The New Wilderness

by Diane Cook

  Celeste picked the bottle up like it was a baby bird, caressed it in her hands, modeled it to the other girls. “It’s called Neon Dreamlife,” she whispered, and Patty moaned.

  “It has sparkles in it. But you can’t see them until they’re on your nails.”

  “Do me,” Patty said. Celeste unscrewed the cap, and they all put their noses close to the opening and breathed in.

  Patty coughed. “I love it.”

  Agnes’s mouth watered. She wanted to drink the mercurial pink. Feel it coat her throat.

  Celeste put her palm out and Patty slid her hand upon it.

  Celeste swept the brush slowly across each fingernail, one two three times, clean, careful. Patty shivered. Her eyes were squeezed shut, anticipating a surprise.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Celeste finally said. Patty opened her eyes.

  The girls all drew closer to her hand. Patty wiggled her fingers. Agnes couldn’t remember ever seeing such a vibrant color. Flowers, yes. But real flowers were coated with dust, or washed out in the sun’s glare. Perhaps, she thought, once after a spring rain when the sun broke through the clouds she’d seen some violets gleaming purple, and that had been a shock to her eyes in the way Patty’s nails were a shock. Sometimes the sunset was violently colorful. The color of just-spilled blood was shocking. Or when they butchered, pulled the stomach out whole, the red and blue veins like an anatomy diagram from one of her nana’s old schoolbooks. That blue was bright and pure. But this pink, it hurt her eyes. It made her not want to share. She remembered her mother’s magazine, and the bold colors she’d used in decorating. But even though the paper was glossy, it was still removed, distant. Pictures of a place she would never see in real life. Untouchable. Agnes reached out.

  “No touch! Not dry!” Celeste screeched.

  Agnes’s hand darted back. Blood rose to her cheeks. She covered them with her hands. She knew the pink of her cheeks wasn’t as pretty as the pink on Patty’s fingers.

  Patty was blowing on them like they were birthday candles.

  “Do me,” Agnes said.

  “I’m not sure it’ll stay on your nails.” Celeste eyed them. “They’re so dirty.”

  Agnes spit into her hand and wiped her nails.

  Celeste pretended to puke. “You are disgusting,” she said, and held out her palm.

  Agnes slid her hand upon it.

  “I’m only doing one nail. A test nail. I don’t want to waste good polish if it’s not going to stay.”

  “Please,” Agnes whimpered.

  “Do you want any polish or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, which one?”

  Agnes looked at her scarred hands, her jagged nails, the dirt under them. She wiggled her left pinkie. “This one.” It must be the finger she did the least with. It would stay cleaner longer, she thought. The polish would remain unchipped. Maybe forever. She stuck it in her mouth, tried to clean the nail with her tongue. Then wiped it on her smock.

  She closed her eyes.

  The brush was soft. Tickling. The liquid was cold going on. Like dipping her pinkie into a winter river’s icy slurry. A thrill shot through her neck. Then, everything on her fingernail closed up, tightened, stopped breathing. She felt it being suffocated. She almost yelped, leapt up to run away. She hated it.

  “Okay,” Celeste said. “Go like this.”

  Agnes opened her eyes, saw Celeste blowing on her own hands, and looked down.

  The pink was catching light she hadn’t even known was present in the dark forest. It looked as though it moved on her nail, breathed more and more color into itself. She saw the speckles of glitter. Not too much. Just enough. It was alive and perfect.

  Celeste screwed the lid back on.

  “Aren’t you going to do yours?”

  “I’ll wait for a special occasion.”

  “What special occasion would happen here?” Patty said.

  “I’m sure there is something,” Celeste said. “Don’t people get married? Or throw parties? My mom loves to throw parties.”

  “Why are you here?” Agnes asked.

  “Why are you here,” Celeste responded, her eyes narrowing, suspicious again.

  “I was sick.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Agnes saw her bloodstained pillowcases again, the blood sprays never quite washing out. “No, I remember. I was. I was sick.”

  “So your mom brought you here to save you?”

  Agnes caught her breath. She had not thought of it that way before. Her face burned, but she wasn’t sure why. “I guess,” she said. She didn’t like this story, though. “And Glen,” she said.

  “Who is Glen?”

  “My dad.”

  “Why do you call him Glen?”

  “He’s not my real dad.”

  “Yeah, you look nothing alike,” said Patty.

  “You act nothing alike,” said Celeste.

  “He’s a great leader,” Agnes said, her chest puffing at the thought that someone like him could be her dad.

  The Twins burst out laughing.

  “You are hilarious,” said Celeste.

  “He brought us here,” Agnes said, confused.

  “I thought you said your mom did.”

  “They both did.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t so simple.” Celeste scowled. “My mom never does something unless it suits her.”

  “I don’t know. My mom was pretty unhappy here I think. That’s why she left.”

  “I thought she left because her mom died.”

  Agnes blinked. “Yeah, she did.”

  Celeste stared at her. “You must be, like, ten years old or something, right?”

  “I’m much older than that,” Agnes said.

  “You could be eleven.”

  “I don’t know how old I am,” Agnes said.

  “That’s okay,” Celeste said, throwing her arm around Agnes. “You’re eleven. It’s decided.” Agnes didn’t know if she liked Celeste. But she liked the weight of Celeste’s soft meaty arm on her shoulder.

  Celeste handed the nail polish to Patty, who laid it back in its notch like a baby being put down for a nap, drawing the moss back over it gently, patting it into place, then patting her glittering wet hands onto her face. “Dew is great for the skin,” she said.

  They trudged out of the woods and squinted into the harsh sun that bounced off the water. Agnes smelled the smoke of the fire being lit. Her stomach growled. She hid her beautifully painted fingernail in her fist.

  * * *

  The next day, Carl organized a chore day. He set up stations for all the major duties of the Community, and the Newcomers visited each and learned what would be expected of them day to day. There was some anticipation but mostly dread on their faces as almost all the jobs were dirty and smelly and maybe they worried they wouldn’t be any good at them. They watched Debra stitching the stiff sinew thread through the tough hides to make new moccasins. She put out her hands so they could feel her calluses. The group that prepared the sinew thread had hands that would smell of animal insides until it wore away, which never happened before they needed to make more. The hide preparers sweated and coughed under the smoke. The smokers coughed and sweated in the smoker tent. And if carrying things seemed like a better deal than this hand labor, the Newcomers saw that the people who most often carried the Cast Iron and the Book Bag were bent-backed and stiff when they got up out of their beds in the morning.

  “Why do you carry all these books? Haven’t you read them all by now?” asked Patricia.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Harold, who was demonstrating different ways of carrying the Book Bag.

  “Why keep them?”

  “So we can read them again,” Debra said with a curtness she mostly saved for Dr. Harold. He noticed and flashed her a smile. He often carried the bag because Debra liked books.

  “It’s good to have the history with us,” said Glen with a nod.

  “Why?” Patricia scrunched her n
ose.

  Glen smiled. He opened his mouth, closed it. He smiled again. Agnes realized he didn’t have an answer. No one had asked before.

  Finally Carl jumped in and said, “History is good, is it not?” They treated it like a rhetorical question. No one answered.

  “Well, what about this big pot?” Linda said. “I can’t see how carrying something this heavy is worth it.” She tried to lift it off the ground, grunting with exertion, but couldn’t budge it. Linda was small. Almost as small as Agnes.

  “It’s worth it,” the Community said in almost perfect unison, and Frank blushed.

  The Newcomers murmured, understanding that the job of the pot carrier was important. But nobody would look at Dr. Harold, his arms around the cumbersome Book Bag.

  Carl clapped. “Okay, now, hunting.”

  The Newcomers shuffled into line. Carl had set up a target down the beach. A pile of logs and a piece of hide stretched across it.

  The Community had two working bows, so the Newcomers took turns. Each archer’s arrow went in many different directions, and none came close to the target. It was an easy target too. Agnes could hit it without drawing her bow back very far. Not even the women with their small nimble hands were any good. Not even Jake, Agnes noted with disappointment. Maybe she could teach him.

  “We’re better with guns,” Frank said, grimacing. His arrow flew toward the water.

  “Guns don’t last out here.”

  “Oh?”

  “You run out of bullets quick,” snapped Val.

  “Can’t we just order more?”

  “We don’t order things here,” said Val.

  “Delivery is unpredictable,” said Glen, chuckling.

  Agnes knew he’d meant it as a light comment, but several of the Newcomer adults rolled their eyes. Maybe they thought Glen was laughing at them. Or maybe they thought he was foolish. The Twins and Jake stared slack-jawed at Glen.

  “Look, we all need to be good at things in order to survive,” Carl said. “Some of us will be better than others at things. That’s okay. As long as everyone pulls weight of some kind. But it helps if we all know how to do all the jobs.”

  The Newcomers nodded. It was clear they liked Carl more than anyone else. They already looked to him for answers.

  Carl continued, “Even though only some of us will become regular hunters for the Community, we all have to get comfortable with the bow and arrow. What kind of training did you do before you came here?”

  “Training?” whispered Helen.

  “Yes, training. I assume you all knew that bow hunting was the norm. Even if it’s just that you read some books on archery . . . anything.”

  Carl looked around at the Newcomers. No one said anything.

  Carl clapped. “Well, okay. It doesn’t matter. When I’m through with you, you won’t need guns.”

  Carl bowed to Patty’s mom. “You are, again?”

  “Patricia.”

  Carl looked at Patty. “And you’re Patricia too?”

  Patty’s mom opened her mouth to speak, but Patty screamed, “I’m just Patty! And she’s just my mom!”

  Patricia snapped, “Calm down.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a long phew. She turned to Carl. “Why don’t you all just call me Patty’s mom then,” she said, letting out a peal of laughter that didn’t sound like laughter at all.

  “Okay, Patty’s mom, I bet you did something to prepare, didn’t you?” Carl winked.

  “I read a few books.” Patty’s mom raised her chin, triumphant.

  Patty guffawed. “No, you didn’t.”

  Carl turned to the sullen, skinny girl. “And young lady, what did you do?”

  “Nothing. I’m a kid.”

  Celeste snorted. “You’re a young lady.”

  Patty and Celeste laughed and laughed.

  “Quiet!” Carl’s eyes flared. The Twins immediately fell silent and traded looks of disdain. But Agnes could see them blushing too.

  “Show me your hands,” he demanded.

  They thrust out their hands.

  Carl grabbed one in each of his hands, squeezed each, prodded, turned them over, clasped their forearms, and then slapped their palms.

  “Ow,” they said in unison.

  He squeezed their arms. Hmm-hmming to himself. He pulled on their fingers and pressed his thumbs into their palms.

  “I think we’ve got some naturals here,” he said. Patty’s parents and Celeste’s mom applauded. The Newcomers straightened, as though excited that their own had impressed Carl.

  “Do you think you young ladies can hit that target?”

  They scowled.

  “I think you can,” said Carl. He waited for them to fill the silence. He was in teacher mode, but Agnes imagined he was not used to teenage girls.

  “What do you think?”

  Celeste rolled her eyes angrily.

  “Just tell us what to do,” Patty muttered.

  Carl handed them each a bow and arrow.

  The first arrows they shot dropped at their feet.

  “This is stupid,” Patty said.

  Carl handed them new arrows, and Celeste stomped her feet in protest. “Mom!”

  Her mother had a growling voice, hoarse, as though screaming was a large part of her life. “Celeste,” she said, “just do it, for fuck’s sake.”

  Celeste’s arrow went wild to the right, as did Patty’s.

  “Again,” Carl said.

  “No,” Celeste screamed with the fury of an animal caught in a trap. Her shrillness made Agnes’s ears pop. But despite her protests, she drew back her arrow alongside Patty. Agnes was fascinated how they could look so furious and so bored at the same time.

  The Twins let their arrows fly, barely looking at anything. But the arrows sailed right through the heart of the target. Their arrows almost split each other. Seeing this, Celeste’s fury disappeared and she was pure boredom once again.

  Agnes thought they might be the most beautiful people she’d ever seen. The Twins’ fury was sudden and unbounded. It was messy and illogical, and she didn’t know enough words to describe how it made her feel. But she knew it was powerful. And she knew that somewhere she had this power in her as well. She tried to think when she’d ever observed animals with such unexpected ferocity and she wasn’t sure she had. Because while animals became ferocious for obvious reasons, she couldn’t quite figure out what the Twins’ emotion was born from.

  “Again,” Carl said.

  Celeste didn’t scream this time. She just rolled her eyes and drew back, as did Patty. Figuring out how to do it had anesthetized them. They both released sighs that Agnes had only seen dying animals emit. They nailed their target.

  “How did you two get such good aim?” Carl asked.

  “Slingshotting rats,” said Celeste.

  “You saw rats?” Agnes asked, amazed. “In the City?” She’d never seen any animal in the City.

  “You probably lived in a nicer zone than we did,” sniped Patty.

  “But I didn’t even know there were any rats left in the City.”

  “Oh, then you definitely lived in a nicer zone than we did,” Celeste said, and the Twins roared.

  Carl shook his head. “Doesn’t explain anything. Slingshots—it’s a whole different set of muscles.”

  Patty said, “Well, they were pretty big slingshots.” She raised her chin proudly, just as her mother had.

  He looked at Celeste.

  “They were pretty big rats,” said Celeste, dead straight.

  Carl chuckled. Delighted, he clapped his hands and said, “Can’t say it matters! Time to hunt!”

  He put his arms around the Twins chummily, and they immediately slunk out from under him and back together like magnets.

  For a time after they disappeared into the woods, Agnes heard peals of laughter, sometimes screams. She felt haunted by the sounds, even though she knew it was the Twins.

  Toward evening, the two girls and Carl came back with a doe and a fawn
. The one deer had most certainly refused to leave the other, and so both perished. The small fawn was draped around Carl’s shoulders, its pink tongue swinging slightly side to side. The doe’s neck was torn open, probably by a ragged arrow tip. And one of its hind legs was turned around. It looked as though after merely stunning it with the arrow, the girls had wrestled it to death.

  Carl dropped the fawn off in the spot where they would butcher, and then approached those around the fire shaking his head, his eyes wide. A spray of blood colored his shirt; blood congealed in his beard. “They basically pummeled that poor animal to death,” he said.

  “And you let them?” Debra scolded.

  “They have to learn.” He broke into a grin. He had enjoyed it.

  The Twins dragged the doe to where the knives were kept with short pulls and grunts. The spilled blood left a trail from the kill site in the forest to the beach. For the rest of their days on the beach, they never saw another animal skulking in the woods or emerging onto the beach. Blood is a warning sign, which the Twins didn’t know yet.

  * * *

  Since they couldn’t stay along the Poisoned River, they decided to head back the way they came. Really, Carl had decided. Really, Carl, with support from the Newcomers, had decided. By the end of their days on the Poisoned River, it was clear the Newcomers officially saw Carl as the leader, even though the original Community had never had an official leader. Now, they did.

  Agnes had attended the meeting around the fire, though none of the other young people had. She was surprised, and thought Celeste, Patty, and Jake ought to be there. But the Newcomers looked at her skeptically when she took a seat within the circle. When Carl sat next to her, she saw their expressions change. Their eyebrows raised and they nodded to themselves. Carl had validated her being there. Did he know that? Is that why he had done it? Her leg twitched.

  “So,” Glen began, because he always began meetings. He’d had the most experience with all his meetings at the University. “We need to make a plan for next steps. But before we do, we need to explain how we make decisions here.” He nodded to Debra, who explained consensus.

  The Newcomers nodded slowly when she was done. Then their faces contorted as though they’d eaten something subtly disgusting.

  “That sounds hard,” said Linda.

  “It is hard,” said Carl.