Chapter 17
Into the Trees
Now what?
Sure, it had been easy before, holding the map within his hands as Roderich's pretty writing squiggled a line this way and that through the streets, leading him straight down to even the very gates of Hell. But now what?
The sky was grey, ever darkening as the hidden sun fell lower and lower. Snow fell. It wasn't so cold. Chilly, maybe, but not very cold.
Gilbert looked down at the map.
He knew where to go, alright; the line still went on, straight through Berlin, straight through Dresden, straight through Prague, and down into Brno, tidy and sure and never faltering. He had gone straight on through Berlin, using buses like he had so many times in the past, and he had gone all the way down to Dresden, and he had walked the streets there to calm himself before he had traveled down and down, closer and closer, and then there was a problem.
Because Roderich's pen could flow straight through the Czechoslovakian border. He could not.
Roderich's pen was waiting in Brno.
And Gilbert was stuck in the far outskirts of Dresden, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, as the border crossing stood down the road, and he was slowly beginning to realize that he had been perhaps a bit hasty in his decision to come alone. He should have brought that big dope Alfred, who at least had a passport, and who at least could use both of his hands efficiently.
He didn't have a valid passport. Hadn't ever been able to get the visa, and had just let the damn thing expire. Could have gotten a new one, Roderich could have gotten him one, but there hadn't been time for that, and Roderich had been far too wary of catching that general's attention. Paranoia, but one Gilbert shared.
He had no choice but to border-hop.
Shoulda brought Alfred.
Hell; too late now, and he gripped the map in his hands as he studied it, as cars and pedestrians passed him by, going down and passing straight through the gates without any hindrance, just because of their papers. It wasn't fair. Never had been.
Whether it was fair or not, there was no point in lingering here; the roads were too busy, the guards too many, and the chances too few. He couldn't pass here.
Rolling up the map and pulling his coat tightly around himself, he started off back down the snowy road from whence he had came, and when he spotted the first taxi, he leapt inside and said only, "Zittau."
"No problem," came the relaxed drawl, and as the paved world of Dresden began to give way to forests and hills, Gilbert opened up his coat, and pulled out his wallet.
Its contents were as dismal as his mood.
No I.D. One paper, with Roderich's office number scribbled down. A small, folded string of thread. A sewing needle. Two Band-Aids. 300 Western Marks, down from the 1000 that Roderich had given him. 200 Eastern Marks, from what he had scrounged up in his flat.
And one 100 United States Dollar bill, that Alfred had bestowed upon him with the wise words of, 'If you're in a tight spot, just pull this baby out and say, 'Let's let Mr. Franklin do the talkin'!''
A substantial amount of money. Alfred had only given it to him for the sake of Ludwig. And Alfred had also only given it to him because Alfred had been fully intending to go with Gilbert, but Gilbert had slunk out in the middle of the night.
The gun in his waist pressed uncomfortably against his belt.
Time passed in silence.
It was dark. The sky was clouded. A pale, blurry ring of white light that struggled to break through the front was all that was visible of the moon. The moon was hidden. No stars. He hated the night. Wished Ludwig's sun woulda been here.
The taxi driver tried to make small talk; Gilbert ignored him, leaning his head against the window and watching the towns pass, and with every minute, he could feel the horrible tightening of anxiety in his stomach. An hour or so later, the vehicle finally slowed to a stop, and he was so close to passing out or vomiting or running away that he barely even remembered stuffing money into the driver's hands and staggering out of the car back into the night air.
He clenched his hands at his sides to prevent them from trembling, and stalked off into the dark town streets, and he did not stop until the buildings thinned and the streetlamps were few and far between.
He settled under the very last lamppost on the street, and pulled out his map.
Once he passed out of the town, then there was the forest, and he wished that he had brought a compass, because Zittau was nestled right in between the Czechoslovakian border as well as the Polish one, and if he got turned around and unwittingly wound up in Poland, then it would take effort that he was unsure he possessed to get back on the right path. Already exhausted, as it was.
He looked up at the white sky. No stars. He could not use them, if he would have known how.
Cursing to himself, he ambled off from under the light and back into the dark, and set off out of the town limits. There weren't any buildings anymore. Small houses dotted the horizon on the hills that rose up. Just one dirt road. The street was lined with trees. Everything was dark. The snow shimmered.
An hour of walking. His feet hurt. His head hurt. His legs were sore.
Another hour.
His hand throbbed from the cold air. His pace was slow. His ankle was still a bit tender. Ludwig had endured such pain for him. Maybe more.
Lights loomed in the distance, people talking and dogs barking, and he knew he had reached the border crossing.
It was time.
Maybe Ludwig was in pain right now, too.
Gilbert leapt from the road, and, with a great breath to steady himself, darted into the dark, ominous forest. The trees were scraggly and tight together, and he struggled to push through the underbrush as thorns and briars snagged his pants, and his movements made clumps of snow fall from the branches and into his hair. It fell down the back of his collar, and he shivered, but he pressed forward regardless, holding his arms up beside his head as he pushed through the branches. There were patches of briars so tall and so thick that he was forced to head off to the side and find a way around them, and everything was so dark. He could barely see what was in front of him. The trees were tall and unmoving, there was no wind, and everything was far too quiet.
Quiet.
What lived in these woods? Monsters, maybe. Just wanted to go back to hectic, loud Berlin, where things made sense.
He pushed on. He had hoped the forest would be more manageable. It seemed that, instead of formulating valid plans, he just hoped for a lot of things. He was an idiot, alright. Always had been. Thinking ahead had always been too much effort.
His fingers were numb. His hands were bleeding, after pushing aside so many thorns. His back was wet with melted snow.
He pushed on for what felt like hours.
A sharp pine branch scratched his face, and a briar from behind caught in his pants firmly enough to make him stumble forward.
He fell.
A pang. Utter exhaustion.
And for a dazed moment, as he laid there in the thorns and weeds, in the dirt and patches of snow, Gilbert just wanted to close his eyes, and go to sleep. His chest was aching, his hands stung from countless pricks, and it seemed for all the world like the undergrowth was just going to creep over him and swallow him whole. Maybe the forest had a mind of its own.
He rested his head on the ground, and closed his eyes. He had spent so many days of his life like this, it seemed, layin' face-down in the dirt, dazed and confused and so tired, not knowing where he was.
Gilbert, I wish you wouldn't drink so much.
He had always wound up letting someone down.
Won't you stay home, just tonight?
Usually Ludwig.
That Ludwig had even bothered to stay with him as long as he had was a miracle. He had failed so miserably as a big brother. He had never been suited for that role, and even though he had loved Ludwig, even though he had been so jealous of outsiders that he had never even let Ludwig have friends, even though someone just looking at Ludwig in a manner he did not like would result in him spending the night in jail, Gilbert had never really taken the time to just stop and spend time with him once he had gotten older.
Felt like Ludwig had turned into a stranger, towards the end.
Ludwig had just turned out so serious. So calm. So nice. So gentle. Sometimes, and he knew it was a horrible thought, but sometimes Gilbert had wished that Ludwig had turned out more like himself. Someone he could go out and have fun all night with. Someone like himself. He had always wanted Ludwig to be more like him.
But that wasn't Ludwig. Ludwig had never approved of Gilbert's outside activities, had never wanted to join in, and he was always so worried. Ludwig had never wanted to spend all night partying, had never wanted to go into the city in the middle of the night, had never wanted to get drunk or high, and sometimes Gilbert had resented him for it.
They were brothers; why did Ludwig always have to act like a fuckin' father? Gilbert was the older one.
Ah, hell. It wasn't Ludwig's fault that he was a good guy. Gilbert should have been more responsible. He should have accepted Ludwig's serious nature instead of belittling it. He had caused Ludwig only distress and pain. He had failed him, in every possible way.
What is your brother worth to you?
Yet still...
Anything!
Ludwig had loved him unconditionally nonetheless. Ludwig had done more for him. Ludwig had taken care of him when he came home hung-over. Ludwig had been the one who had come down to the police station and waited with him until Erzsébet showed up and paid his bail. Ludwig had been the one who had cleaned up his cuts and bruises. Ludwig had been the one to hold his head above the toilet. Ludwig had been the one who had put ice on his knuckles after a night of brawling.
Ludwig had loved Gilbert, for no good reason.
And maybe Ludwig had turned out so serious, so worried, so pessimistic, and so mature, because he had had to watch over Gilbert, even though it should have been the other way around.
Gilbert should have been the mature one, watching over Ludwig as he lived out his youthful years like other kids did, wild and reckless and carefree. Ludwig had been saddled with the role of a parent, a babysitter, a nurse, and a corrections officer all in one.
The worst part of it all was that he had never even realized that his carelessness was causing his little brother such quiet suffering. Shoulda known, should have been able to see, but hadn't cared enough to pay attention. Ludwig never complained about anything, and it was no small wonder that he had moved out only a few days after he had turned seventeen, after Roderich had procured him a small apartment. Who would have ever wanted to stay longer than that? Who would ever want to stay with Gilbert longer than they had to? And Gilbert had never even visited him except for Christmas because he had been so hurt that Ludwig had left him at all.
He had blamed Roderich, then, for tearing them apart, but it had never been Roderich's fault. Ludwig had loved Roderich, too. Roderich would have made a great guardian. Gilbert had heard Erzsébet saying it to him sometimes, when they didn't know Gilbert was standing there around the corner.
'You'd've been a great father! I know you would have been.'
In those moments, Gilbert had hated them. He had hated that they thought they were better for Ludwig than he was.
They had been right all along.
Ludwig had deserved better, and, quite frankly, so had Roderich.
The day Gilbert had taken Ludwig home, Roderich had placed his hand atop Ludwig's head, ruffling his hair, looking so disheartened, and when Gilbert had walked out, he had heard Erzsébet say to Roderich, 'It's alright. Say, don't worry. You'll have a son of your own one day.'
Roderich had smiled then, a little, as he watched Ludwig leave, but it hadn't happened. There had never been a son for Roderich. Erzsébet couldn't have children. Ludwig had been it, for them. Gilbert had deprived them of caring for him. Their one opportunity. That's why Ludwig meant so much to them.
Gilbert ruined everyone, it seemed.
The snow continued to fall around him, then something stirred near his head, and he finally managed to open his eyes.
Something was staring at him.
Oh. Shit.
He started in fright, digging his fingers into the dead grass, but before he could pull himself up, he realized it was just a raccoon. Just a damn raccoon. His hammering heart slowed a bit as the animal stared him down. It sat before him on its haunches, wringing its little hands together, eyes shining from behind its black mask.
Gilbert relaxed and sighed in relief, and the furry animal approached him with minimal caution. Gilbert could only lay there, and didn't move so as not to scare it away. Couldn't say why. It came over to him, and began to scratch and dig into his coat. Looking for food, no doubt, and he let it try to pry open the buttons on his pocket only because he was lonely, and he didn't have any food for it to steal.
A minute of poking and sniffing, and the raccoon came up before his head and sat back down. And, deliriously, Gilbert raised his head and looked at it, and said, lowly, "I don't have anything for you. Sorry."
As if he were understood.
And now he was holding conversations with wild animals; wonderful. Crazy as always. Just wanted someone to talk to.
The raccoon's hands were wringing again, and as it stared at him without fear, Gilbert steadily realized that it had been set loose in this forest deliberately. A wild raccoon would never have come up to someone like this, right? Part of that stupid introduction program, to be sure, and this animal was probably as lonely and out of place here as he was. Somewhere it didn't belong. Away from home. Alone.
Pressing his palms into the ground, Gilbert pushed himself off the ground, as the thorns scratched him and clung in his hair, and when he fell back onto his knees, the animal continued to stare at him, expectantly. Waiting.
And for a dumb moment, as he stared back at it, rubbing his chest as it ached, he had the stupid urge to grab the furball up and take it with him.
So lonely.
But when he finally managed to pull himself to his feet, he could only watch in disappointment as the raccoon turned and scurried off into the trees, its bushy tail bobbing behind it, and he was alone again.
Bowing his head, he braced his feet and sought out the courage to push onward.
Ludwig had deserved better back then, and would deserve better afterwards. He'd get it this time, though. When Ludwig was in Berlin, Gilbert would abandon him again, to Roderich and Erzsébet, and this time it would be for the best. Final. Gilbert would let Ludwig go, for the first time in his life, Ludwig would go to Vienna, and would never be in danger again. How it should have been all along.
Gilbert had never wanted Ludwig to leave him, but there wasn't a choice anymore.
Ludwig would become somebody, he just knew it, and Gilbert would watch from the newspapers and televisions as he did good in the world and helped people. Ludwig had always talked about helping people. Ludwig's great dream in life, ridiculous or not, had been to be like Roderich, and become an ambassador. Well, whatever Ludwig became, Gilbert was sure it would be something grand. Ludwig would matter in the world, even if he didn't know who he really was. Gilbert would just linger in the shadows, and watch from afar. Ludwig would live his life. Gilbert would waste his.
He took a shaky step, and was moving again, as fast as his sore legs would let him. He wasn't sure where he was anymore, and he hoped more than anything that he had not gone too far. There should have been a river somewhere, but he hadn't heard it yet. It was getting colder.
And then, mercifully, after an eternity, the undergrowth began to thin, and he came to a clearing.
Snow.
He came out of the forest, and leaned down, resting his good hand on his knee and catching his breath. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. His chest hurt. He stood there, in moments of exhausted vulnerability, and finally looked up. Pale moonlight cast soft light over a field of snow. The blurry ring of white light that was the moon behind the clouds shone above, and he could see, up the hill, a house.
There were lights.
He changed direction and staggered up to it, and he didn't really know why, because he did not have time to sleep, and he was too sick to eat, but he was afraid of the forest, and any short reprieve would surely be beneficial.
He crept up the hill, closer and closer, and stayed silent as he approached. The house was large, and there was smoke from the chimney. He came closer, and could hear people laughing from within. Boldly, he snuck up to a window, and poked his eyes around the edge. People in the living room, a family, watching television as a fireplace roared off to the side, and for a moment, he blinked, and he swore that it was just him and Ludwig, and Roderich and Erzsébet, sitting there together like they had so many times in years past.
Ludwig's hair caught fire in the bright light.
He blinked again, and Ludwig was gone. Just people he didn't know and never would, and with a chill, he backed away from the window and crept off to the side. He passed around to the other end of the house, to another window, and when he looked through this one, he could see a dark, empty kitchen.
A refrigerator sat off to the side, its door covered with drawings held up with magnets.
A rush of adrenaline, and Gilbert reached out, grabbing the bottom of the window in his hands. He pushed up; it was not locked. He slid it up, quietly and carefully, and when it clicked in place, he leaned forward, grabbing the windowsill as best he could, and pulled himself up. He nearly fell face-first on the tile, but he caught himself at the last second and lowered himself down. Had his eye on the prize, so to speak, and went for it. He stepped silently forward and snatched a magnet from the refrigerator door. He tucked it in his pocket, and took another one, just in case, and then he crept back to the window and leapt out, closing the glass and exiting the house as swiftly as he had come.
All for a magnet.
Actually had a damn plan this time, if anyone could believe it.
The snow kept falling.
He trekked back down the hill, then he was back at the edge of the forest again, and it with a pang of regret that he pushed back into the trees. Fuckin' forest. This time, he went straight in. He walked, for what felt like hours but might have only been minutes, and then finally, he could hear the distant rush of a river.
Oh, thank god.
Relieved, he sped his pace, and when he finally broke through the trees again, this time there was the bank of a river before him. It cut through the middle of the forest, its flowing waters writhing this way and that as it roared along over the rocks. The outer waters were calm; the water in the middle was not.
The border was close. Now he had to cross the river.
On the bank, he hesitated, reluctant to dive into the freezing water, but the more he thought about it, the harder it would be.
He could barely see. Only a faint glimmer of moonlight on the top of the water.
He had to pass. There was no getting around it.
He was scared, but he rushed forward anyway, and as soon as the water hit him, first his legs, and then his abdomen, and then his chest, he froze up, in a moment of shock, because it was so cold, and the strong current in the middle began to pull him along. A second of immobility. His lungs hurt. The water started to take him.
When his head fell below the freezing water, he came back to earth with a jolt and spread his arms, and forced himself forward. It was not that wide (some small luck) and he found the other bank after only a few minutes of struggling against the current.
Hauling himself up onto the mud, he threw himself down, wrapping his arms around himself as he began to shiver. It was not preferable, to be wet in such weather, but unavoidable. Felt a little like those times when he had dropped so much acid that he shivered hard enough to fall out of chairs. Clenching his teeth, he looked around at the forest, and knew that shortly down, there would be a barbed wire fence that separated the countries. He would cross there, in between the guard towers, and if he was lucky, he would pass unnoticed.
He took his soaking map, and set it open carefully upon the ground so as not to rip it.
Reaching into his pocket with trembling hands, he pulled out a magnet and the needle from his wallet, and struggled to hold the needle in his barely mobile left hand. Somehow, he managed to grip it, and with his other hand he took up the magnet and started rubbing them together.
Minutes of fumbling attempts, and finally, when it had been what he imagined was long enough, he put the needle in his teeth and tossed the magnet back in his pocket. Crawling forward on his knees, he searched the ground for a little dead leaf, and when he finally found one against the mud that looked good enough, he set the needle down inside of it. And now it was the end of the dead leaf that he clenched in his teeth, as he plunged his hands into the river and cupped water between them.
And now...
Gently, so as not to spill the needle, he lowered his head and set the leaf down in the still waters that he held in his palms, and watched.
He may have been an idiot, may have been a dope, may have been a drunk, but he knew some things. But as to whether or not it would work? On the rocks. Some things you were taught just ended up being bullshit, and this coulda been one of them.
A moment of terrible nervousness, as his heart banged in his chest, and then the leaf began to twitch as the magnetized needle shifted and flitted towards the north. He turned his eyes down to the map, struggling to see it for the dark, and when he finally made out the direction in which he was heading, he shuddered in horror.
He had been going the wrong way. He had almost messed up. Oh, thank god that he had been paying attention in those stupid school classes years ago, because if he hadn't known how to make an improvised compass then he would have gone straight into Poland. He would never belittle school again, not ever.
Spilling the water from his hands, he put the needle back in his pocket and grabbed up the map, and it was with much more confidence that Gilbert walked along the river until he knew he was in the right place. As he went, he muttered to no one under his breath, "Let's see you do that, Roderich, you asshole."
As if.
He went back into the forest, and snuck down, and before long there was a short, small barbed wire fence. The first hurdle. He crossed between it easily, but that was just the first, and then there was another, and when he crossed it, he could see lights in the distance. A larger fence. A guard tower loomed above. Dogs were barking. A light passed above him, as he peered out from the trees, and then fled, and then passed above him again.
He waited until the light had just passed for the fourth time, and then, fighting away the lurching nausea in his stomach, he bolted forward, and prayed, prayed, that they would not notice him.
The first meters went smoothly; the snow slowed him down a bit, but that could not be helped, and he could see the fence, so close before him.
Someone shouted.
Shit.
And then the light was moving again, and he realized, with a dizzying lurch of terror, that they had seen him, and now they were trying to put the light on him, and then they would shoot him—
The fence was right there.
He leapt forward and grabbed a hold of the rolled, tangled mass of barbed and razor wire, and he could only grit his teeth as he passed through it and cut himself, but he could not stop, and then he was in the middle, surrounded on all sides by twisting metal, and then he could see the other side, and then he felt his hands break through and grab only air.
His broken hand was in agony as he pushed it to work too hard, too fast.
A gunshot fell somewhere near him, and he froze for a dumb moment in horror, and then another shot fell so close that he could feel it move his hair, and then he broke through the wire.
He ran.
The trees were so close.
He leapt over another short fence, and then the other, and then the edge of the forest, and he could hear commotion behind him. The light fell upon him again. Gunshots at his feet, and he staggered out into the trees, clenching his hand to his chest as it ached like it was on fire, and then he could hear the barking of dogs, and oh, god, he could feel the cold sweat running down his face as he bolted in between the trunks and ducked beneath the branches.
Oh god, oh god, they were going to catch him—
The barking was closer.
He had never run so hard in his entire life. He swerved this way and that through the trees, and he was glad now, for the snow, because the barking was farther away, and he realized that the dogs were losing his trail in the white gloom.
He ran.
His heart was pounding so fiercely he was afraid it would explode. Then the trees were gone, and there was a field, and in the distance, there was a small, snow-covered town. He could see a train leaving a station, its billowing smoke rising up dark above the white clouds.
No more noise behind him. He had made it. He'd made it, he'd made it, couldn't even believe it, couldn't believe it. He could have plopped down and rolled around in the fuckin' snow for his happiness. He'd made it.
He turned back to the distant forest, spread his arms out victoriously, and called to the trees, "You guys can't shoot for shit!"
Fuck—
With a high chin and a throb of pain, Gilbert carried on, because he couldn't stop now. Leaving the guards and the fear behind, he rushed down the hill and into the streets, and when he located the train station after minutes of confusion for his incomprehension of Czech, he staggered up to the counter, and bought a ticket to Brno.
The town was still. Asleep.
Christ almighty, falling asleep himself had never been so easy, when he finally boarded the train, wet and cold and scared and exhausted, when the train lurched forward, he leaned his head against the window, and drifted off.
He was on his way. Ludwig only needed to wait. Just wait.
Hang on.
He'd promised forever, and by god, he would deliver.