there would be a radio in here,” she said.
“Well, there isn’t.”
“We need to get you a new boat and we need to get back to civilization.”
“I’ve got to find the men who sunk my home.”
“On the other end of this island ... someone is building. An oyster farm, I think.”
“It’s not on the chart. Even if you’re right, it must be at least four miles down this island through a brush-filled forest.”
“We can go in the morning. First thing.”
It was about forty-two degrees, near as he could guess.
“Dry off and crawl into the bag,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Take care of things.”
“Turn off the light,” she said.
“In just a minute.” He unfolded the Coleman stove. “Yes!” he said, finding a box of wooden matches. She turned her back. He grabbed the paper towels, put them beside her, and doused the light. Quickly he stripped and dried off. He felt for his sleeping bag.
“I’m in,” she said.
Sam crawled into his and could detect only a slight barrier to the cold. It had been a lightweight bag maybe five years ago. Now it wasn’t worthy of the name.
“This won’t work.” Sam turned on the light. He went to the woodstove, took the small amount of remaining kindling, and placed it on a loose wad of paper towels. It burned nicely; he added more kindling. When it flamed he added a thick piece of branch. He was breathing hard and shaking slightly, but at least there was warmth on the palms of his hands. The sleeping bag over his shoulders wasn’t doing him much good. Soon the branch had ignited and he added a larger piece of wood, leaving the stove door ajar for maximum draft. Anna hopped over in her bag and sat down against the stove. After the flame was established, Sam went out in front of the cabin and studied the stovepipe. There was no visible light, nor were there sparks. Uneasy, but satisfied that the fire was not a dead giveaway, he went back inside.
He lay on his back next to the stove with the bag over him, put his hands on the floor, and raised his abdomen so that his body was arched with only his feet and hands touching the Doug-fir planks. He began taking deep breaths.
“That’s a very good Ûrdhva Dhanura.”
“So you do yoga too. It’s hard to be original anymore.”
“Control the breathing, slow the heart, the body will warm from the quiet exertion. Defeats the cold. I know what you’re trying, but if you’re that good I’ll be jealous, and you probably aren’t that good, so either way let’s huddle close to the stove.”
“Yoga is a way to stretch. I think it’s nothing more.”
After a full minute of stretching he crawled into his bag and they sat close.
“I’m still freezing,” she said.
“We could put one bag inside the other, then wrap you in a blanket and both get in.”
“Only in the movies.”
Five
Jason lay on his desk, facing the ceiling, the fear still there. Always there. Every morning he woke and knew that there was something wrong and that it would not go away.
When he smelled breakfast cooking and opened his eyes to look from the window by the bed, he might try to find something bright, perhaps the sunlight as described by a bard who knew the look of a tree with its tufts of moss-life and the speckling of bark, the sap in the white wood, the bursting of crinkled green shoots, the tireless withering of old leaves before the new. But each time Jason found the bright it was bounded by shadows, dark spots in the crooks of the branches. The darkness ate at him, turned his stomach sour even before he rose. Maybe a bird would flit by, but he knew it would die in winter with little things crawling over its skin, rotting it, smelling like yesterday’s fish. Wind harbored soulless ghosts, the mountain was cruel, and everything on it died, and nothing lived that hadn’t risen from the ashes of another’s death.
Fear lived in his chest as if a barbed hook were stuck fast in the wall of his gullet He
“Well, there isn’t.”
“We need to get you a new boat and we need to get back to civilization.”
“I’ve got to find the men who sunk my home.”
“On the other end of this island ... someone is building. An oyster farm, I think.”
“It’s not on the chart. Even if you’re right, it must be at least four miles down this island through a brush-filled forest.”
“We can go in the morning. First thing.”
It was about forty-two degrees, near as he could guess.
“Dry off and crawl into the bag,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Take care of things.”
“Turn off the light,” she said.
“In just a minute.” He unfolded the Coleman stove. “Yes!” he said, finding a box of wooden matches. She turned her back. He grabbed the paper towels, put them beside her, and doused the light. Quickly he stripped and dried off. He felt for his sleeping bag.
“I’m in,” she said.
Sam crawled into his and could detect only a slight barrier to the cold. It had been a lightweight bag maybe five years ago. Now it wasn’t worthy of the name.
“This won’t work.” Sam turned on the light. He went to the woodstove, took the small amount of remaining kindling, and placed it on a loose wad of paper towels. It burned nicely; he added more kindling. When it flamed he added a thick piece of branch. He was breathing hard and shaking slightly, but at least there was warmth on the palms of his hands. The sleeping bag over his shoulders wasn’t doing him much good. Soon the branch had ignited and he added a larger piece of wood, leaving the stove door ajar for maximum draft. Anna hopped over in her bag and sat down against the stove. After the flame was established, Sam went out in front of the cabin and studied the stovepipe. There was no visible light, nor were there sparks. Uneasy, but satisfied that the fire was not a dead giveaway, he went back inside.
He lay on his back next to the stove with the bag over him, put his hands on the floor, and raised his abdomen so that his body was arched with only his feet and hands touching the Doug-fir planks. He began taking deep breaths.
“That’s a very good Ûrdhva Dhanura.”
“So you do yoga too. It’s hard to be original anymore.”
“Control the breathing, slow the heart, the body will warm from the quiet exertion. Defeats the cold. I know what you’re trying, but if you’re that good I’ll be jealous, and you probably aren’t that good, so either way let’s huddle close to the stove.”
“Yoga is a way to stretch. I think it’s nothing more.”
After a full minute of stretching he crawled into his bag and they sat close.
“I’m still freezing,” she said.
“We could put one bag inside the other, then wrap you in a blanket and both get in.”
“Only in the movies.”
Five
Jason lay on his desk, facing the ceiling, the fear still there. Always there. Every morning he woke and knew that there was something wrong and that it would not go away.
When he smelled breakfast cooking and opened his eyes to look from the window by the bed, he might try to find something bright, perhaps the sunlight as described by a bard who knew the look of a tree with its tufts of moss-life and the speckling of bark, the sap in the white wood, the bursting of crinkled green shoots, the tireless withering of old leaves before the new. But each time Jason found the bright it was bounded by shadows, dark spots in the crooks of the branches. The darkness ate at him, turned his stomach sour even before he rose. Maybe a bird would flit by, but he knew it would die in winter with little things crawling over its skin, rotting it, smelling like yesterday’s fish. Wind harbored soulless ghosts, the mountain was cruel, and everything on it died, and nothing lived that hadn’t risen from the ashes of another’s death.
Fear lived in his chest as if a barbed hook were stuck fast in the wall of his gullet He
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