Bird Box

sixteen

On the river, Malorie feels the heat of the midday sun. Instead of bringing her peace, it reminds her how visible they must be.

“Mommy,” the Boy whispers.

Malorie leans forward. Her palm is pierced by a splinter from the oar. This makes three.

“What is it?”

“Shhh,” the Boy says.

Malorie stops rowing. She is listening.

The Boy is right. Something moves on land to their left. Sticks break. More than one.

The man in the boat, Malorie’s mind screams, saw something on this river.

Could it be him? Could he be out in the woods? Could he be after her, waiting for her to get stuck, ready to rip off her blindfold? The children’s?

More sticks break. It moves slowly. Malorie thinks of the house they’ve left behind. They were safe there. Why did they leave? Is the place they are heading going to be any safer? How could it be? In a world where you can’t open your eyes, isn’t a blindfold all you could ever hope for?

We left because some people choose to wait for news and others make their own.

Like Tom used to say. Malorie, she knows, will never stop being inspired by him. The very thought of him, here, on the river, brings her hope.

Tom, she wants to tell him, your ideas were good.

“Boy,” she whispers, paddling again, fearful that they are too close to the left bank, “what do you hear?”

“It’s close, Mommy.” Then, “I’m scared.”

There is a moment of silence. In it, Malorie imagines a danger only inches away.

She stops paddling again, to listen better. She cranes her neck to the left.

The front of the rowboat connects with something hard. Malorie shrieks. The children scream.

We’ve run into the bank!

Malorie jabs a paddle at where she thinks the mud is but she does not connect.

“Leave us alone!” she yells, her face contorted. Suddenly, she longs for the walls of the house. There are no walls on this river. No cellar beneath them. No attic above.

“Mommy!”

As the Girl screams for her, something breaks through the branches. Something big.

Malorie jabs the paddle again but it only breaks the water. She grabs the Boy and Girl and pulls them close.

She hears a growl.

“Mommy!”

“Quiet!” she yells, pulling the Girl even closer.

Is it the man? Deranged? Do the creatures growl? Do they make any noise at all?

A second growl now and suddenly Malorie understands what it is. It’s doglike. Canine.

Wolves.

She doesn’t have time to coil before a wolf’s claw slashes her shoulder.

She screams. Immediately she feels the warm blood cascading the length of her arm. Cold water sloshes in the rowboat’s bottom.

Urine, too.

They smell it on us, Malorie thinks, frantic, turning her head in every direction and aimlessly wielding the paddle. They know we can’t defend ourselves.

She hears another low growling. It’s a pack. The rowboat’s tip is snagged on something. Malorie can’t find it with her paddle. But the boat swivels, as if the wolves have taken ahold of the bow.

They could jump in! THEY COULD JUMP IN! Crawl to the front of the boat. You have to set it free.

Swinging the paddle above the heads of the children, screaming, Malorie rises. The boat leans to the right. She thinks they’re going to tip. She steadies herself. The wolves snarl. Her shoulder is hot with a kind of pain she has never experienced before. Holding it, blindly, wildly, she waves a paddle at the boat’s tip. But she cannot reach it. So she steps forward.

“Mommy!”

She drops to her knees. The Boy is beside her now. He is holding on to her shirt.

“I need you to let go!” she yells.

Something jumps into the water.

Malorie turns her head toward the sound.

How shallow is it here? Can they get in the boat? Can the wolves GET IN THE BOAT??

Turning quickly, she crawls to the end of the rowboat and reaches out, into the darkness.

The children scream behind her. Water splashes. The boat rocks. Wolves bark. And in the darkness of her own closed eyes, Malorie’s hand feels a stump.

She yells as she reaches with both arms now. Her left shoulder aches. She feels the frigid October air on her shredded skin. With her second hand she feels a second stump.

We’re wedged. That’s all! We’re wedged!

As she pushes hard against the two stumps, something bangs against the boat. She can hear claws, scratching, trying to climb in.

The boat grates against the wood. Water splashes. Malorie hears it from every direction. There’s another growl, and heat, too. Something is close to her face.

She screams loudly and pushes.

Then, they are free.

Turning fast, Malorie stumbles and falls into the middle bench.

“Boy!” she screams.

“Mommy!”

Then she reaches for the Girl and finds she is pressed against the middle bench.

“Are you two all right? Speak to me!”

“I’m scared!” the Girl says.

“I’m fine, Mommy!” the Boy says.

Malorie is paddling hard. Her left shoulder, already pressed past the point of exhaustion, resists. But she forces it to work.

Malorie paddles. The children are tucked at her knees and feet. The water breaks beneath the wood. She paddles. What else can she do? What else can she do but paddle? The wolves could be coming. How shallow is the river here?

Malorie paddles. It feels like her arm is dangling from her body. But she paddles. The place she is taking the children to may no longer exist. The excruciating trip, blindly taking the river, could result in nothing. When they get there, down the river, will they be safe? What if what she’s looking for isn’t there?