"The Aquians!"
Simon stares up at me, his spectacles far down on his nose, his brow a quilt of woven creases.
"The Aquians," I repeat more calmly. I tuck my painting safely into the doctor's jacket. The sleeves hang just past my fingertips. Pushing them up, I nod to him urgently. "They can heal. Right? We'll bring them here."
His head slowly shakes, the creases unfolding an increment. Without taking his eyes from me, he pushes himself very carefully to his feet. As if afraid I might attempt escape—like a frightened lamb—his hands hover before his person in an infuriating manner, telling me he won't hurt me. Gesturing that everything is fine, that he is a friend, that he only wants to help. Like a dog-catcher gestures to a cornered mutt.
I step back, my eyebrows sinking.
"Walter..."
"No." I slap his reaching hand away. "You never liked him. Of course I could trust you to leave him to rot. I—I don't need you. I'll find the Aquians myself."
I take another step away from him, then look to the captain. His eyes are open, still wet. Gray skin. We might need to wait a few days before we start diving in the lagoon for his old ship's wood, but, with help from the heathens...
"Walter, please wait," pleads Simon.
My hand touches the bark of a slender white pine, fingers curling. My knuckles scrape the sandy texture.
"May I have a look at your injury before you go?"
"There's no time."
"I'll come with you."
I leave. Into the woods, through the bush. Debris snap like bones underfoot. The afternoon is in its adolescence, the light through the trees a pale sunset red. Ash still comes, a few flakes tickling my cheek in their infrequent descent. I don't look back for Simon. There is no stealth to his pursuit of me.
He hangs back, trampling his own noisy path. Good.
My left shoe squishes uncomfortably with each step, sodden with something thick.
A leaf skips against my shoulder on its way to the ground and I look up. Imagine sword-fighting on those branches. The lowest ones are as thick and round and leaf-bare as the booms upon which the captain had defied all our doubts in him and fought with Increas. One-legged, with a crutch. Unafraid.
I smile at the low branch as I duck under, running my hand lightly over its textured surface.
We always doubted the captain, didn't we? And he always proved himself against the doubt, no matter the circumstance. Always. This time would be no different, according to the patterns. He is not going to—
My leg gives out beneath me and I tumble forward into the leaves with a cry of terror. They are damp in my hands, mud and rot clinging to my palms. Pine needles of a bitter, deathly smell poke at my flesh, stinging. Laod, my breathing seems so loud. Perhaps it is just that the afternoon is quiet. The voices in the field have diminished from hundreds to few, and now scarcely reach my ears. Far away, unknown animals click strange noises.
A hand falls on my back, knees land beside me.
My teeth clench and I stand. I throw my elbow back at the man to get him off and walk again. I must have tripped. The quiet exhale he responds with gives me no satisfaction.
"Walter," Simon begins patiently, "could I at least remove the bullet? Please?"
Pine needles and leaves cling to my shin. I glare back at him without stopping and throw a branch out of my path and into his.
He sighs. The leaves of the branch rustle. In the corner of my eye, he appears at my side.
We stare out over the clearing, slouched between tree trunks and scarcely recognizing the place. Fires speckle my eyes, their collective heat seeping through my skin, thawing my fingers. It's nice. Destructive and horrifying, stretching black across the greens, but calming to the goosepimples raised over my person, goosepimples I had not noticed. It was from the touch of his... I shiver. Nothing a warm fire and a hot drink can't fix. After I bring the Aquians to him, I can chop down a sapling from this forest. I shall build a nice fire, not a vicious one.
To my left, men migrate to the village in groups, and I feel my chest unclench. We aren't alone, at least, though the great grassy stretch appears close to empty. We aren't alone.
Mrs. Marks! I start forward, my cheeks lifting. She leads a party of our crew members, all carrying wounded men. There isn't too much blood. The captain had hardly been bleeding at all, so in comparison, he looked quite well in that respect.
"Mrs. Marks!" I call, waving my hands. "Mrs. Marks!"
A smile spreads across her lips and she pauses in her tracks, shifting the man's arm around her shoulders. "Walter!" She frowns at my leg. I frown down, too, puzzled. When did it start bleeding again? Where has my bandanna gone? "Are you okay?" She looks past me. "Simon, why haven't you treated his wound?"
He spreads his arms in half of a shrug, eyes downcast. "When he lets me, I will. I'm glad you are all right, Lydia. Have you seen the Aquians at all?"
Her cheeks draw tight around her eyes with worry, lips thinning to a line. "They've been healing around the field. It was just before the bell... Rootwig took a mace for our Cornelius. The doctor and Thenshie are with her, there." Her finger lifts to point. "It isn't pretty. But, she saved the good doctor. For that, we must be thankful."
The doctor's bald spot reflects firelight like a mirror, shining in the red afternoon glow. Thenshie looms beside him, tall and gangly and awkward with her too-long arms stretching down to two clasped hands. Those hands are all I need.
I run towards them, ignoring the call of Simon behind me and the clunk of his rifle as he chases.
"Thenshie!" I cry. She and the doctor both look up. I meet the heathen's bulbous eyes which stare as dumbly as the fish that they so surely belong to. "The captain. The captain needs your healing."
My Laod, there's a body on the ground, mangled. No wonder they seem so glum. I look away quickly and train my eyes on Thenshie's but cannot read her foreign face. The doctor is looking past me, a sad and familiar sort of recognition plastered over his wrinkles.
I remember it. Like a splash of water to the face, his expression hits. Cold salty water that I never wanted.
He had worn that slight frown, those uplifted bushy brows to my mother's funeral. Her funeral, where she was not present.
Simon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the solemn shake of his head and I round on him. He stumbles back a pace, arms shielding his person.
"Why are you shaking your head?" I demand. "Why?"
Simon flushes pink. "I'm sorry." His lips quiver as he shakes his head once more, trying to come up with words. His hands tremble. Pathetic.
"WHY?" I demand, louder, angrier. My fists raise to him and he staggers back further as if they had made contact.
Tears fall over his reddened cheeks and he holds out his hands for peace, shaking and shaking his head. "Walter, I am so sorry," he breathes over the span of one shoulder-shaking shudder. "The captain is dead."
My jaw snaps shut. "No."
His face falls. His lips move more, but I hear nothing.
"No!" I shout.
I do not wish to hear anything further. The doctor starts to rise, too, with that unfair face of misplaced sympathy and concern. How could they? Our captain is alone in the forest, waiting for us.
I take off the doctor's coat and throw it back at him. The rolled painting falls to the grass and I pick it up and shake my head at all of them and their moving mouths and their boxing eyebrows and their slow dog-catcher motions of unwarranted, unwanted, unkind, threatening peace. I clutch the scroll close to myself and pace carefully back.
"Thenshie?" I ask. "Thenshie, the captain."
Her bulging eyes lower to her slashed-open friend. No answer to me.
No one would help. Not Thenshie, not Simon, not even the doctor.
He removes his glove and reaches towards me.
I run.
I run as fast my legs will carry me back to the trees. And I never make it. Something steals my ability to sprint and to see. My wet left shoe flies off my foot. The ground greets me hard.