Read Online The Pearl Diver by Jeff Talarigo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeff Talarigo
Ads: Link
maybe already
spread to the villagers while deep in their sleep.
No one goes near the young boy. Not even his parents,
his sister held back by them. Before the morning sun
kisses the sea, the villagers have the prau burning, huge
sparks flying off into the sky, the villagers standing back
but looking, hopeful that the demons will be chased away
by the flames, chased away from the village, the island.
Alone, later that morning, the village elder questions
the boy.
“When did you first see the prau?”
“When the morning star was still bright.”
“Do you feel sick?” He is touching the boy, feeling his
head, neck.
“I feel fine. A little hungry.”
Staring into the boy’s eyes, he asks, “Did you touch
anything in the prau?”
“Only the doll.”
“Tonight, and for many nights, you and I must sleep
away from the village.”
And that night, while small pieces of the charred remains of the prau are being carried away by the high tide,
the villagers try to sleep. But once again, the village elder
wakes them from their restlessness. It is not the terrorfilled screams of that morning that awaken them. It is the
village elder, who sleeps with the boy away from the beach,
near the jungle; it is his hacking cough, which he tries to
smother in his sleeping mat, that keeps them up on this
night.
ARTIFACT Number 0487
A tube of burn cream
She isn’t sure why, but she knows beforehand that she will do it. Maybe for attention, but to her that seems too obvious an answer.
To understand the patients more maybe, but that seems too noble. It is in the middle of her two-hour night shift to keep watch and she is the only one in her wing of the building who is awake. She knows that in each of the rooms all over Nagashima there is at least one patient awake at this hour—closer to dawn than dusk—a stick or pipe in hand. A candle burns on the windowsill and she gazes at it. She has had a bad day, all the massages, the humidity, the homesickness for the sea. It is mid-June; the water has begun to warm for the divers.
In each of the rooms, there is a carpet of futons at night. Six in her room, seven patients. Not enough futons to go around, but also not enough floor. She is startled out of her thoughts when she sees the two green dots reflected in the light of the candle. She is quiet as she crawls in the direction of the beady, glowing eyes. It isn’t on any of the futons, but at the entranceway, so if she does it correctly, she will not have to wake any of the patients in the room. She is about five feet away, holding her breath, making sure of which way the candle throws her shadow, a piece of the cardboard box beside her. She reminds herself to aim behind the eyes, she does, and when the large stick comes swooshing down, she knows that she has at least stunned the rat, if not killed it outright. She hits it again, prods it to see if it is alive, and when it doesn’t move, she guides it onto the piece of cardboard with the stick and carries it outside. In the wooden box, there are two other rats; she drops this latest, along with the cardboard, into the box, which will be burned in the morning.
The end of her shift is near when she goes back inside, but even when she is replaced by one of her roommates, she knows she will not sleep deeply. It isn’t because of any fear of the rats that she can’t sleep, but the killing of it has now sparked her senses. She knows that what has happened to some of the other patients will never happen to her, or if it does, it will never get too far. There have been only two cases of rabies since she has been here, and she knows that the minute that she would feel the biting, she would awaken, scare the rat away. But it isn’t rabies that has started them doing night watches; it is for the other patients, the ones who came to Nagashima before her, those years before the Promin, those whose nerves in their limbs have lost feeling. It is for them that they sit awake and protect.
The
spread to the villagers while deep in their sleep.
No one goes near the young boy. Not even his parents,
his sister held back by them. Before the morning sun
kisses the sea, the villagers have the prau burning, huge
sparks flying off into the sky, the villagers standing back
but looking, hopeful that the demons will be chased away
by the flames, chased away from the village, the island.
Alone, later that morning, the village elder questions
the boy.
“When did you first see the prau?”
“When the morning star was still bright.”
“Do you feel sick?” He is touching the boy, feeling his
head, neck.
“I feel fine. A little hungry.”
Staring into the boy’s eyes, he asks, “Did you touch
anything in the prau?”
“Only the doll.”
“Tonight, and for many nights, you and I must sleep
away from the village.”
And that night, while small pieces of the charred remains of the prau are being carried away by the high tide,
the villagers try to sleep. But once again, the village elder
wakes them from their restlessness. It is not the terrorfilled screams of that morning that awaken them. It is the
village elder, who sleeps with the boy away from the beach,
near the jungle; it is his hacking cough, which he tries to
smother in his sleeping mat, that keeps them up on this
night.
ARTIFACT Number 0487
A tube of burn cream
She isn’t sure why, but she knows beforehand that she will do it. Maybe for attention, but to her that seems too obvious an answer.
To understand the patients more maybe, but that seems too noble. It is in the middle of her two-hour night shift to keep watch and she is the only one in her wing of the building who is awake. She knows that in each of the rooms all over Nagashima there is at least one patient awake at this hour—closer to dawn than dusk—a stick or pipe in hand. A candle burns on the windowsill and she gazes at it. She has had a bad day, all the massages, the humidity, the homesickness for the sea. It is mid-June; the water has begun to warm for the divers.
In each of the rooms, there is a carpet of futons at night. Six in her room, seven patients. Not enough futons to go around, but also not enough floor. She is startled out of her thoughts when she sees the two green dots reflected in the light of the candle. She is quiet as she crawls in the direction of the beady, glowing eyes. It isn’t on any of the futons, but at the entranceway, so if she does it correctly, she will not have to wake any of the patients in the room. She is about five feet away, holding her breath, making sure of which way the candle throws her shadow, a piece of the cardboard box beside her. She reminds herself to aim behind the eyes, she does, and when the large stick comes swooshing down, she knows that she has at least stunned the rat, if not killed it outright. She hits it again, prods it to see if it is alive, and when it doesn’t move, she guides it onto the piece of cardboard with the stick and carries it outside. In the wooden box, there are two other rats; she drops this latest, along with the cardboard, into the box, which will be burned in the morning.
The end of her shift is near when she goes back inside, but even when she is replaced by one of her roommates, she knows she will not sleep deeply. It isn’t because of any fear of the rats that she can’t sleep, but the killing of it has now sparked her senses. She knows that what has happened to some of the other patients will never happen to her, or if it does, it will never get too far. There have been only two cases of rabies since she has been here, and she knows that the minute that she would feel the biting, she would awaken, scare the rat away. But it isn’t rabies that has started them doing night watches; it is for the other patients, the ones who came to Nagashima before her, those years before the Promin, those whose nerves in their limbs have lost feeling. It is for them that they sit awake and protect.
The
Similar Books
