Chapter 9
Seven nights had passed and I hadn't seen the others, only at dinner did we seem to cross paths. I'd spent multiple hours searching for them, wandering the same routes over and over, but it was pointless. They were all suspiciously good at avoiding me, particularly Knox, and they seemingly disappearing the moment dinner finished each evening. I knew better than to frantically chase them again, but that didn't stop me from searching through the trees each day, keeping an eye out for any sign of life.
My hands began to heavily callous from all the wood I had been cutting. Small logs were now scattered around the cabin in various piles, and I had repeatedly gone and foraged for numerous handfuls of the orange and purple sprouts. A large pile of kindling was stuffed against the wall inside the cabin, an additional step that was going to make my fire-making life significantly easier. I was frequenting the beach daily, scrubbing my skin raw to remove the sweat and dirt that accumulated quickly. Sometimes, I was glad to be alone because the scent radiating off of me was nothing short of criminal. I couldn't be bothered to consider what may lurk beneath the waves while I attempted to scrub my sweat stained clothing, leaving my bare skin exposed to the harsh sun. The cold water felt rejuvenating against my hot, sweaty skin. My leg had begun to heal. The sharp pains had faded, leaving only a deep ache in its place. I still had Knox's shirt, which was a perfect token of opportunity to introduce myself to the others, if I could only find them.
I spent the early mornings practicing with my knife, learning its balance, getting used to the weight of it in my palm as I hurled it at makeshift targets. The memory of the Grix attack lingered, how I hadn't even thought to reach for the blade. I'd had a weapon, one meant for protection, and still, I'd been too paralyzed to use it. That failure stuck with me. So I trained. Over and over, while the sun rose higher each day.
Stretching in the morning, running, using my knife to chopchopping more wood, and then taking myself down to the beach to wash away the day was becoming had become the routine I so desperately needed. I pushed myself physically, so much so that I couldn't think of anything else. There was a calmness in it, the exhaustion. Accepting that I knew nothing meant facing the reality of this situation. I had no idea where I was, no idea who these people were, and no idea how to get home. I was at the mercy of the island, which was humiliating in a way I wasn't familiar with.
I had seen two new species of creatures while foraging for sprouts. One was rodent-like, on six legs with many short, sharp claws protruding from each little finger. Its skin was sleek, but upon its back were long fur tufts. Its large ears looked like saucers against its sleek head. I stared at it for a moment, unsure how close it would be safe to get. It tilted its head at me, ears alert, but I backed away slowly. The creature simply wandered off before scaling a large tree, using its claws to dig deep into the wood. The other creature had been in the shallow stream as I filled my canteen. It was salamander-like, with four long legs and a slick body. It swam easily against the current, as if it weren't there. Little pieces resembling coral covered its back, creating intricate designs and colours. I watched it for a while, tempted to place my hand in the water to touch it, but I refrained. I attended dinner each evening, plating more and more food each night. The physical toll of missing two dinners was not one I was interested in repeating. I began to notice that Knox and the others rarely ate. They filled their plates, pushed the food around, drank heavily, then left. One evening, I saw the woman slip a sprig of green garnish into her pocket, but that was the only unusual thing I could make sense of. Still, I kept eating. The meals were rich, flavourful, and I didn't have the luxury of choice. I didn't know how to hunt, wasn't sure what I could safely forage, and I was starving. With all the chopping, running, and wandering I did each day, I needed the energy.
Morning arrived, and the routine I'd been building pulled me out of bed. In the centre of the room, I stretched each limb deliberately, holding every position for several minutes. I gave attention to my shoulders, thighs, back, and neck in turn. A few short movements warmed up my knees before I stepped outside and began jogging the path I was starting to recognize. Humid air clung to my skin and tangled in my hair. As the trees passed by, the crosshatches carved into their bark caught my eye, small markers from that first walk through the woods just over a week ago. I focused on steadying my breathing and letting the rhythm take over. Getting into a quiet headspace to run had always been the hardest part. There was always something to dwell on—counting the days until my nextnest big test, worrying about how my brother's health was deteriorating, or wondering if I'd ever meet someone who truly understood what I was going through. Now, it took on a far more mature form. Managing my constant deadlines at work, juggling bills while trying to set money aside for a future, and desperately wondering if I was making the right choices or just stumbling through life. Maya was frequently involved in that mix, a creeping worry that seemed to settle in my gut like a heavy stone. Joan, Maya's mother, had been a wonderful woman. She was a bright light in the town of Cobalt falls, and in my life. Every year, she would give Maya and I personalized photo albums, all of which are still stacked neatly under my bed. Shortly after her passing, Maya's stepfather went on a tirade, removing anything from the home he had deemed 'clutter'. We spent weeks hunting through the landfill for her albums, turning over every smelly bag of waste, up to our armpits in filth and squalor. Truthfully, I think he burned them. But the hysterics that Maya experienced made me hold off on that assumption.
Seeing Maya like that shattered something inside of me. That fragile thread she seemed to be holding onto had snapped completely within moments. She folded in on herself, vanishing into silence. No matter my efforts, I barely saw her, barely heard from her. Then one night, I found her out behind her house, lying in a pool of her own vomit, choking and crying until her body convulsed,
"I didn't mean to," she gasped as I rushed to her. "It should have been me."
I lay beside her, comforting her while she expelled the entirety of whatever she had taken into the grass we lay on. Dragging her back to my house was a nightmare like no other, her deadweight form, broken and hollow. Cleaning her up felt like crossing a line I didn't know how to return from, seeing someone at their most vulnerable. Laying yourself bare in the rawest way possible. When I finally lay her in my bed, she slept soundly, and I checked on her frequently throughout the night.The morning came slow. She awoke warm and safe, but the weight of the previous night evidently lingered in an unforgotten way. Breakfast was silent, and we neverever spoke of it again. But I will never forget the sensation of my entire heart stopping for those moments while I rushed across the grass to her. It was a horrible night for her, without a doubt, but it left a scar within me too.
By the time the shack came into view, sweat clung to every inch of skin. A longer route had stretched the run, each step heavier in the thick, humid air. The axe still lay up against the old, weathered shack, exactly where I'd left it. A few slow laps around the cabin helped slow my racing pulse, hands resting on the top of my head as my breaths became deep and steady. I emptied my canteen into my dry mouth in moments. The humid air sat on me like a blanket as I lifted the axe and walked over to the tree I had started cutting the day before. It was smaller, barely 15 feet tall, with a slim trunk. The wood was a deep purple, twisting toward the sky, topped with dark green leaves, jutting straight out from the top. The tips of the leaves shone with reflected sunlight, looking almost lime green through the radiance.
I watched the leaves bristle for a moment, just basking in the glory of something likely so simple and unnoticed by someone used to it. I don't think I could ever get used to it. As I swung the axe, the deep thud echoed around me with each movement. The trunk groaned beneath my force, swaying slightly. Once it had almost broken all the way through, I pulled with all my body weight, the thump quiet as it collided with the forest floor. I hacked away at the wood, cutting it up into sizeable logs. By the time I was finished, I was grunting with each swing, utterly exhausted. I placed some of the new logs in lines along the ground, heaving my knife at each one with precise focus. Once my arms and legs were truly drained, I hobbled slowly to the beach, sitting lazily in the sand to watchand watched the waves. The sand was warm and soft beneath me, and I let my body sink into it, too tired to move, too tired to think. I sat there for a long time, watching the waves roll in and out, listening to their rhythm as it blurred everything else into silence. The sun moved slowly overhead, and still I stayed.
Eventually, I stripped down to nothing, walked into the water, and scrubbed my body. Even though this was nothing compared to a shower at home, it was the best I could do. I ran my fingers through my sun-bleached hair, attempting to detangle it.
After putting my clothing back on, I lay in the shade for a while, carefully peeling the dead skin off of my sun burnt shoulders. My body ached, but I enjoyed it. This was the most relaxed I had felt since arriving—just sitting at the beach in the shade, letting the waves dull my senses. I pulled my knife from my pocket and surveyed the surrounding ground, looking for a flat stone. I picked one up in my hands and tossed it into the air a few times before gently running the knife along it, hoping to sharpen the blade.
By dinner time, I had refilled my canteen and scrubbed my clothing in the stream. I walked awkwardly as the still-damp underwear chafed against me. Maybe I should have left them to dry longer, but at the same time, I preferred not to be naked in the middle of the woods. At least at the beach, I had the sea for coverage. In the forest, I may as well have hung naked from a tree, screaming to be found. Arriving through the red doors, I walked idly to my usual seat, not bothering to give the others an ounce of my attention. Staring over at the king, the whirring sounded from Byte as he entered the room through the small door. As he wheeled up beside Taro, he placed the bell upon the table, lifting his robotic arm to press it when King Taro lifted his hand in patience. The king turned his head toward me and caught my gaze.
"Some paths are not chosen, my dear– they are simply the only option left."
My heart dropped into my stomach, my jaw slightly ajar. He blinked once. Twice. Then lowered his hand before Byte rang the bell. I continued staring as the king began frantically throwing food onto his plate, watching the grease coat his fingers. The three men turned their heads toward me, eyes wide. The redhead followed suit a moment later, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the king. The food remained on my plate for the rest of the dinner as I picked at it with my fork. I left as soon as dinner was finished, quickly returning to my cabin and bringing some logs inside with me. After many failed attempts, I was able to catch a small spark against the bark, igniting it within the fireplace.
The wood began to catch, lighting up my cabin for the first time, while the shadowy flames danced along the walls. I didn't even have it in me to celebrate my first fire. All I could focus on was what King Taro had said—the line I had heard so many times before, from the mouth of Ms. Wicks.