Morgan Rice: Arena One: Slaverunners

Before I head in, I feel the need to wash my hands. I just reach down, grab a handful of snow, and rinse my hands with it, grateful for the snow – usually, I have to hike to the closest stream, since we don’t have any running water. I rise, and before going inside, I stop for a second and take in my surroundings. At first I am listening, as I always do, for any signs of noise, of danger. After several seconds, I realize the world is as still as can be. Finally, slowly, I relax, breathe deep, feel the snowflakes on my cheeks, take in the perfect quiet, and realize how utterly beautiful my surroundings are. The towering pines are covered in white, snow falls endlessly from a purple sky, and the world seems perfect, like a fairy tale. The fireplace glows through the window, and from here, our house looks like the coziest place in the world.

I come back inside the house with the fish, closing the door behind me, and it feels good to come into a place so much warmer, with the soft light of the fire reflecting off of everything. Bree has tended the fire well, as she always does, adding logs expertly, and now it roars to even greater heights. She is preparing place settings on the floor, beside the fireplace, with knives and forks from the kitchen. Sasha sits attentively beside her, watching her every move.

I carry the fish over to the fire. I don’t really know how to cook it, so I figure I’ll just put it over the fire for a while, let it roast, turn it over a few times, and hope that works. Bree reads my mind: she immediately heads to the kitchen and returns with a sharp knife and two long skewers. She skewers each piece of fish, then takes her portion and holds it over the flame. I follow her lead. Bree’s domestic instincts have always been superior to mine, and I’m grateful for her help. We have always been a good team.

We both stand there, staring at the flames, transfixed, holding our fish over the fire until our arms grow heavy. The smell of fish fills the room, and after about ten minutes I get a pain in my stomach and grow impatient with hunger. I decide mine is done; after all, I figure people eat raw fish sometimes, so how bad could it be? Bree seems to agree, so we each put our portions on our plates and sit on the floor, beside each other, our backs to the couch and our feet to the fire.

“Careful,” I warn. “There are still lots of bones inside.”

I pull out the bones, and Bree does the same. Once I clear enough of them, I take a small chunk of the pink fish meat, hot to the touch, and eat it, bracing myself.

It actually tastes good. It could use salt, or some kind of seasoning, but at least it tastes cooked, and fresh as can be. I can feel the much-needed protein enter my body. Bree wolfs hers down, too, and I can see the relief on her face. Sasha sits beside her, staring, licking her lips, and Bree chooses a big chunk, carefully de-bones it and feeds it to Sasha. Sasha chews it thoroughly and swallows it, then licks her chops and stares back, eager for more.

“Sasha, here,” I say.

She comes running over, and I take a scrap of my fish, de-bone it, and feed her; she swallows it down in seconds. Before I know it, my fish is gone – as is Bree’s – and I am surprised to feel my stomach growling again. I already wish I had caught more. Still, this was a bigger dinner than we’d had in weeks, and I try to force myself to be content with what we have.

Then I remember the sap. I jump up, remove the thermos from its hiding place and hold it out to Bree.

“Go ahead,” I smile, “the first sip is yours.”

“What is it?” she asks, unscrewing it and holding it to her nose. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”

“It’s maple sap,” I say. “It’s like sugar water. But better.”

She tentatively sips, then looks at me, eyes open wide in delight. “It’s delicious!” she cries. She takes several big sips, then stops and hands it to me. I can’t resist taking several big sips myself. I feel the sugar rush. I lean over and carefully pour some into Sasha’s bowl; she laps it all up and seems to like it, too.

But I am still starving. In a rare moment of weakness, I think of the jar of jam and figure, why not? After all, I assume there’s lots more of it in that cottage on the mountaintop – and if this night isn’t cause to celebrate, then when is?

I bring down the mason jar, unscrew it, reach in with my finger, and take out a big heaping. I place it on my tongue and let it sit in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing. It’s heavenly. I hold out the rest of the jar, still half-full, to Bree. “Go ahead,” I say, “finish it. There’s more in our new house.”

Bree’s eyes open wide as she reaches out. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Shouldn’t we save it?”

I shake my head. “It’s time to treat ourselves.”

Bree doesn’t need much convincing. In moments, she eats it all, sparing just one more heaping for Sasha.

We lie there, propped against the couch, our feet to the fire, and finally, I feel my body start to relax. Between the fish, the sap and the jam, finally, slowly, I feel my strength return. I look over at Bree, who’s already dozing off, Sasha’s head on her lap, and while she still looks sick, for the first time in a while I detect hope in her eyes.

“I love you, Brooke,” she says softly.

“I love you, too,” I answer.

But by the time I look over, she is already fast asleep.

Bree lies on the couch opposite the fire, while I now sit in the chair beside her; it is a habit we’ve become accustomed to over the months. Every night before bed, she curls up on the couch, too scared to fall asleep alone in her room. I keep her company, waiting until she dozes off, after which I’ll carry her to bed. Most nights we don’t have the fire, but we sit there anyway.

Bree always has nightmares. She didn’t use to: I remember a time, before the war, when she fell asleep easily. In fact, I’d even tease her for this, call her “bedtime Bree” as she’d fall asleep in the car, on a couch, reading a book in a chair – anywhere. But now it’s nothing like that; now, she’ll be up for hours, and when she does sleep, it’s restless. Most nights I hear her whimpers or screams through the thin walls. Who can blame her? With the horror we’ve seen, it’s amazing she hasn’t completely lost it. There are too many nights when I can barely sleep myself.

The one thing that helps her is when I read to her. Luckily, when we escaped, Bree had the presence of mind to grab her favorite book. The Giving Tree . Every night, I read it to her. I know it by heart now, and when I am tired, sometimes I close my eyes and just recite it from memory. Luckily, it’s short.

As I lean back in the chair, feeling sleepy myself, I turn back the worn cover and begin to read. Sasha lies on the couch beside Bree, ears up, and sometimes I wonder if she’s listening, too.

“Once, there was a tree, and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come, and he would gather her leaves, and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.”

I look over and see that Bree, on the couch, is fast asleep already. I’m relieved. Maybe it was the fire, or maybe the meal. Sleep is what she needs most now, to recover. I remove my new scarf, wrapped snugly around my neck, and gently drape it over her chest. Finally, her little body stops trembling.

I put one final log on the fire, sit back in my chair, and turn, staring into the flames. I watch it slowly die and wish I’d carried more logs down. It’s just as well. It will be safer this way.

A log crackles and pops as I settle back, feeling more relaxed than I have in years. Sometimes, after Bree falls asleep, I’ll pick up my own book and read for myself. I see it sitting there, on the floor: Lord of the Flies . It is the only book I have left and is so worn from use, it looks like it’s a hundred years old. It’s a strange experience, having only one book left in the world. It makes me realize how much I’d taken for granted, makes me pine for the days when there were libraries.