5.11.18

A Very Deep Sleep

"I believe you've grown a head taller in a week," my uncle commented as we made camp early one evening.

With a close-lipped smile I collapsed beside him and stretched out. My feet had healed within several days, and as we continued to press on down the road, I found a steady pace and decent stamina.

"Either that, or I have started to shrink."

His words made me grunt. "Perhaps both?"

My uncle offered and appreciative smile. "Or both."

Whether or not I had grown taller didn't matter. I felt bigger in every way. In the presence of my tribe I had finally started to flourish. Conversation came much easier, and I found I enjoyed hours of stories-most of which I suspected were filled with many untruths-and simple games like attempting to walk and juggle small rocks at the same time.

Uncle Alak laughed often, a heart sound that carried much greater than I would have expected for a tall, thin man. He smiled when I spoke and nodded, encouraging me to ask questions. At night we went through the same ritual: he would play the violin first, I would listen intently, then he would hand the instrument and ask me to play the same song. He had a small collection of music he kept inside the violin case, but the sheets were curled at the edges and some torn from the way they were transported, and soon enough I had learned to read the music and no longer needed guidance.

Reading the music was second nature, like a language I had spoken before but had not used in such a long time that I needed refreshing. Once I became fluent, I felt as though part of my soul had been fit back into place. I felt stronger, more confident in myself. For the first time in my life, I had a sense of worth. This was undoubtedly the respect my uncle had spoken of when he told me I needed to carry myself in a respectable manner.

"Lead our large-eared friend to water, my boy. I'll start us a fire and warm our food."

Even though my feet had healed completely, but we kept the donkey with us, for which I was grateful. She bit and kicked at my uncle, but she'd taken a liking to me and didn't give me trouble. With a click of my tongue against the roof of my mouth I tugged on the rope tied round her neck and led her to a creek. There I sat while fireflies illuminated the dusk, my mind free and my spirits high. While the donkey slurped down water, I stretched out my hand before my face. The rosy hue of twilight painted my hands, and I spread my fingers as though I could capture the blush.

Instead I caught a firefly on the tip of my thumb and watched it crawl across my flesh. The sensation was strange to me, never before experienced. Years in a cellar had left me with plenty of sickening memories of unseen creatures, but this was not unpleasant. It was fascinating to watch it move, feel its tiny legs. I chuckled to myself and watched it take flight. On a mild evening I'd reached the pinnacle of my boyhood. An otherwise dark chapter at last had found a worthwhile note. I could close this book with satisfaction.

The donkey brayed at me, a sure sign she was prepared to leave the creek and settle in for the night. I allowed the rope to remain loose as I led her back to The Shadow, who had tomatoes and wild onions sizzling over the fire. Venison, which he told me he'd traded a bushel of strawberries to obtain, was soon added to the pan. Somehow I doubted that was what had actually transpired, but I did not want to think less of him and so I did not ask.

"Here." He handed me a fork and moved away from the fire. With his pack behind his head, he lay back and watched me stir the food, his eyes heavy-lidded and a smile on his lips. "Good, my child. Add more water if it starts to stick to the bottom."

With great care I stirred our supper, carefully measuring the amount of water I added. My uncle murmured that he wished to rest for a moment and closed his eyes, and after a while I heard him begin to snore. He'd slept early the previous evening, exchanging our nightly walks for daily journeys. I didn't question the change, but he had explained nonetheless.

"This body is weary," he said, his voice raspy, "Thank God each day for your youth and stamina. One day you will realize your bones are tired, my son, and there is nothing you can do to regain your best days."

I doubted it was age that slowed his pace and ended our progress prematurely. His gait was lethargic, his face lean and eyes hollow. As each night became dawn I expected to see a skeleton beside me, such was his declining health.

Despite my trepidation I said nothing of his appearance. It seemed respectful to ignore his sunken cheeks and thin frame, especially since he looked me in the eye and never flinched or blanched—not even when I removed my mask and wiped sweat from my forehead. More than the way he looked me in the eye when he spoke, however, I marveled at how The Shadow willingly placed his hand on shoulder or playfully palmed my head and gave me a gentle shake. At first I had flinched, a reflex to my father's heavy hand, but soon I discovered my uncle had a gentle, quiet nature about him. I felt comfortable when his arm brushed against mine or when he placed his hand on the top of my head and gave it a gentle shake as though rattling my brain.

I loved him. It did not matter that our paths had crossed for a handful of months or that I had only known of him as my uncle for weeks. Several times I had considered asking if I could call him Father, especially since he affectionately called me his son, his child, and his boy. It was good to be claimed, and I appreciated whatever title he gave me.

He also spoke my name in a manner that made me find an appreciation for myself. I could not recall a single time in which my mother had used my given name, and my father, on the rare occasion he did not call me something less flattering, hissed out my name as though it were a curse. My uncle, however, called to me in a way that was musical. He did not bite off or spit out my name, and the way he spoke to me in his raspy, soft voice lifted my despair.

Supper was fully cooked at last, and as I scraped the fork clean on the edge of the pan, I looked across the fire to where my uncle had nodded off.

"Uncle," I called as I doled out his portion onto a tin plate.

He didn't wake. I glanced from the food to him and waited a moment, my head cocked to the side.

"Uncle Alak, our food is prepared," I said as I made my own plate.

I left my fork in the pan and removed it from the fire. Brow furrowed, I studied him a moment, my heart thudding against my rib cage. "Uncle," I tried again, this time significantly louder.

Again, there was no response. I leaned forward to grasp his arm and my foot hit my plate. Not once did my eyes leave his face as I didn't care if I spilled my supper and starved for the night. He needed to wake at once. If he breathed at all, it was shallow. I swore his face looked more pale than normal, and as I stood over him, my stomach knotted with dread.

"Uncle!" I shouted, my voice trembling.

His eyes popped open and he glanced around, his folded arms shooting straight out. With a sigh of relief I let my shoulders sag and attempted to steady my erratic breathing. The urge to sob caught me off-guard and I turned away briefly.

"My, I must have fallen asleep for a spell."

Lips pursed, and I nodded. My heart felt heavy as a stone, my eyes filled with an onslaught of tears. I lifted my mask, swiped my hand across my face to dry my eyes, and turned toward him. In silence I reached for our food and sat down within arm's reach of him.

"What is wrong, Erik? You look pale as a ghost," he commented.

Suddenly I wasn't hungry anymore, despite our food being freshly cooked. With my back against a tree, I stared at him a moment, a lump lodged in my throat that impeded my speech. I left my plate on the soft earth and crossed my arms, hugging myself as though somehow this would console me.

"You were deep asleep," I said under my breath, afraid my voice would betray me. I wanted to tell him I thought he was dead, but the words were far too harsh.

He frowned, seemingly embarrassed. "Yes, I apologize. I was more exhausted then I realized." He nudged my plate closer to my feet. "Good food should never go to waste. Eat, my son."

Reluctantly I picked up my plate and fork. From the corner of my eye I watched him, memorized the way he cut his food and held his plate. I would copy his every move, absorb each turn of his wrist, rehearse the manner in which he spoke.

I needed to learn swiftly and feared there was not enough time. We both knew he was dying, but neither of us wished to say it. A nameless disease had yellowed his eyes and skin, making him unable to withstand long hours of walking. My hope was that by ignoring his condition it would no longer loom over the nights we shared.

Indeed, it only made it worse. Each second that ticked by weighed upon us, sapped the joy from our kinship. I wanted to cling to him, to toss my arms around his neck and plead with him to stay and find his health. But my feelings were muddled, and as much as I wanted his attention I also considered ignoring him. If I could walk away from him, perhaps I would forget our time together. I wanted immunity from feelings, especially the deep fissure I felt building within my chest. I loved him far too deeply, and I knew that love would turn to heartache.

"You will have to excuse me, my son," he said halfway through our silent meal. "I do not think I am much for conversation tonight."

We were losing time together, but I nodded as though I were content with his need for silence. There were stories he would never tell me, memories of his wife and children-my aunt and my cousins-I would never hear. My mood darkened, and I silently mourned what would never come to pass.

"Erik," he said suddenly.

I met his eye. "Yes, Uncle?"

"You did a fine job making our meal, a very fine job."

Thank you," I said under my breath. It was the last words we spoke for the night.

Once we finished our meal I lay awake and watched him breathe. When at last my own eyes could no longer stay open, I succumbed to the night and hoped his heart would continue to beat. I feared that if his stopped, mine would as well. I forced my eyes open for one more brief moment and reached toward him, but drew my hand back before I touched his shoulder.

"I love you," I whispered as tears streamed down my cheeks. Three words I had thought would bring me elation instead brought hopelessness and fears that resulted in a fitful night of sleep and dreams of my father chasing me back beneath his home.