The World Without Flags

Then, as quickly as he lurched forward, Franky stops again. He’s only a few feet from our door. Maybe he’s thinking that he doesn’t want to bother us so late. We’re probably sleeping. Maybe he doesn’t want Eric’s permission for what we did. Maybe he’s thinking it’s his own conscience he has to ask. Whatever he’s thinking, he stands there, indecisive. My heart is thrumming in my chest like a bird.

Then Franky turns away and walks down the hill. The relief almost makes me sob. I don’t have time now to think how I was going to kill one of my favorite people in the world. I can’t think about how I planned such a thing. I don’t have time for that.

I drag Eric to his feet and we stumble and fall and drag ourselves to the woods. I have to tug and drag and half-carry him up the trail toward the lake. He’s breathing hoarsely and drily. He coughs and I feel something spatter on my neck and I cry out and brush it away with a shiver. It’s too dark to see if it was a worm or just a string of saliva, but the horror I feel is the same.

Finally we reach the old Land Rover. I open the rusted old doors and Eric crawls into the back, almost like he knows what’s happening. Not many people know about this place. It’s a good place to hide him. When Eric stops moaning and falls back into his feverish sleep, I walk down to the lake and dip his wool hat into the water. I need to cool his fever. I look down at the dripping water. The water is dark red from the sunset and shivers when drops of water hit the surface. I see the shadow of my own features, but it’s too dark to see myself clearly. It’s just an outline, quivering with ripples of water.

Crouched at the shore of the lake, I suddenly feel more tired than ever before in my life. I look up. I sit there and breathe until the stars begin to come out, reflected in the calm waters. The island is an inky shadow and the pine trees on it are darkly outlined. It’s quiet. I can hear the lake lap against the shore gently. Somewhere far across the lake a loon calls.

It’s a long time before I go back to the Land Rover.

29

I sleep in the front seat of the Land Rover. From the back comes the groans and mutterings of Eric. His eyes are almost black with blood. I don’t know if he’ll make it through the night. I can’t think of that. The thought of him dying, of a world without him, the closest friend I’ve ever known, fills me with a dread that I never knew I could feel. It’s more than a feeling. It’s like a beast in me, straining to be free. I feel if Eric dies, the beast will be free, and I won’t withstand the violence of it. If Eric dies, I will die too. Maybe I will continue living, but Birdie will be dead. Fear keeps me awake, but days and days of sleep deprivation and grief eventually win over. I fall into a dreadful sleep.

I dream again of being led into a dark pit. The dark pit where my mother sings. And there are beasts climbing out of it, beasts I can’t see, but I know they’re hunting me. They will find me and tear me apart. I can’t see them. I can’t even hear them. I only know that they are there, beyond my perception.

I wake up shivering in fear and cold.

I rub my eyes and look in the back seat. For a moment, I am sure that Eric is dead. He is laying as still as I’ve ever seen him. But then as I quake with fear, I realize with relief that his chest is rising and falling, just barely. I sob with relief and reach out and touch the crown of his head, just to feel his presence. The heat of his fever makes me pull away. I have to cool him down.

When I return from the lake with Eric’s hat, soaked with cool water, I dab it on his forehead. Eric doesn’t move, but a tear of dark red, almost black blood runs down his cheek. He smells like the Worm, a smell like warm ammonia and eucalyptus. I feel a trembling nausea, and I have to leave the confines of the truck. I walk back toward the lake, trembling. I hold my face and try to gather myself.

It didn’t hit me last night, but now I’m starting to realize that Eric is probably going to die. He’s going to die and leave me alone. No more long talks about subjects no one cares about any more like history and science and mathematics. No more asking me if I have my knife. No one to call me Birdie anymore.

I have to sit down in the damp pine needles. I’ve never thought how hard it would be to lose him. I’m not ready for this. I have a hard time breathing like I’ve been running for a long time. I see a few stars as I gasp at the air. The trembling continues and I wonder if this is what it’s like to go crazy. The thought chills me even further and I get to my feet and hop up and down. I tell myself, “Think, Birdie, think.” That is what Eric would say.