Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

Later, Robert sat alone with Burke in his trailer. He was cold and still dripping and he could not get his mind to focus.

After a time, Robert broke the silence.

You going to fire me?

More than your job is at stake, Burke told him. You could be arrested. You could have been killed.

Robert looked at him. Burke seemed weary and tired. He reached across the desk and touched Robert’s shoulder. The work whistle sounded and they both turned toward the window. The workday was over and the crew returned to camp, dragging their sorry bodies up the trail. They were more mud than men, their bodies streaked yellow and brown. Outside the trailer, someone had rigged up the hose and they took turns blasting the slog from their bodies.

We maim ourselves, Robert said quietly.

What?

Robert shook his head.

Nothing, he said and looked away.

And that day when he saw Burke lower himself into the river to rescue his crewman, the chill closed around his own heart. He was wrong. The world was small. Far too small. Someone called his name. He was running. He saw Burke’s face blanching, the eyes wide as he realized what was happening. Robert dodged his grasp and sped forward. He heard his name again, Chatham! but already he was in the air, parallel to the surge of yellow. The water rose to meet him; icy, it took his chest and his legs and his face, then he was under. He felt the hard bottom against his stomach, the air blowing through his lungs, then a shock of warm spilling from his head, his name runneling out — Robertrobertrobert — like some prayer out into the dark. And then he was not Robert, but the meat of Robert, the bone of Robert, the throbbing clockwork of Robert’s heart and blood. There was no ceiling, no bottom, just a velvet tongue of unending and deepening black.

When he opened his eyes, he was disappointed he was not dead.

You’re all right, someone said.

I’m not, he said. Then it was black again.

He did not know where he was. There was the smell of earth. Sod. The bitter fetor of deep soil. Far in the distance, the horizon was on fire — a long curtain of sky unraveling at its fringe. He could feel its heat now, crushing down, and a cold sweat broke through his pores. He tried to will his eyes open. The lids would not part. His arms would not move. A voice murmured above him.

Look’ah’ gon’ com’rown.

The voice was deep. Husky. The groan of swollen wood. A second voice answered. Crimson streaked across the inner walls of his head. He tried again to move his arms. Something lifted from his brow. He touched the region above his eye gently. An undertow of pain rose to his skin. He saw a ceiling of thatched peat and amber light. A woman floated above him, the eyes pocketed in dark.

You alive?

Her hair was dark and matted, encircling her long face. Her ear was against his chest. She placed her hand over his brow.

Da-may.

He felt something force its way into his mouth. It was bitter and greasy. A finger.

Name?

It was a man’s voice now. Thick. Harsh.

He worked his tongue around the taste and gave them the name. Robert Chatham.

Rowbear Shah’tome, the voice repeated. Why is you here, Rowbear Shah’tome?

The woman stood and wiped her hands on a leather apron. His throat hurt. He wanted water. She appeared again and laid a strong-smelling poultice across his forehead. A man materialized beside her. He was older, with steely blue eyes that peered out through the rough crags of his face. He knelt down close, their noses almost touching. Robert could see the flaxen beard moving under his breath.

Have I died?

The man and the woman looked at each other.

Give him sleep, the woman said. He could see she was seated in a chair now, wringing her hands. Her leg was bouncing on her heel. T’ain’t no use how he a-fevered still. Give him sleep and sound him later.

Sa’rye. The man drew away, and for a moment, Robert was alone with the woman. She sat there, still bouncing her heel. Her eyes watched him. Cobalt. Unnatural. There was a split down the center of her bottom lip from where it’d been chewed near to black. There was something in her hand. A bowl. She stood up and crossed over to him with it, scooping gray and wispy slime with two fingers. She knelt down by his head. Ah, she said. She opened her mouth wide. He did as he was told and she pushed the paste onto his tongue. Then very gently, she closed his jaws with the heel of her palm.

She wiped her hands clean and drew a rug up to his chin.

Strong chains, she whispered. And strong arms to haul them.

ROBERT SLEPT IN FITS. TIME seemed to slow then stumble forward. He felt himself being jerked from one moment to the next. From dreaming to waking, then dreaming again. One moment he was hot, his brain a sun bursting out his eyes. The next moment his limbs were ice. He woke several times to find himself sobbing and not understanding why. Faces stood over him. They asked questions. He tried to answer but could not make sense of his words. They scowled. They threatened. Then they disappeared. There was a wasp in the room. It hung upside down from the ceiling. He watched its slow progress. Its swollen stinger throbbing. He saw it dislodge from its hold, fly down to his lips to drink the sweat on his upper lip. He blinked and saw that, no, it was on the ceiling still.

The woman came to him often. She would swathe his forehead in meal, then stretch out his limbs. First his arms, then his legs, then each finger, every toe. She’d rub them together in her palms, tease the blood back into the flesh. She carried bowls full of smells, and she’d smooth the pastes on his chest. He’d breathe deeply. When he shivered and howled, she forced down his left hand and cut his index finger with a knife and sucked out the blood till the fog cleared. Soon he could tell again where one day ended and another began. Then at last his fever broke.

The woman sat him up to change the rug, which had been fouled by his sweat and phlegm.

What’s your name? he asked.

It was the first thing he remembered saying for a long time. His voice was clear and strong. The house, he realized, was far smaller than he’d first thought. It was a small dugout that’d been made smaller by the animal pelts that hung from the ceiling, forming curtains. He had been laid up on a pallet of soft mulch. Shelves had been carved out of the earthen walls, and a small fire pit had been carved out of the wall behind him. Above it were a pair of rifles, crossed over a wood crest. The woman looked at him, startled.

Your name? he said again.

She seemed caught off guard. She looked past the curtains then back at Robert.

I’s Frankie.

He tried to stand. He balanced himself against the wall. His legs were stiff, new.

How long I been here?

Two, she said.

Two days?

Non, she said. Two weeks.

Her eyes were jumping from the rifles on the wall to the man who now stood in her path to them. He realized that she might be afraid of him. Her nostrils were slightly flared, and the sun had freckled her neck and arms. They stood facing each other, her shoulders hunched, as if she’d been cornered. Robert took his hand from the wall and held it out in front of him.

The woman called out to the other room, and two men hurried in. The older of the two was the man he’d seen earlier. The other was younger, and thinner, with a waxed mustache and an arrowhead of dark brown hair beneath his lip. They were in full trapper garb, draped in tanned leather, their rifles in their arms. The woman spoke hurriedly, too quick for Robert to understand. The two men kept their eyes fixed on him. He could see the younger one, his face impassive. His hand drifted down to his belt and found rest at the hilt of a buck knife. When the woman had finally finished speaking, the older of the two men stepped forward.