August Ansel - The Attic

“I’ll take first watch tonight,” said Curran. He pulled the sky panel lead from the spring clip and lowered it, bolted it. “You all get some rest.”

Handy laid the sharpened stick in his hand with the others he’d whittled, stood and brushed shavings from his arms and legs. “Give a thump when you’re ready to be spelled,” he told Curran. “I’ll be right here.” He indicated the spot on the floor next to the sofa.

“I reckon I’ll sleep better tonight than I have for a while,” said Arie. “Things are battened pretty damned snug down there. You boys got a hard start on it.”

“Tomorrow we should have it finished,” said Curran. “The whole thing solid.” As he crossed to the inside hatch, he touched big, tentative fingers to Arie’s shoulder. “Good night,” he said.

Arie reached up and gave his hand a brusque squeeze. Like a big paw it was, rough and warm. “Watch well, Curran,” she said.

“Tomorrow I have to show you my map,” murmured Renna. “I need input.”

“Not to worry,” said Arie. When she saw that Handy was bedded down, she blew out the last candle. “We still have plenty of nattering to do. We’ll all throw in on the map project.”

She moved by instinct and by feel from the work table to the compost bucket at the back wall, and squatted for a piss. Washing her hands and face, drying them, she heard Handy and Renna’s whispers—not the words, just the simple exchange of thoughts on breath. She was next to the mandala now, and she leaned on it, arms extended, palms flat on the wall. The labyrinthine ridges imprinted on her skin. “I sojourn.” Mouthing the words. “We sojourn. My life is my own.” This will always be true, she thought, her fingers moving into the smooth grooves of wood. “I shall give, and I shall receive, yet my life will forever be my own.” The truth of it seeped through her, a warm rush like a shot of alcohol to the belly. “Rest for me,” she whispered. “Rest for them.” Circling in, out. “Rest for the Mother, in time.”

In the far reaches of the night, the wee hours they once were called, Curran’s signal to Handy roused her only partway. Her mind floated to the surface like a soap bubble. Down in the rooms of ruin. The thought was a whisper in her head. But they weren’t a ruin now, were they, those rooms? She was aware of Handy rising, opening the sky panel and going up to watch. Chill damp fell into the attic with a smell like the ocean, and Arie curled on her side with the bedding drawn around her.

By the end of the second day, the lower part of the house was closed tight, boards over the outsides of the windows as well as the insides. While Handy and Curran completed the heavy work and Renna finished cataloging supplies upstairs, Arie tackled the leftover mess. She cut the fabric from moldering upholstery into large scraps, segregated all the usable items piled on Granny’s table into what she would keep for herself and what she would send with the others when they left. Remnant bits of wood she collected for fire-starting. Irretrievable trash she tossed onto a growing heap of refuse in the backyard. She swiped the ceilings free of cobwebs and brushed every last particle of debris from the corners.

When she was done, the floorboards, though scarred and pitted with rot in places, were clean. Even with the sun still above the horizon, the rooms were all dark. But for the first time since closing herself in, she felt she could use the lamps freely. Tonight they could even light Curran’s bright lantern, and it would be imperceptible from outside.

“It doesn’t look like the same house.”

Arie turned. Handy stood surveying the space the same way she was doing, both of them with legs apart, hands on hips. “Nothing is the same,” she said.

“Damned clean,” he said, “for a place going on empty in a few days.”

She studied him, as she had so many times since the day he appeared in the clearing by the river. His expression was innocuous, but she knew he was testing.

“I think it would be good for us to spread out some,” she told him. There would be a time and place to make them see that, yes: they’d be leaving without her. But she wouldn’t let him rush her there. “Renna could stand to get out of the attic. She’s been a good sport, cooped up alone these last two days.” She linked her arm through Handy’s, and they followed the small light at the end of the corridor where Curran had lit his candle. “We’ll have our meal down here tonight, and our talk, and you’ll make a sleeping place. I’d like to have some privacy, too.”

He stopped short. “Sister,” he said. There was something stern in his tone, peremptory. She thought he was about to object, perhaps revert to the prissy posture he’d taken about Renna during those first days and spout one of Daddy Mack’s many rules governing copulation and procreation. But instead, he placed one hand on Granny’s bedroom door. “This must be tended,” he said.

“Yes.”

“It’s the last thing.”

“It is,” she said. Talus had come to the door of the little bedroom and stood on the threshold, watching them. The wavering light turned her into a brushy silhouette with a wagging tail.

“I boarded the windows today, in and out,” he said, “and I split the last kitchen cupboard face in three pieces to nail across here.” He took her hand and moved it in the dark so that she could feel the rough barrier. “But it… she must be tended,” he said again. “We can’t leave her here like this.” He paused. “It makes no sense, Ariela.”

Arie sighed. “It has a sense you don’t yet see. But I hear you. I’m not arguing, am I?” She pulled on his arm.

Curran had made a tidy space for himself and Talus in the little room, with a bed for each of them and a ragged metal folding chair for a nightstand. On it was set a votive candle, a comb, and his book: The Great Gatsby, with a black feather stuck between the pages to mark his place. Each time Arie had passed through today, going to or from the inside hatch, she was struck by the warmth of it, how it reminded her of his orderly house in the stump. He was stretched out now, one arm over his eyes, snoring lightly. They’d taken the bandage off that morning. The bright, turquoise thread Arie had used to stitch his head was now maroon with old blood, and his bruises were healing well—a ghastly rainbow of yellow, brown, and green.

Talus circled behind Arie and Handy and shoved her solid self between them. She put back her ears and vigorously licked their hands. Handy laughed and dropped to one knee. Talus gave his head and neck a thorough snuffle, and leaned her haunch against his shoulder so hard he fell sideways. “Hey, watch it,” he said, and gave her a vigorous scratch on the rump. She slitted her eyes with pleasure.

“She’s a treasure, isn’t she,” said Arie. The uncomplicated expression of happiness on Talus’s face was echoed on Handy’s, a rare smile that made him an extraordinary man to look at. The sorrowful sense of loss hit her again, the certainty of how much she would miss him when he took the road. This time, she didn’t resist that little arrow. No more pushing. She let it pierce, let the small sting of it run all through her until it settled and faded. “Let Curran sleep a bit. He and I will trade the watch tonight,” she said, starting her climb up. “You’ve earned a night off.”

They took their evening meal in the attic by the light of two candle stubs. When they were finished, Arie announced with a great flourish that they were going to have their chat tonight in the living room—all of them.