old man slept on, breathing deeply. Stiffening, the boy cried out. Hands tied behind their backs and earth on their faces. Grandfather and Mother and Father and and and earth in their open mouths and eyes and their heads in odd positions as if without bones and and and running. Who are these two old people and demons of fire on my eyes and what is this old woman doing now singing. Mother would sing with earth in her mouth and there are fiends in these broken trees I hear them and they will kill the boy this night. But she swung on the swing higher and higher and whenshe could go no farther, at the very height of the arc, at that instant of hesitation between up and down, she leaped from the swing toward the trunk of the nearest shattered tree, arms and legs swimming through the air, and entered deep into the core of the tree, and in the depths of the tree she encountered the clammy foul-smelling spirit, clung to it, sank her fingers into its hooded eyes, heard its piercing scream, felt its tail lash her legs and grasp her thighs. A stone-shaped cry stuck in her throat.
The pain!
She clutched the scaly throat, pressing upon it all her weight, and the creature, writhing, released its grip and slithered from her with tiny moans of defeat and vanished into the heart and root of the tree; and the old woman lay very still, a heavy throbbing in her chest and thigh. She mounted the swing and flew up and higher and took with her the pain of the boy to the blossoms on the boughs and to the heaven beyond. She slept then in a delirium of hunger and dread and through the occasional bursts of automatic-weapon fire that stitched the distant fringes of the refugee camp.
The old man heard movement, a moan of pain. A burst of light, iridescent sparks rising. The lights were inside his eyes. He thought he must be dying. Death welcome. But to be buried in this desolation. Or not to be buried at all.
That last thought brought him sharply awake. His lids scraped across swollen eyes.
He saw the woman with her head over the boy’sexposed chest. She had brought her mouth down upon the boy and was gnawing on one of the black stitches.
The boy gave out a little scream and pushed with his sticklike arms against the woman’s head. She moved her head slightly away and with her fingers tugged at the stitch, which she then pulled through the puckered skin of the healed wound.
The boy watched in horror.
The scar, about two inches in length and parallel to the right collarbone, was red and ugly. Again and again she put her mouth to the wound and each time chewed at length, making dry grinding noises with her teeth. The boy felt her wet lips and tongue upon his chest, smelled her breath. She drew the stitches through and held them dangling in her fingers, black writhing strings, and threw them clear of the quilts.
She was done. Her mouth ached. She tasted the blood from the broken gums around her teeth. Covering the boy’s chest, she murmured to him soothingly; and the boy lay still.
The old man looked at them in the dawn light that filtered through the partially open top of the sleeping bag and knew the boy would not die of the wound though they would probably all die of the hunger that would soon finally and firmly settle upon their lives.
Many already lay dead on the beach. They lay where they had died in their sleep and no one moved them after the removal of their shoes and clothes. The woman, trembling with weakness, shook the vermin from the quilts and sleeping bag. The bugs scattered on the sand; the lice she would attack again later.
Carrying the quilts to the cart, she suddenly grunted and bent over, and stumbled off behind some trees.
The boy stood a moment, glancing around, shivering.
The old man felt the boy’s eyes upon him. He helped the boy into the cart and wrapped him in quilts.
Knowing now the boy would not die of the wound, the old man thought to study him closely and saw, in the folds of the quilts, a frightened trembling
The pain!
She clutched the scaly throat, pressing upon it all her weight, and the creature, writhing, released its grip and slithered from her with tiny moans of defeat and vanished into the heart and root of the tree; and the old woman lay very still, a heavy throbbing in her chest and thigh. She mounted the swing and flew up and higher and took with her the pain of the boy to the blossoms on the boughs and to the heaven beyond. She slept then in a delirium of hunger and dread and through the occasional bursts of automatic-weapon fire that stitched the distant fringes of the refugee camp.
The old man heard movement, a moan of pain. A burst of light, iridescent sparks rising. The lights were inside his eyes. He thought he must be dying. Death welcome. But to be buried in this desolation. Or not to be buried at all.
That last thought brought him sharply awake. His lids scraped across swollen eyes.
He saw the woman with her head over the boy’sexposed chest. She had brought her mouth down upon the boy and was gnawing on one of the black stitches.
The boy gave out a little scream and pushed with his sticklike arms against the woman’s head. She moved her head slightly away and with her fingers tugged at the stitch, which she then pulled through the puckered skin of the healed wound.
The boy watched in horror.
The scar, about two inches in length and parallel to the right collarbone, was red and ugly. Again and again she put her mouth to the wound and each time chewed at length, making dry grinding noises with her teeth. The boy felt her wet lips and tongue upon his chest, smelled her breath. She drew the stitches through and held them dangling in her fingers, black writhing strings, and threw them clear of the quilts.
She was done. Her mouth ached. She tasted the blood from the broken gums around her teeth. Covering the boy’s chest, she murmured to him soothingly; and the boy lay still.
The old man looked at them in the dawn light that filtered through the partially open top of the sleeping bag and knew the boy would not die of the wound though they would probably all die of the hunger that would soon finally and firmly settle upon their lives.
Many already lay dead on the beach. They lay where they had died in their sleep and no one moved them after the removal of their shoes and clothes. The woman, trembling with weakness, shook the vermin from the quilts and sleeping bag. The bugs scattered on the sand; the lice she would attack again later.
Carrying the quilts to the cart, she suddenly grunted and bent over, and stumbled off behind some trees.
The boy stood a moment, glancing around, shivering.
The old man felt the boy’s eyes upon him. He helped the boy into the cart and wrapped him in quilts.
Knowing now the boy would not die of the wound, the old man thought to study him closely and saw, in the folds of the quilts, a frightened trembling
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