The World Without Flags

I fill the kettle with water and set it on the fire.

“Want some?” I ask Sidney, holding up a bag of herbs.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Mint,” I say.

“Sure,” Sidney responds with a shrug of his shoulders. “Why not?”

When the kettle boils, I pour out four mugs of piping hot tea and then drop some of the dried mint into each one. “Just enough to give it some zing,” I say as I do it. There, I think to myself, another disaster averted. I just like mint tea, that’s all. Nothing odd about that.

I feel pretty smart as I sit down next to Boston.

“So who is Eric really?” Sidney asks.

I look up from my tea in surprise.

“Come on,” Boston says. “Out with it. We’ve watched you worry over him all day long. Nobody is that protective of a stranger they just found on the road.”

My heart pounds. My paper house of lies is trembling, threatening to crumble. What I need is some truth. “He’s my Dad,” I say. I say it without thinking too much. It feels good to say.

“Your father?” Boston looks over my shoulder at Eric and then back at me. “But you’re black,” he says.

“I am?” I laugh a little. I take a sip from my tea. The two are watching me. “He took me in when I was a kid.”

“What happened to him?” Sidney asks.

“I didn’t tell you the exact truth this morning,” I admit.

“We noticed,” Sidney says drily.

“Eric wasn’t the one who wandered off when the bandits came,” I explain. “I was.” I look down at my tea like I was emotionally disturbed by the memory, but really I’m thinking and inventing like crazy. “He always told me never to wander off, but I did anyway, maybe just because he told me not to. When I got back to camp, the bandits had done this to him.” I jerk my head toward Eric. “They beat him so bad, I thought he would die.” I choke on some emotion. It’s not entirely untrue. I feel bad about how Eric is right now. I can use that. I let a few tears slip. “He didn’t die,” I continue. “But he’s never been right in the head afterward.”

Boston makes a sound like ohhhh, looking over at Eric.

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Sydney asks. It’s a good question.

“I didn’t know you guys at all,” I say. “Some people don’t like the thought of blacks and whites mixing like that.”

“She’s right about that,” Boston says with a huffing sound. Sidney nods. “You’re right,” Boston continues. “I’ve known some men, let me tell you.”

“I’m sorry about lying to you two, but you know how it goes out here.”

They both nod at that and sip at their tea. I feel my heartbeat slow a little. I think it’s going better. I think they buy everything. It doesn’t get us free of them, but it does save us from being taken as prisoners outright. Or worse.

Boston and Sidney turn their attention to the buck then. They take out long hunting knives and begin carving away the flesh in long strips. They hang the strips on a branch to dry.

I take the chance to go to Eric. I bring the cup of mint tea. It’s just barely warm now and safe for him to drink. I get my rag ready and crouch down in front of Eric. When I lift the cup, he immediately sticks out his tongue. I tip the mint tea into his mouth. Eric’s tongue laps at it like a dog.

“Unh, unh, unh,” he says as he laps.

“Careful you don’t get any in your mouth,” I tell him. “You might actually drink some.”

“Unh, unh, unh,” Eric keeps saying. Finally the cup is done, and I wipe his mouth, trying to keep my oatmeal down. Eric turns his head one way and then the other as if searching for more water, but then his jaw hangs open.

“Unh,” he says, and then seems to relax all over.

I look over my shoulder, but neither Boston nor Sidney seems to be paying attention to us. I’m glad. I don’t want anyone to see Eric like this.

My fatigue hits me then. Like a boulder dropped on me. I just want to lay down again and sleep. I thought maybe my little siesta would make me feel better, but instead it has only emphasized how badly I need sleep. I haven’t had a decent night’s rest since the Worm broke out. I’ve only been sleeping a few hours a night, and then not well. It’s catching up to me.

But as exhausted as I am, I can’t go to sleep without taking care of Eric. I have to get him to a tree, so I can tie him to it. I can’t risk him wandering off, or worse. I get up and pick up Eric’s rope. I tug at it, and Eric responds immediately. He kind of flails there. The backpack is too heavy for him. I grit my teeth and reach down and shove him over. He lays there on his stomach and doesn’t move.

“Unh,” he says.

“Good job, Eric,” I tell him. “Now you can get up.” I tug at the rope, and Eric uses his arms and legs to rise to his feet. He just stands there, jaw open. I wipe off a long, thin, black line of drool. Taking the rope, I lead him into the forest a few dozen yards to a big pine tree. I tie him to it, and then struggle to get him to sit down underneath it.