Three weeks and his diseased lung had persuaded its healthy brother-lung to join in the plunder. Another week and the ravagement was complete. Now, five years after his death, the big man's atrophy seemed like the blinking of an eye to Annie, but it was never the frail and wasted thing lying on that sweetly sour-smelling hospital bed that she remembered; it was always the big man with his black bushy beard and small brown smiling eyes that remained in her thoughts.
So here was her third relationship, her third lover, spread all around her. The rocky hills, the timberlands, the streams and lakes, the snow-capped mountains beyond. And it was her lover in the true sense, for on more than one moonlit or moonless night, it made no difference, she had bathed in the chill waters, lain naked and damp on the forest's yielding carpet; she had taken a random tree as her mate, reaching her arms around the coarse trunk, raising her legs so that the roughness was against her thighs, the protrusions between her legs, holding herself there, thrusting against the hard, still tree, crying out to the night sky, both in ecstasy and in sorrow, finally sinking to the earth, to lie there and whimper for her lost lover.
Now this lover, this once fertile land, was dying too, but slowly, the drama of its death more subtle, the pains more insidious, less evident-or merely less acceptable.
It's too late, Louis. You always maintained there was a chance for revivification, but then you were always the optimistic one. Too few people spoke up, and too few listened. Even so, should we feel angry? Didn't we two doubt your own disease? In that first week, didn't we deny the diagnosis? In the second, didn't we think-hope, pray?-that the horror would take itself away, would leave you alone, go off and terrorize someone else, someone (a shameful prayer, this) more deserving? Lung cancer, sweet Louis, and you never once held a cigarette to your lips. Hard, so hard, to appreciate the irony
.
She blinked and her eyelashes were moistened. Surely not tears, not after so long? She had thought the weeping was done. Annie straightened, realising her head had been bowed.
Oh Louis, why this terrible sadness today? For you?
The mourning was always there, but the worst had been put aside three years after your death. For the forest itself, then, a grieving over the decaying timberlands. Or perhaps these tears were for herself.
Annie closed her eyes and the tears broke free to dampen her face.
A shuffling noise roused her. She turned in time to see undergrowth nearby swaying, obviously disturbed by some small creature that had wandered too close before noticing her presence. It had fled.
A wise move, little friend. We humans are not to be trusted.
A sound to her left, much louder. Something was crashing through the forest, a deer or elk, a sizeable animal judging by the commotion it was making. Now a fluttering of wings. Annie looked up, startled, and saw the flock of birds taking to the sky, the wings flapping against upper branches, beating at the air.
My God, it can't be me. Surely I couldn't have disturbed them
.
Because of her tears, her eyes were not quite focused, and the shiny object that caught her attention was like a sparkly glimmer, a diamond catching the sun's rays. She drew a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and dabbed at her eyes, feeling shamed and inconvenienced by the tears. If one of the fallers had come upon her…
With clearer vision, she looked again at the bright thing.
'Oh,' she said quietly.
It was beautiful.
She dared not move, lest the tiny light be disturbed.
It glowed among the trees, no more than twelve or so metres away from her, hovering like some wonderful firefly, the shade of the forest enhancing its brightness.
Annie's hand slowly went to her face, an involuntary action as her mouth opened in wonder. The light, floating at shoulder-height, was of the purest white she had ever seen, yet it did not dazzle. There seemed to be a faint shimmering around its edge.
Her hand reached out as if to touch the light.
It began to rise, an easy, almost languid, movement.
Then it began to dance.
Now both hands went to Annie's smiling face. Dark thoughts left her and she suddenly felt joyously happy.
The sounds of machinery, the occasional human shout, came to her from afar, but there was no reality to them; they belonged to another dimension. The light, gently weaving to and fro, flitting between the trees, was the only reality.
Annie Devereux took a step towards the bewitching glow and its movement stopped. Annie froze, afraid she might scare this tiny phenomenon away. What was it, oh Louis, what was this strange and wonderful thing?
The light began to rise again, smoothly avoiding boughs, ascending, it seemed, towards the high treetops. But then it began to move from tree to tree, touching the thinner limbs, bouncing off them like some ethereal pinball.
A small, uncertain laugh escaped Annie. She followed the light's motion, her eyes shifting with its seemingly haphazard pattern, her body tensed like an excited child's. The light swooped delicately and brushed against a slender branch, flicking instantly towards another.
This latter one sparked.
The light touched another, and this one flared briefly.
Annie's smile wavered.
The light fluttered amidst the branches of a different tree and there were more sparks, as if a flint had been soundlessly struck against stone. This time a flame appeared. And as other limbs were brushed against, then they too burst into flame.
'No…' It was a low wail of pleading. 'Nooo-'
The flames grew and began to spread.
The light flew more swiftly, flitting from tree to tree,-igniting branches, kindling new fires. Annie turned with it as it worked its way around the trees. The timber was dry, combustible, ready, just ready, to flame.
A whoosh of fire from behind caused her to wheel around. The flames now had a life of their own, feeding off their burning neighbours, catching flying fragments, the blaze growing. She shouted as if to warn the trees themselves.
She staggered backwards, almost falling, for the conflagration had already become fierce and was spreading fast. She knew she had to get down into the valley so that the Forest Service could be alerted by field telephone. My God, the blaze was growing so quickly, the trees catching one after the other in swift succession, and the light, the light… where was the light?
There. Before her. Near the trail that had brought her here to this spot, touching the overhanging branches, kindling them. Annie cried out when she realized what was happening.
She ran towards the rough path, but it was too late. A billow of flame exploded from one tree to another, cutting off her escape. She whirled around, then around again. The fire had encircled her. Every way she turned the trees were blazing. She made a break for it, but a burning branch crashed in front of her as if deliberately, a conspiracy between fire and forest to thwart her.
Annie stumbled backwards. Her arms went up to protect her face from the heat, her skin already beginning to tighten and blister. There was no escape. The fire had fanned out beyond this circle; it was spreading at an unbelievable rate. It was as though a solid wall of flame had been erected around her.
She clawed at her shirt collar as the oxygen in the air was swallowed up, and she sank to her knees, aware that there was nowhere to run, no place to hide from this furious heat. It pained her to keep her eyes open, but she wanted to see it again, wanted to look upon the light once more.
And there it was, quite still, made pale, a faint star, by the fire that engulfed it. It was no longer a wondrous thing to her.
Annie retched, began to choke.
She attempted to rise again, unwilling to submit to this awful fate. But it was no use. Her strength had gone. As she crumpled to the smoking forest floor, her hair beginning to smoulder, she thought of her dead husband. Louis' image was smiling.
And as the heat and lack of pure air overwhelmed her, Annie's grimace of defeat and pain was not unlike a smile itself.
1
'We're going down, we're going down, we're…'
Rivers' eyes snapped open and all dream-images vanished.
He lay there on the bed, only half covered by the sheet, his body damp with perspiration, his mind momentarily numbed.
'Oh sh…' he murmured and swept the cover away. He limped towards the open window, falling to his knees before he got there, a hand reaching up for the thin bars to haul himself closer. Rivers breathed in the humid early morning air, forcing calmness upon himself, the throbbing pain of his injured knee bringing reality into sharper focus.
'It's over,' he told himself, hands straining against the metal bars. 'You bloody fool, it's over…'
His forehead rested on the edge of the sill for a few moments before he turned and slumped to the floor, his back resting against the wall. He stared at the rumpled bed as fragments of his dream joined as a whole. He began to tremble.
Only the persistent pain roused him from the bleak reverie.
Rather than get to his feet, Rivers slid himself back to the bed; still on the floor, he took the pain-pulser from the bedside table. Adjusting the setting to HIGH, he pushed the blunted point of the instrument into the hollow beside his knee-joint, finding the conductor-implant there and pressing the pulser's button. It took no more than a few seconds for the pain to ease, but Rivers let the current run for a full minute before switching off.
Supporting himself with his good leg, he lifted himself on to the edge of the bed and looked down at the puckered bum scars of his left thigh, then at the neater surgery scars of the knee itself. Without thinking, he flexed the fingers of his left hand, the tendons still stiff after all these months, the flesh from inner wrist to elbow still an angry and wrinkled red. Nothing, he reminded himself. Nothing compared to what the other two survivors had suffered…
He straightened his slumped shoulders, running both hands down his face to shed the last of the tiredness. Busy day ahead, got to get going. Oh God, he hated these heavy duty, three-day international conferences. What conclusions did they hope to draw? That everything was fine, no problems, it was all an ecological misunderstanding? A bad phase the planet was going through? Things'll be fine in a year or two, the climate would settle down. Then there were the alarmists to cope with, the scientists or conservationists whose vanity or moral outrage, perhaps even their ignorance, caused them to exaggerate the problem, even encourage the most pessimistic view. How to deal with them? Difficult when they were closer to the truth than the moderates. At least the foreign delegations were limited in members and the conference itself was deliberately low-key; nobody wanted a repeat of the previous year's debacle in Geneva, when squabbles had erupted into actual violence and made world headlines. Rivers gave a shudder, then reached for the walking-cane leaning against the end of the bed.
He limped down the hall to the bathroom and looked longingly at the bath as he hung the cane on a clothes-hook behind the door; he stepped into the shower cubicle. Ironically, before the ban he had preferred to shower rather than wallow in a tub of water dirtied by his own body. Forbidden fruit, he chided himself. But the tell-tale water meter would never let him get away with it. Roll on winter-so long as it brought rain.
He shaved while he showered, the solraz slow, in need of a recharge, and watched the breakfast news on the two-inch TV dangling from the shower pipe. Water droplets glided over the tiny anti-mist screen as if in mockery of the migrants crossing the parched desert wastes of mid-Africa. When the pictures switched to a snowstorm in Syria, he turned off the set. No doubt the other channels would be showing more of the same and it wasn't his idea of a bright start to the day.
Rivers was at the kitchen table drinking his second cup of coffee and smoking his first cigarette when the telephone rang. He glanced at his watch: 7.40. He didn't have much time for conversation.
The sensor was on the sideboard with his keys and he stretched over for it without rising. He pointed it at the phone-vox discreetly mounted in the wall opposite and pressed RECEIVE.
'Rivers,' he said, resting his cigarette in the Air-Pure ashtray.
'Mr. James Rivers?' It was a male voice, full and rich, though slightly wheezy, as if the caller might be prone to asthma.
'Who's calling?' he asked.
'You don't know me, Mr. Rivers.'
'Then how did you get my number? It's not listed.'
'Uh, no. Quite. But we have mutual acquaintances.'
Rivers retrieved his cigarette and drew on it. 'Name one,' he said.
The other man took in a small breath before he spoke. 'That isn't important for the moment. I'd very much like to see you, Mr. Rivers.'
'Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm in a hurry this morning. How about at least telling me your name?'
'Yes, of course. I'm sorry. It's Poggs.'
Although it was too early for humour, Rivers managed a smile. The Dickensian name somehow suited the voice.
'Hugo Poggs?' the other man said hopefully, as though the climatologist might have heard of him.
It did sound familiar, but Rivers couldn't remember just where he'd heard it before. 'I'm supposed to know you?' he said.
'Perhaps not.' There was no evident disappointment. 'I have to meet with you to discuss a matter of great importance. And possibly of great urgency.'
Rivers took time to sip his coffee. 'Life insurance?' he said.