His voice trailed off and finally Arie could see something open in him, an enormous well of heartache and longing. He stared at her nakedly and she sat very still, letting him get to it on his own.
“When I saw you here, I wanted to yell to you,” he said. “I wanted to yell and say take me with you.” He looked at Arie a moment longer and then fell against her. She didn’t hesitate, just pulled him into her lap, wrapping her arms around him as he buried his face in her neck and wept.
It went on for some time. Arie held him on her lap like an infant, this boy who was nearly bigger than she, while his sobs broke over their hearts like combers at high tide. The sorrow and loss after years of uncertain solitude poured forth, and she held tight. Her hand moved in a steady circle on his back, up and down, up and down, until he began to catch his breath and small silences grew between his sobs. Finally, they simply rested in silence.
Talus had drawn close, sitting beside the chair and watching Kory soberly. She didn’t try to nuzzle him or get his attention in any way, only sat stoically by while he wept. Curran stirred the embers and placed another small log on the fire, and the veil of dried lichen clinging to it sizzled up in a shower of tiny sparks.
After a while, Kory gave a large, shaky sigh and yawned so hard they heard his jaw creak. He sat up, moving carefully off Arie’s lap, then rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve. His face and eyes were puffy, but he was himself again.
“When do we go?” he said.
Arie smiled. Everyone seemed lightened. Talus was on her feet, licking Kory’s hand, big tail swinging.
“I guess I’ll have plenty of time to help you with the slingshot,” said Renna from her spot next to Handy.
A slow grin inched over Kory’s still-blotchy face. “You wish,” he said. “You need lots more practice.”
“Say what? I kicked your butt, little man.”
“Four days,” said Arie.
They all looked at her.
“That’s when we go,” she said. “Four days.”
Curran stood. When he stretched, his hands nearly touched the rough, overhead beams. “Guess we better wash the dishes, then.” He laid a hand on the back of Kory’s neck, much as he had with Talus moments before. “Come on, Eagle Eye. Heat me some wash water.”
Much later, he was down below, once more working his way around the dial on the short-wave radio. Arie was on watch upstairs and he’d lost track of time. He leaned against the table, finger on the knob, the hiss of static a comfortable white noise in his head. Next to his left hand was a double-shot of tequila in a bulbous, hand-thrown mug. He took another small sip, savoring the sweet-acerbic tang and the heat as it moved from tongue to throat, belly to bloodstream.
Thanks, Papa.
There were cigars, too, but Curran had decided those could wait for another time. The reposado had his head swimming pleasantly enough. He pulled the microphone close and thumbed the talk button.
“Is there anybody out there?” he intoned, then chuckled. What a trip it would be to make contact with a line from an ancient rock band that had gone extinct however many years ago. “Maybe half-a-billion,” he whispered to himself, and took another mouthful of tequila.
The radio made a momentary click and crackle. Curran put down his mug. He leaned close and turned up the volume a quarter turn, pressed the talk button again.
“Hello? If you hear me, come back. Over.” More blank hiss. More minute dial adjustments. “Speak to me, beautiful.” He laughed again, took another golden sip from his mug. “Anybody have a lemon? I have salt. And I can pay in smokes.” He waited. Nothing.
But for the unnatural pinpricks of light from the radio, it was dark in the cellar. It felt darker than dark, even darker than the unlit cabin overhead or the little clearing at the foot of the front porch. It was the density of earthen walls, not just their imperviousness to the faintest flicker of light from a single star, but the way they closed out the tiny sounds and whispers of air that reassured us, unconsciously, that we were alive in the wide world.
“Maybe better not think too hard on that, pal,” he whispered. This time when he lifted the mug, there was only enough in it to wet his lips. He licked at a last drop clinging to his mustache and briefly considered a refill. His head swam pleasantly. Nah. Make it last.
With a hand that wavered a tad bit more than he intended, Curran gave the large dial one last twiddle, meaning to call it quits. Again, for just a moment, there was a pause in the somnolent hiss, broken by a distinct click. A double click. It didn’t sound accidental. The hair on the back of his neck moved, and he suddenly wished he had skipped the booze. Craning his neck so his face was inches from the radio, he waited. Thumbed the talk button twice without speaking.
Waited.
Clickclick.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. The words dropped flat in the sodden room. A pulse from his lizard brain zinged down his arm and into his hand. He yanked back from the microphone as if it had burned him. He put his feet flat on the floor and rolled backward from the desk.
That was somebody. Right? Somebody had responded. Had heard him and answered in a fashion. Hadn’t spoken, though. Hadn’t come back as Curran had imagined, with an excited, Hey, man! Good to hear another voice!
He stood, pushed the chair under the desk, and flipped the radio off. Total darkness closed around him, bringing a sense of drunken vertigo. The stairs were directly behind him, and he put out his arms to feel his way. Just as he had the night before, he slammed into the row of metal lockers with a hollow, metallic crash. Shit. Laying his palms on their cool surface for balance, he edged right. At the end corner, he waved one arm into the blackness, meaning to grab hold of the rough banister. The bannister that should have been right there, but wasn’t. Now his heart was hammering in his ears. He inched his foot forward, groping with his hand, yet not wanting to have it out there in the black room. One step, fumble around at nothing. Another step, more nothing.
He thudded into a wall. Smooth plastic under his hands, covered with ridges and wrinkles. The dimensional wall map—so now he was behind the stairs. Curran wiped sweat off his forehead with a shaking hand, took a moment to breathe, and tried again.
When he finally found the stairs, he scrambled up on all fours. The hatch will be locked, he thought. But it swung open easily, and then he was standing in the kitchen. Across the room, a few last embers flickered weakly in the fireplace. Muted gray light filtered through the windows. A faint smell of baking still hung in the air.
Meaning to step out for a piss, he crossed to the front door. Then, through the narrow window next to it, a shadow moved, a momentary suggestion of stealth on the front porch. He grasped a walking stick propped near the table, but it felt insubstantial. Instead, he took a chunk of wood from the box by the stove. It was a pitiless weight in his hand. He skirted out from in front of the window and crept to the door. His inebriation was blowing off him now. He put one hand on the latch, bore down on the stove length with the other, and waited.
There was a soft creak of the porch floor. Curran flung open the door with the club raised over his head, crossing the threshold in a rush and a grunt.
“Whoa!” The shadow jumped backward, arms raised, and became Handy.
The chunk of wood fell out of Curran’s hand and thudded to the porch floor. “Jesus, man. What the fuck?”
Handy steadied himself. “That’s what I was going to say.”