My brain was shrouded in a deep forest mist, a heavy gray cloud cover of regret and remorse, a thick fog of denial. The heavy, wet, dripping gunk enveloped my mind and my spirit. The weighted mist throbbed within my skull, making coherent thought difficult, memory painful, the future inconceivable.
Death followed life, another stage of the human life cycle that awaited the elderly, the sick, and the infirm. Anticipated by the middle aged. Startling and tragic among the youthful and healthy.
I’d witnessed more death in the past six months than in all the years of my life before the storm. As a trainee, I’d not handled the death of my patients stoically or professionally, but I handled them. Each of them left a visceral scar deep within my soul. The stinging pain of Joshua’s death so many years ago had faded, leaving the ceaseless, unavoidable prickle of guilt. The deaths of Yucca and Tung were dull aches in my ribcage. Cassia’s unnamed son was a bad tooth radiating into my skull.
Mangrove—my hunter. The silky skin of those earlier scars was torn open, flayed and raw, the truth bleeding forth: my fault. I am to blame for all the bad things.
I lay in the hammock of the grieving shanty. Its existence was known by only two other climbers: Sorbus and Cedrus. One of them had built it, a lonely trainee practicing his trade. One of them had mourned in it, a distressed father trying to regain self-control.
The construction was crude. Daylight peeked through the ceiling joins; a heavy rainstorm would produce a good-sized waterfall in the center of the room. My brain welcomed the brief distraction of noting deficiencies in the structure, but I couldn’t banish the image from my mind. The moment I closed my eyes, I was right back with Mangrove. The branch, snapping.
Mangrove’s eyes.
His eyes. Such terror.
I had panicked. Frozen. I knew it. I was as useless to him in his need as I’d been to Michelia in the clinic. I should have grabbed him. I could have saved him. We shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I shouldn’t have been hunting. I shot the fatal arrow. The Great Ones punished him because of me. All my fault. Useless. Useless. Useless.
And now he’s dead. Because of me.
His eyes. He knew he was dead before he died.
He knew.
The gray fog in my head crushed me, suffocated me, but I couldn’t break free. I don’t know how much time passed. Hours? Days? I ventured into the drizzle to pee, crawling back into the dark embrace of the hammock like a spider cowering from sunlight. I felt neither hunger nor thirst; every cell of my body was numb—except for the blazing, rending stab through my center. I curled in upon myself, focusing on the pain within my core, willing it to grow, willing it to devour me. I wanted to disappear, to die, to cease existing.
To never have been born.
A pressure on my shoulder, a dark brown hand, gentle eyes in a familiar face. Sorbus. “Ostrya? Are you all right? We’ve been searching for you and Mangrove for two days.”
A rag wiped my eyes, my face, my nose. Arms around me, lifting my long body as though it weighed nothing. The warmth of another body. The tickle of long, twisted, wiry hair against my neck, down my shoulder, intermingled with my own, unwashed, a greasy tangle.
Wingnut’s voice: “It’s Mangrove’s bow. Where is he, Ostrya?”
Large hands tenderly rubbing my back. Broad chest accepting my sobs. Whispering voices buzzing around my head.
“Did he—”
“That wouldn’t be like him—”
Wingnut’s voice, direct, breaking through: “What happened, Ostrya? Did Mangrove lay hands on you?”
“I’ll kill him!” Yew’s voice?
What were they asking? What were they thinking? Mangrove, my hunter. So loyal, so kind. I realized he’d been my best friend. In the last few days, he’d been my only friend.
I realized what they were suggesting. “No! Never! He did not hurt me!”
Sorbus held me, supported me, lending me his strength. Someone else’s voice, strident and commanding filtered through the room. Cedrus. “Where is Mangrove? Ostrya!”
Sorbus’s hand stroking my hair. He put his fingers under my chin and raised my head, his eyes troubled and questioning. Mangrove was his friend, too. His best friend, too. I looked into those humane dark eyes peering out from his gentle bear face. I needed to tell him. He deserved to know.
Sorbus’s eyes welled. He knew. He’d known his best friend was dead the moment he saw me in that hammock.
“My fault. My crime.” I pulled away from Sorbus. My touch was defiling him. I covered my face in my hands. “He took my punishment. He fed the Great Ones.”
Sorbus’s face melted. His shoulders slumped. He didn’t resist as rough hands pushed him away and forced me to my feet. Sorbus’s eyes stayed on me, not angry, not accusing. His sadness matched my own. Wingnut embraced him, absorbing his emotion, while I was dragged from the shanty.