Authors: Mark Lavorato
Which meant that, after he found out about these people's existence, he would figure out a way to make diplomatic contact with them. It meant that he would tell them about The Goal. Then he and the crew would probably settle into the community and spend the rest of their lives watching the horizon for other third phase expeditions like ours, ones that had been better structured, more organized, successful. Mikkel would prepare these people for their coming, tell them what to do, give them a strategy, give them direction. And perhaps, within only a few weeks, this community would be opening its arms to roaming strangers, making a meal for them, giving them shelter, and then slitting their throats during the night in case they were people like me - people who knew better. Mikkel would ensure that this culture lived on, populated, spread. And then nothing,
nothing
would ever be given the chance to heal from us.
I stood up and looked at the ground, at my footprints leading to this place, and realized where I was. I was at the beginning of yet another chapter in the long destructive cycle of our history. I was standing on another first page. I was even helping to write it. Because it was me who was leading the crew to them, showing them the way.
And then I understood. Looking back, it's hard to believe that I'd dismissed the immeasurable importance of the firepit. It was the catalyst. It was everything. If the crew caught sight of it, they would know, and that would be enough. From that point on, the string of events that I'd imagined would fall into place as predictably as the sun's path.
I shook my head, asking myself what I'd been doing ever since the crew had appeared - and the answer was that I'd been reaching. I'd been reaching for hope, and pushing away the ideas of pain and my inescapable death. I'd been busy concentrating on all of the things that didn't matter in the least; namely
my
capacity to suffer. That was how small my world had become, how easily I'd thrown away my beliefs, my ideals, my honour.
I was going to die - there was no way around it. So the very least I could do was die without sacrificing every one of my principles. Was that such a revelation? Was that such a difficult conclusion to come to? No.
It was time; and it should have been time much earlier. I turned from the carnage and started walking away from it, retracing my steps into the forest. I began to jog, my pace soon quickening to a run, and then to a wild sprint, the pain at the bottom of my foot fading from my mind. I would have to beat them to the firepit, I would have to draw them away from it, keep them from ever noticing that it was there - and then, I would lead them as far from this valley as was physically possible, running until I was too exhausted to continue. And when they finally caught up with me, I would lash out like the monster they believed I was - like the monster that we are. I would gnash my teeth, claw at their faces, gouge their skin, and I would do this until they severed the life from my body. That was my plan.
The forest began to thin, and then to thin even more. I sighted the meadow through the trees ahead of me, terrified energy jolting to my legs, and I ran into the wide-open space, searching for the crew, wishing that I wasn't too late. And I wasn't. I could see them moving down the slope from the ridge. They were pointing at me, screaming flustered commands to one another. I'd surprised them.
I felt the grass on my feet, saw the firepit out of the corner of my eye as I passed it, careful not to look in its direction, and headed toward the ridge that was opposite the crew. I started to run up the long slope, and had ascended half of it before looking back. When I did, I sighted their tracks, the darkened lines in the grass where they'd run across the meadow, and I could see that none of them had come close to the firepit. I smiled. I felt reckless, free. I felt like I'd won. I screamed out, goading them, laughing. But they weren't paying attention. They were concentrating on closing the gap between us.
As I climbed higher, the grass thinned, and the rocks became more exposed, sharper. I had to focus on where I was stepping, unable anymore to look back, to know how far they were. Though, I could hear them behind me, scrambling through the rocks as well.
I was almost on the ridge when I stumbled for a moment, and as I was getting back to my feet, I picked up a fat stone and flung it over my shoulder, listening to them holler as they scattered out of the way - their voices nearer, always nearer. They were gaining on me more rapidly than I would have given them credit for, and I bent myself on running faster, gouging my feet with each stride, determined to lead them deep into another valley before they could catch me.
I crossed over a saddle and started down the other side, moving fast. But the new slope was filled with giant boulders, and was surprisingly steep. I did my best, sliding along them, over them, between them, scraping my hands along the surfaces of the rocks to slow myself down.
The crew neared. Until it started to sound like they were right on my heels, like they were close enough to throw their spears. And I pushed myself to go even faster, to jump further, to teeter on the edge of losing control. I had no choice.
Then I leapt over a low, massive boulder, and when I tried to land, I faltered, holding onto my balance for just an instant, my hands clawing at the air for something that would keep me there, something that would stop me from falling. Nothing. I watched the slope spin around me, holding out my hands, trying desperately to stop myself from tumbling a second time. But I couldn't. My body kept falling, kept turning. Again. Again.
Time slowed. I remember plummeting down the slope, I remember the odd silences that hung in the air between impacts, but mostly - if this is even possible - I remember thinking nothing. My mind was void of all thought, of all cognizance, it was only my body, twirling uninhibited, almost peacefully, interrupted by instants of complete violence, of pounding against the rocky slope, the quick snapping of bones, and then back into the thick air again, hanging suspended inside of it, quietly, waiting, waiting for the final impact to come, and when it did, everything turned black, and I felt like I'd plunged into nighttime water, suddenly slow and alone in a liquid silence.
44
It wasn't like waking up. It was like coming to the surface at night through the same heavy water it seemed I'd plunged into. Everything was black except the sounds, which were slowly losing their muffled tones. The monotonous cricketing of insects moved toward me through the dark, gradually becoming crisper, clearer. The next sensation I remember was an unimaginable thirst. I opened my mouth and felt my lips parting as dry as fingers. Then I swallowed, felt my saliva wetting the walls of my throat, spreading life through it, sensation. I tried opening my eyes but had to shut them again, the brightness being unbearable, almost painful. When I'd instinctively tried to cover my face with my hands, I found that I couldn't move them. They were behind my back, and either damaged beyond belief, or simply tied there. So instead, I squinted as hard as I could, carefully letting flickers of light in, slowly adjusting to the intensity, blinking the water from my eyes, until eventually, I could see enough to begin taking a few things in.
I was in a forest, and there were a few boulders amid the trees, which probably meant that it was just below the slope where I'd fallen. The air felt crisp, fresh, and I guessed it was sometime in the morning. I was perched upright, and as best I could tell, bound to a tree. No one else was around.
Naturally, I tried to squirm free of the ropes, but was instantly countered with shots of pain from all over my body. It took me minutes to recover from this; breathing steadily, deeply, until the sharp sensations began to subside. I didn't try moving after that. And I'm sure that, even if I could have untied myself, could've miraculously broken free, there was no way I could walk. The jabs of pain I felt when I tried to move were almost certainly the results of splintered bones grinding against themselves, because even after the pain had gone, I could still feel a disturbing tingling sensation. I looked down at one of my ankles - slowly, my every movement measured - and could see that there was something about it that wasn't quite right, though couldn't exactly tell what. I was surprised that I didn't feel anything strange with the shin of my other leg, as it was also slightly misshapen in some indistinguishable way. There might have been other broken bones as well - I think one of my shoulders, maybe a few of my ribs - but I couldn't be certain.
However, considering the amount of damage that was done, so long as I didn't move, I wasn't in a lot of pain. Of course, there were areas of my body that would sting for a few seconds, but other than that it was mostly all a soothing kind of numbness, a complete lack of sensation merging into patches of my skin that felt awake and intact. For instance, I couldn't feel the leg with the broken shin, nor move it, but I
could
feel a thread of liquid running down the inside of it, tracing a line through the hairs on my calf.
I began to think about what it must have been like when they first touched my body on the slope, and how unlike the monster, which they were convinced they were chasing, I must have looked. Limp, broken, almost lifeless - rather inadequate as far as monsters go. After having prepared themselves for gnashing teeth and claws, all they came upon was a meagre heap of dead weight. They'd been denied their furious battle, the promise of thrashing weapons, of spurting blood. Which, I realized, wasn't good. Because if they'd felt a lack of gratification, they would have to find a way to compensate for it.
Exactly. Compensation. I understood why I was still alive. It would have been far too anticlimactic to kill an unconscious man, to stick a knife into someone who doesn't react in the slightest way, who doesn't even feel it. Yes, that was the reason I was tied to the tree. It was in the hope that I might become conscious, in the hope that they would still be given an opportunity to play with my life, or with what little capacity I had left to feel pain. And once they'd realized that my body was mostly without sensation, that their blades running slowly across my skin didn't really affect me, they would probably move on to trying to injure my dignity - pissing into my face, shoving disgusting things down my throat. Maybe they even planned on feeding me the dismembered parts of my body. Whatever was going to happen, I could be sure I was going to suffer, that there wouldn't be any mercy. I was going to meet with the most degrading and agonizing end imaginable.
But, I told myself, I had to remember that I'd come to this end intentionally, that this was all part of the sacrifice I knew I was making. And most of all, I had to remember that in making that sacrifice, I'd actually
succeeded
in luring them away; albeit a much shorter distance than I'd intended.
Which meant that I might
not
have succeeded. Anything could happen. Maybe there were recent signs of people in this new valley as well. Or maybe they would climb back over the ridge - for reasons that could be as simple as wanting to find out why I'd been running toward them instead of away, or to return to the sea the same way they'd come, simply thinking it most efficient to retrace their steps - and accidentally stumble upon the firepit. And if not, who knew how long they might live, journeying in search of people.
But I also understood that it was over. This was the end - or at least my end. What happens after our death we have no control over. (Though, not that I had much control over things while I was alive, either - apart from my thoughts.)
My thoughts. I stopped to fully appreciate that for a moment. It was amazing that my brain was even functioning. The impacts against the boulders were enough to break bones, and I'd smashed my head hard enough to be knocked unconscious, yet, the damage wasn't so severe that I couldn't use my mind. In fact, I felt completely coherent. And the more I thought about this, the more I recognized it as a kind of salvation in itself. I wasn't at a total loss, I still had my mind and everything in it - my opinions, beliefs, feelings, attitudes, ideas, and memories - and these were all things that the crew could never degrade or lessen, no matter what they did, no matter how hard they tried.
Yes. I could use my mind. I could rummage through my thoughts, think of the conclusions I'd come to, the experiences I'd had. I looked around again, hoping to find some clue as to where the crew had gone or when they would return, to even get a vague estimate of how much time I would have to do so. I noticed their spears piled on the ground between some trees a little distance away from me, but couldn't figure out what this meant. However, before I even began to guess at it, I stopped myself. There was no real need to know when they would return. I would have as much time as I was given. And that was all.
So I thought. I thought about everything, the things that I'd learned, the people who'd taught me, even the particulars of the landscape that I'd travelled through - everything that was important, which had helped bring me, in one way or another, to this very tree. There were times during the day that I would become so frustrated, so exasperated that I would begin to fidget or squirm, but the pain that I met with when I moved always had an incredibly pacifying effect, and so I've come to make the mistake of shifting less and less.
And now, having recalled my story, I find myself thinking of the other people throughout history who died horrible deaths at the hands of their own kind. Because there
were
others like me - countless others. I wonder how they might have managed the pain that I'm about to experience. Maybe they'd found a way to completely separate themselves from their bodies, or even from their fear. Actually, come to think of it, I remember seeing a picture in a book where a few extremely disciplined religious men set themselves on fire to prove a point. As is usual, I forget what the point was, but I remember the gruesome picture perfectly. They are sitting cross-legged in the middle of a street, their posture serene, tranquil, and meanwhile, their bodies are burning, their flesh becoming charred as the flames lick their skin and crown their heads. It must have taken a while for them to die, and I imagine their bodies were capable of feeling pain for quite some time, yet they looked as if they were sitting in the middle of a field on a beautiful day, gently drawing air into their lungs. What kind of discipline is required for that? I can't even guess, but I
can
be sure that I don't have it. As much as I admire those people throughout history, which have attained such an exceptional level of peace that they could entrance themselves into nullity, I realize that, not only am I incapable of it now, I don't think I ever would be.