Read Online Gone to the Forest: A Novel by Katie Kitamura - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katie Kitamura
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horses were skittish. They tossed their heads and once Tom was almost
unseated. When they returned to the house they saw the men on the veranda. His father
looked up when Tom approached. He said that they should order dinner for five. Beef, as
there was no fish. He supposed there was still the foie gras and the caviar. He said to
bring out whatever was left.
That night, the ash began. It happened in the middle ofthe night. Tom was asleep. He woke to the sound of footfall. People banging doors
in the night. He pulled on his trousers and stepped into the hall. The servants were
running, shouting to each other. He pulled on his shirt and hurried after them. Out in
the main rooms of the house it was chaos. Everyone was awake. He spun around and grabbed
the nearest person.
“What is it? What has happened?”
He was speaking to some boy—the foreman’s son, he thought. The
boy shook his head. He pointed outside. Over the veranda. The air outside was white with
ash. He dropped the boy’s arm at the sight of it. He did not understand. It fell
thick as snow but he knew immediately that this was no snowfall. He had never seen such
fine stuff airborne. It fell like rain then swirled like snow. The rapid shifts
incomprehensible to him.
He looked down at his feet. He watched the ash scurry into the house. A
fine coating on the lawn. A little heap on the steps. The ash was ten feet away. As he
watched it came closer, covering inches and then feet within a matter of seconds. He
stood still and watched as the dust swept to his toes and then over his feet like he was
sculpture in a garden.
He swung his head up to look outside: the air was stiller than before. It
had grown thicker. More opaque. The lights from the house lit the dust several yards
deep. Then the world dropped into darkness. He could see nothing of it. No shadow or
contour—it was not normal, it was not natural, this dark.
He was now coated in dust to his calves. It unfolded like a scene from the
horror movies he watched as a child. Theygave him deep and
penetrating nightmares—his father used to laugh at the way the terror made him
cower from sleep. The way it made him wet his bed in the night. Tom looked past the
veranda in the direction of the river. He grabbed another passing boy by the arm.
“Where is my father? Is he awake?”
The boy stared at him. He shook him hard.
“Go and wake him. Go and get him.”
The boy didn’t move.
“Go!”
The boy turned and scurried away. The boy had not left the room before the
old man emerged in boots and a dressing gown, his hair disheveled. He didn’t look
at Tom. He barreled forward across the hall. He crossed the veranda, jumped down the
steps and into the airborne sea of ash. He disappeared in an instant and was gone. Tom
peered through the mist. His father had been swallowed by the swell of ash. There was no
trace of him at all.
Beside him, two servants were shouting to each other. They spoke too
quickly for him to hear.
“What is it?”
They turned to him.
“The dust—he will not be able to breathe. It will get into his
eyes. His lungs.”
He stared at them for a moment. Then he lunged forward across the veranda
and into the dust. Some of the men followed him. The last thing he heard was their feet
moving on the stone floor behind him. Then he was enveloped by thedust. In an instant he heard and saw nothing. He was only floating through space.
It was quiet, he had dreamed of it as a child, sometimes it came to him still—the
dream of being untethered.
An instant later his mouth was full of dust and he was choking, coughing,
splattering up tears and phlegm. He stumbled over the ash—there were mounds of it
across the ground, several inches in places, gathering with speed. He flung his arms
out. Like he was looking for a wall to lean against. He felt the men enter the cloud of
dust behind him—insulated explosions, the sign
unseated. When they returned to the house they saw the men on the veranda. His father
looked up when Tom approached. He said that they should order dinner for five. Beef, as
there was no fish. He supposed there was still the foie gras and the caviar. He said to
bring out whatever was left.
That night, the ash began. It happened in the middle ofthe night. Tom was asleep. He woke to the sound of footfall. People banging doors
in the night. He pulled on his trousers and stepped into the hall. The servants were
running, shouting to each other. He pulled on his shirt and hurried after them. Out in
the main rooms of the house it was chaos. Everyone was awake. He spun around and grabbed
the nearest person.
“What is it? What has happened?”
He was speaking to some boy—the foreman’s son, he thought. The
boy shook his head. He pointed outside. Over the veranda. The air outside was white with
ash. He dropped the boy’s arm at the sight of it. He did not understand. It fell
thick as snow but he knew immediately that this was no snowfall. He had never seen such
fine stuff airborne. It fell like rain then swirled like snow. The rapid shifts
incomprehensible to him.
He looked down at his feet. He watched the ash scurry into the house. A
fine coating on the lawn. A little heap on the steps. The ash was ten feet away. As he
watched it came closer, covering inches and then feet within a matter of seconds. He
stood still and watched as the dust swept to his toes and then over his feet like he was
sculpture in a garden.
He swung his head up to look outside: the air was stiller than before. It
had grown thicker. More opaque. The lights from the house lit the dust several yards
deep. Then the world dropped into darkness. He could see nothing of it. No shadow or
contour—it was not normal, it was not natural, this dark.
He was now coated in dust to his calves. It unfolded like a scene from the
horror movies he watched as a child. Theygave him deep and
penetrating nightmares—his father used to laugh at the way the terror made him
cower from sleep. The way it made him wet his bed in the night. Tom looked past the
veranda in the direction of the river. He grabbed another passing boy by the arm.
“Where is my father? Is he awake?”
The boy stared at him. He shook him hard.
“Go and wake him. Go and get him.”
The boy didn’t move.
“Go!”
The boy turned and scurried away. The boy had not left the room before the
old man emerged in boots and a dressing gown, his hair disheveled. He didn’t look
at Tom. He barreled forward across the hall. He crossed the veranda, jumped down the
steps and into the airborne sea of ash. He disappeared in an instant and was gone. Tom
peered through the mist. His father had been swallowed by the swell of ash. There was no
trace of him at all.
Beside him, two servants were shouting to each other. They spoke too
quickly for him to hear.
“What is it?”
They turned to him.
“The dust—he will not be able to breathe. It will get into his
eyes. His lungs.”
He stared at them for a moment. Then he lunged forward across the veranda
and into the dust. Some of the men followed him. The last thing he heard was their feet
moving on the stone floor behind him. Then he was enveloped by thedust. In an instant he heard and saw nothing. He was only floating through space.
It was quiet, he had dreamed of it as a child, sometimes it came to him still—the
dream of being untethered.
An instant later his mouth was full of dust and he was choking, coughing,
splattering up tears and phlegm. He stumbled over the ash—there were mounds of it
across the ground, several inches in places, gathering with speed. He flung his arms
out. Like he was looking for a wall to lean against. He felt the men enter the cloud of
dust behind him—insulated explosions, the sign
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