Bird box

Malorie has never liked this word. It’s out of place, somehow. The things that have haunted her for more than four years are not creatures to her. A garden slug is a creature. A porcupine. But the things that have lurked beyond draped windows and have kept her blindfolded are not the sort that an exterminator could ever remove.

“Barbarian” isn’t right, either. A barbarian is reckless. So is a brute.

In the distance, a bird sings a song from high in the sky. The paddles cut the water, shifting with each row.

“Behemoth” is unproven. They could be as small as a fingernail.

Though they are early in their journey along the river, Malorie’s muscles ache from rowing. Her shirt is soaked through with sweat. Her feet are cold. The blindfold continues to irritate.

“Demon.” “Devil.” “Rogue.” Maybe they are all these things.

Her sister died because she saw one. Her parents must have met the same fate.

“Imp” is too kind. “Savage” too human.

Malorie is not only afraid of the things that may wade in the river, she is also fascinated by them.

Do they know what they do? Do they mean to do what they do?

Right now, it feels as if the whole world is dead. It feels like the rowboat is the last remaining place where life can be found. The rest of the world fans out from the tip of the boat, an empty globe, blooming and vacant with each row.

If they don’t know what they do, they can’t be “villains.”

The children have been quiet a long time. A second birdsong comes from above. A fish splashes. Malorie has never seen this river. What does it look like? Do the trees crowd the banks? Are there houses lining its shore?

They are monsters, Malorie thinks. But she knows they are more than this. They are infinity.

“Mommy!” the Boy suddenly cries.

A bird of prey caws; its echo breaks across the river.

“What is it, Boy?”

“It sounds like an engine.”

“What?”

Malorie stops paddling. She listens closely.

Far off, beyond even the river’s flow, comes the sound of an engine.

Malorie recognizes it immediately. It is the sound of another boat approaching.

Rather than feeling excitement at the prospect of encountering another human being on this river, Malorie is afraid.

“Get down, you two,” she says.

She rests the paddle handles across her knees. The rowboat floats.

The Boy heard it, she tells herself. The Boy heard it because you raised him well and now he hears better than he will ever see.

Breathing deep, Malorie waits. The engine grows louder. The boat is traveling upstream.

“Ouch!” the Boy yelps.

“What is it, Boy?”

“My ear! I got hit by a tree.”

Malorie thinks this is good. If a tree touched the Boy, they are likely near one of the banks. Maybe, by some deserved providence, the foliage will provide cover.

The other boat is much closer now. Malorie knows that if she were able to open her eyes, she could see it.

“Do not take off your blindfolds,” Malorie says.

And then the boat’s engine is level with them. It does not pass.

Whoever it is, Malorie thinks, they can see us.

The boat’s engine cuts abruptly. The air smells of gasoline. Footsteps cross what must be the deck.

“Hello there!” a voice says. Malorie does not respond. “Hey there! It’s okay. You can remove your blindfolds! I’m just an ordinary man.”

“No you cannot,” Malorie says quickly to the children.

“There’s nothing out here with us, miss. Take my word for it. We’re all alone.”

Malorie is still. Finally, feeling there is no alternative, she answers him.

“How do you know?”

“Miss,” he says, “I’m looking right now. I’ve had my eyes open the entire trip today. Yesterday, too.”

“You can’t just look,” she says. “You know that.”

The stranger laughs.

“Really,” he says, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. You can trust me. It’s just us two on the river. Just two ordinary people crossing paths.”

“No!” Malorie screams to the children.

She lets go of the Girl and grips the paddle handles again. The man sighs.

“There’s no need to live like this, miss. Consider these children. Would you rob them the chance to view a brisk, beautiful day like this?”

“Stay away from our boat,” Malorie says sternly.

Silence. The man does not answer. Malorie braces herself. She feels trapped. Vulnerable. In the rowboat against the bank. On this river. In this world.

Something splashes in the water. Malorie gasps.

“Miss,” he says, “the view is incredible, if you don’t mind a little fog. When’s the last time you looked outside? Has it been years? Have you seen this river? The weather? I bet you don’t even remember what weather looks like.”