Upon This Waste

Chapter 13

He woke up in a cold sweat. He opened his eyes with a gasp and his throat was dry and scratchy and he coughed. It was still dark out, but the moon was bright and tall shadows crept into his view. They were slender and so dark that whatever they covered seemed not to exist. They seemed to Isaiah like the crawling masses of an emaciated people, dragging themselves forward with ripped and worn fingers. He sat up and could feel his spine taking his weight. He wasn't tired, or if he were it didn't matter because he couldn't sleep. He stood up and walked out into the limbs of the malnourished host that sprawled across the ground. He figured Running-Bird would be up, he was always up before the sun.

He went back inside and washed his face and put a shirt on and then left to talk to Running-Bird. The walk was silent and he enjoyed it, though it was cool in the hour of night furthest from the sunset. He could see the forests as single shapes away from him, tall and looming curtains set against the clouds. The wind in distant boughs played tricks with him. He could hear calls like false whimpers, like the secret whispers of phantasmal children that lead deep into the woods. Or, perhaps they sounded more like the secret whispers of greedy and cunning men luring, enticing, beguiling. Isaiah trusted neither the forest of the night or the day. Fire roared from them always.

Soon he had arrived and Running-Bird was outside looking in vain for the departed stars. "I always loved the night," Running-Bird said with his eyes straight up. "Something about it is more relaxing than the day."

"I keep thinking about today," Isaiah said. "I'm worried, Running-Bird."

"How about some coffee, huh? I'll get some water boiling. Come inside, its cold out here." Running-Bird motioned with his head and started away.

"I think I'll wait out here. Just yell when it's done, will you?"

"It won't be long," Running-Bird replied, turning and entering his home.

Isaiah laid down on the ground and tried to imagine the sky filled with stars, but his efforts were of little use and he grew tired of imagining. He had tried often when he was younger to imagine stars in the night sky, but usually none appeared. He had long decided that light was hard to see in the darkness, just as darkness was hard to see in the light. That didn't stop him from still occasionally trying though. He closed his eyes and the extent of his senses, real and imagined, was the hearing of silence and the trickery of the wind in the trees.

A light came on. It was dim at first, but grew brighter, and he thought that he could almost feel the warmth. Maybe the sun was rising, he figured, but it seemed a little early for that. No, it wasn't the same color as the sun, it had to be a fire. And then he could hear the crackling and the stirring of the flame and he knew that it had to be a fire, but where? And then he saw it clearly. It wasn't far from him, but something was in the way. Something blocked his view from seeing it all. It was a rock, and he was hiding behind it, and he peered around it terrified.

Some men were talking in low voices beside the fire. They kicked something at the fire's base and it rolled silently like a branch. They picked something up and let it fall and it dropped down with a thud. They began to laugh and spit and cough and one of them took a drink of something. Beyond the fire, he could see a man snooping around in the trees.

"Don't you think we should get goin'?" one of the men said after their fit of laughter had died down.

"Nah, we're fine," another said. "Hell, there ain't nobody who'd do nothin' about this for miles."

"The hell are we gonna do with 'em?" one of the voices added.

"I don't know. I don't care neither. Burn 'em in the fire here I s'pose."