Nick Gevers - Other Earths

At first I wasn’t sure the figure was not a deformity of the wood, for his hair and clothing were as gray as the bark of the tree, and his skin, too, held a grayish cast; but then he lifted his hand in a feeble salute. He was lashed in place by an intricately knotted system of rags that allowed him a limited range of motion. His features were those of a Cradle, yet whereas the Cradles I had met with previously were of the same approximate age as me, he appeared older, though this might have been the result of ill usage. “How’s it going?” he asked. His voice, too, was feeble, a scratchy croak. I asked why he had lashed himself to the tree.

“If I were you I’d do the same,” he said. “Unless you’re just going to turn around and leave.”

I let the boat come to rest against the trunk of a tree close to his.

“Seems a waste,” he said. “Coming all this way and then not sticking around for the show.”

“What show?”

He made an elaborate gesture, like a magician introducing a trick. “I don’t believe I could do it justice. It’s something you have to see for yourself.” He worked at something caught in his teeth. “I think this’ll be my last night. I need to get back to Phnom Penh.”

Nonplussed, I asked why he hadn’t gone farther into the forest.

“I’m not a big believer in an afterlife.”

“So you’re saying the ones who continue on past this point, they die?”

“Questions of life and death are always open to interpretation. But yeah …that’s what I’m saying. There’s two or three hundred of us left in the forest. Some cross over every day. They’re half-crazy from being here, from eating bugs and diseased birds. Stuff that makes your insides itch. They finally snap.” He glanced toward the clearing. “It’s due to start up again. You’d better find something to tie yourself up with. What I did was strip clothes off the corpses.”

“I’ve got something.”

I secured the launch to the trunk. The crotch of the melaleuca was no more than a foot above water level and, once I had made myself as comfortable as possible, I removed the coil of rope from my pack. The man advised me to fashion knots that would be difficult to untie and, when I asked why, he replied that I might be tempted to untie them. His affable manner seemed sincere, but we were no more than fifteen feet apart, and my visit with the fat man had made me wary. I kept the knots loose. Once settled, I asked the man how long he had been in the forest.

“This’ll be my fifth night,” he said. “I was going to stay longer, but I’m almost out of food, and my underwear’s starting to mildew. I want to leave while I’m still strong enough to top off that fat fuck in Phu Tho.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I dealt with him,” I said, wanting to give the impression of being a dangerous man.

“He tried something with you?”

“I didn’t give him the opportunity.”

I asked if he lived in Phnom Penh, and as the light faded, he told me he operated a small business that offered tours catering to adventure travelers interested in experiencing Cambodia off the beaten path. He went into detail about the business, and although his delivery was smooth, it seemed a rehearsed speech, a story manufactured to cover a more sinister function. I let on that I was also a businessman but left the nature of the business unclear. Our conversation stalled out—it was as if we knew that we had few surprises for the other.

The rain stopped at dusk, and mosquitoes came out in force. I hoped that my faith in malaria medication was not misplaced. With darkness, a salting of stars showed through the canopy, yet their light was insufficient to reveal my neighbor in his tree. I could tell he was still there by the sound of his curses and mosquito-killing slaps. I grew sleepy and had to struggle to keep awake; then, after a couple of hours, I began to cramp, and that woke me up. I asked how much longer we had to wait.

“Don’t know,” the man said. “I thought it would be coming earlier, but maybe it won’t be coming at all. Maybe it’s done with us.”

Irritated, I said, “Why the hell won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve got some ideas, but they’re pretty damn crazy. You seem stable, a lot more so than most of the pitiful bastards left out here. What I was hoping was for you to give me your take on things and see if it lines up with mine. I don’t want to predispose you to thinking about it one way of the other. Okay?”

“The fat guy, he said he thought that whatever it is—the animal, he called it. He thought the animal wanted our help because the Cradles were badasses.”

“Could be. Though I wouldn’t say badass. Just plain bad. Rotten.” I heard him shifting about. “Wait and see, all right? It shouldn’t be much longer.”

I spent the next hour or thereabouts hydrating and rubbing cramps out of my legs. One night of this, I told myself, was all I was going to take. The cramps abated, and I began to feel better. However, my mind still wasn’t right. I alternated between alertness and periods during which my thoughts wandered away from the forest, wishing I had never left home, wishing Kim was there to steady me with her cool rationality, wishing that we could make a real family and have babies, wondering if I would see her again, not because I felt imperiled and believed I might not survive the tea forest but because of my commitment-phobic character and faithless heart. It was in the midst of this reverie that the man in the tree beside me said, “Here it comes.”

I could see no sign of “it,” only darkness and dim stars, and asked in which direction he was looking and what he saw.

“Don’t you feel that?” he asked.

“Feel what?”

The next moment I experienced a drowsy, stoned sensation, as if I had taken a Valium and knocked back a drink or two. The sensation did not intensify but rather seemed to serve as a platform for a feeling of groggy awe. I saw nothing awe-inspiring in my immediate surrounding, but I noticed that the darkness was not so deep as before (I could just make out my neighbor in his tree), and then I realized that this increased luminosity, which I had assumed was due to a thinning of mist overhead, was being generated from every quarter, even from under the water—a faint golden-white radiance was visible beneath the surface. The light continued to brighten at a rapid rate. In the direction of the clearing, the trees stood out sharply against a curdled mass of incandescence and cast shadows across the water. I began to have some inner ear discomfort, as if the air pressure were undergoing rapid changes, but nothing could have greatly diminished my concentration on the matter at hand. It appeared the forest was a bubble of reality encysted in light—light streamed from above, from below, from all the compass points—and, as its magnitude increased, we were about to be engulfed by our confining medium, by the fierce light that burned in the clearing, a weak point in the walls of the bubble that threatened to collapse. Filamentous shapes that might have been many-jointed limbs materialized there and then faded from view; bulkier forms also emerged, vanishing before I could fully grasp their outlines or guess at their function …and then, on my left, I heard a splashing and spotted someone slogging through the chest-deep water, moving toward the clearing at an angle that would bring him to within twenty or twenty-five feet of my tree, reminding me of the man portrayed on the cover of The Tea Forest . As the figure came abreast of the tree, I saw it was not a man but a woman wearing a rag of a shirt that did little to hide her breasts and with hair hanging in wet strings across features that, although decidedly feminine, bore the distinct Cradle stamp. She passed without catching sight of me.