The Last Child

CHAPTER TWELVE

Levi moved carefully on the mud and slick rocks. The river tossed bits of light that reminded him of something from when he was a boy. There was a rhythm, a pattern, like a kaleidoscope his daddy gave him the year before the cancer took him. The trail bent to high ground and Levi used his free hand to pull on roots and saplings to get him up the slick clay. He dug in the edges of his shoes for traction. When he reached the high, flat stretch, he stopped to catch his breath; and when he started again, the river lights winked out behind the willows and the ash, the sweet gums and the long-fingered pines. It went truly dark, and that’s when he saw the faces. He saw his wife laughing at him and then suddenly not, her face gone reddish black and wet, almost by itself. He saw the man who was with her, and how his face went wrong, too, all red and crooked and flat on one side.

And the sounds.

Levi tried to stop thinking; he wanted to wash the images out of his head, pump water in one ear and flush it, dirty, out the other. He wanted to be empty, wanted to make room for when God spoke. He was happy then, even if it was just one word repeated over and over. Even when it was just a name that rang in his head like a church bell.

Sofia.

Levi heard it again.

Her name.

He walked on and felt warm water on his face. It took a mile for him to understand that he was crying. He didn’t care. Nobody could see him out here, not his wife or his neighbors, none of the ones that made jokes when people said things he didn’t understand, or laughed at how he went quiet when he found dead animals on the roadside. So he let the tears come. He listened for God, and let the tears run hot down his ruined face.

He tried to remember the last night he’d slept, but could not. The week behind him was a colored string of blurred images. Digging in the dirt. Walking.

That thing he done…

That thing.

Levi closed his eyes, so tired; and when his foot went out from under him, he fell on the slick clay. He landed on his back and slid down the bank, over stones that tore deep and cut. He struck his head on something hard, saw a burst of light, and felt pain explode in his side. It stabbed through him, horrible and jagged and raw. He felt something break, a violent tug, and realized that his box was gone. His arms flailed, touched plastic once and felt it glide away.

It was in the river.

God almighty, it was gone in the dark.

Levi stared out at black water and pinprick lights. His big hands clenched.

Levi couldn’t swim.

He worried about that for a second, but was in the water even before God told him to jump. He landed, legs spread, arms out, and felt dirty water push into his mouth. He came up spitting, then went down again, his hands loud on the river, water fast and cold between his fingers. He struggled and choked and feared he would die, then found that he could stand in water that rose to his chest. So he stood and beat his way downriver, tore through bits of light until he found his package spinning idly behind a fallen tree.

He fought it to shore, crawled up the bank, and ignored the pain that tried to cripple him. He thought again of his wife.

She shouldn’t have done the things she done.

He wrapped himself around the package. Pain all in him. Something not right in his body.

She shouldn’t have done it.

Eventually, Levi slept, still curled around the package, moaning as his giant limbs twitched.