fumed. “Pick up meant pick up people?”

  “I thought they were giving us some fucking rice,” said Debra.

  “They definitely could have been more specific,” said Glen.

  “Fuck,” said Val.

  Agnes looked at Carl, who was surprisingly quiet. He stared up at the man and stroked his chin.

  The man in the tracksuit put a hand over his eyes, trying to see them better. Then he clapped his hands gleefully. “Well, what do you know!” he cried. “You got the cast iron pot I sent!”

  • • •

  And then there were twenty. Again.

  The Newcomers were off the waitlist. A waitlist the Community had never heard of before. A waitlist that over the years had grown from a few names into hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands. Maybe more. That’s what the Newcomers said.

  They also said they had originally been bused to a different entrance, a place called Lower something or other, on a route that took them through a sliver of the Mines, but that there had been some unrest there and they had to turn around abruptly and change locations.

  They said that after another long bus journey, they had been left at a desolate dock, blindfolded, and taken by a small motorboat, escorted onto the shore, and only when they could no longer hear the boat burbling away were they allowed to look.

  They said they had been here on this beach for some time. Possibly months or more. They used to have a calendar.

  “But you burned it,” said Carl.

  “Yeah,” said the man in the tracksuit. This man who had sent them the Cast Iron many years ago. His name, he said, was Frank.

  They said when they were dropped on the beach, they’d had watches too.

  “But they broke,” Carl said.

  Frank nodded, looking reassured that someone understood the strange facts of their new lives.

  Frank looked around at his group, and with regret said, “There were two more with us in the beginning.”

  “But they died.” Carl waved his hand. “Don’t worry, it happens.”

  “Don’t blame yourselves,” added Glen gently with an empathetic smile.

  Carl rolled his eyes.

  “Should we say what happened to them?” one of the women asked. She wore a torn animal-print skirt and gl
ittery sandals.

  Carl frowned. “Nope.”

  The Newcomers looked both relieved and even more stricken, glad to know they wouldn’t be blamed, but alone and unsure what to do with their grief. The Community eyed them warily. They had not been looking for new people with new hang-ups. New grief. They had only gone where they were told to go. Now everything was different.

  Agnes studied these new people carefully as the rest of the introductions were made. The way they looked was both strange and familiar to her. She inched closer and closer to a girl’s shoe just so she could smell it. It was white and soft, like cotton. The eyelets and tongue made the shoe look like a lizard. There were no laces. She thought all shoes had laces. She had a strong memory of opening a closet and a smell wafting out. She knew that smell would belong to the shoe. But she got too close, and the girl with the shoe kicked at Agnes. The girl, older than Agnes, had been watching her approach. She bared her teeth, but the woman next to the girl slapped her arm and the girl howled dramatically.