Jonah inched toward the dying fire. The embers were still hot and his bare chest felt as though it was getting burned – a good feeling. He moved closer still. The pain became more intense. Even better.
He stayed still, changed his breathing when the pain got unbearable, remembering, weirdly, his mother’s birth story that she thought was so funny – the nurses telling her to breathe through the pain, her swearing at them and demanding drugs, them refusing to give her any, her having to pant frantically like a demented chimp.
He tried it, silently – short, sharp bursts of air through rounded lips. No relief. Even the satisfying sensation of self-punishment was disappearing. It just hurt, making his eyes well up with tears, making his body flinch and twist away from the fire.
He gave up, scuttling away from the tormenting heat. It wouldn’t be enough, anyway, not enough to burn away the shame he felt about what he’d done.
‘You want me to put another log on?’
Peter grunted sleepily. Etta shrugged.
Was it deliberate, this cold shoulder treatment? Hadn’t he grovelled enough out in the wigwam? He’d said sorry, hadn’t he – to both of them. He was trying to make it up to them now, couldn’t they see that? What more could he do?
‘I’ll go out to the porch and get one.’
Another grunt. Another shrug.
To hell with them, Jonah thought. He stepped over Etta’s legs. He sidled past the chair that Peter pretended to be sleeping against so he wouldn’t have to look at him.
The back porch creaked as he stepped onto it, seeming to list even further away from the cabin, down the hill and toward the lake, which was just visible through the scraggly fringe of pine trees that grew along the path to the water’s edge. Jonah longed to be there again, alone, cross-legged on the sand, around an open fire, looking up at the multitude of bright stars, no company other than the sound of fish jumping on the lake, leaping for joy at the pale light of the silvery moon. He was tired of being cooped up in the cabin, the white man’s cabin, just because he was afraid of a couple of hunters.
Dutifully, he reached into the rotting barrel containing the logs. He took one out, shook off the cobwebs, brushed away the bugs, carried it back inside.
Again, he got no thanks. Again, he got nothing but a glance and nod from Etta.
‘Look, I’m getting sick of being locked up here like a prisoner. I’m going down to the lake. Anybody want to come along?’
Neither of them seemed to hear him. Etta eventually shook her head. Peter didn’t move.
‘Whatever.’
He dumped the log onto the fire, causing the embers to leap back into life and lick the log with hungry tongues. He jabbed it with the poker, centring it snugly. This would burn until they were asleep.
‘I’ll probably sleep in the wigwam tonight. I doubt if those hunting guys’ll be back.’
Why wouldn’t one of them just talk to him? His mother would do this sometimes, sit in the living room with no lights on, for hours sometimes, smoking cigarette after cigarette, swilling red wine in an oversized glass, watching the ruby liquid glow in the dim light that shone through from outside. There was nothing he could do to pull her out of it, no words of apology or comfort that would make her open up again, let him near her again.
He waited at the doorway for one of them to open their mouths.
‘OK then. If that’s how it is.’
He let the screen door slam on his way out.
The lake was calling him, gently, like his only friend. The insects droned a chant of welcome.