Scarecrow

Risa made her invitation while I was trying to find a clean cup.

“Tonight. Our room. After supper.”

I looked up.

“Am I bringing anything?”

“Yourself. Preferably without a book about someone else’s internal organs.”

Sera laughed from the table.

Luna was brushing her hair beside the window. She looked at Risa in the mirror, then at me.

“We have plans.”

“You do?”

“Apparently we’re allowed to,” Sera said.

I felt my face warm.

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“We know.”

Risa took the cup from my hand, looked inside it, and gave me a different one.

“Tonight,” she repeated.

I said yes before I could make the question more complicated than it was.

It was Day 486.

The morning began with Sera’s treatment, then Neri’s leg and a long conversation with Toby about Pella.

Nothing dramatic had happened overnight.

That was good.

Nothing had explained her weakness either.

That was becoming harder to write down.

She could talk for a while, then needed to rest. Her hands were sometimes steady and sometimes not. The food she could manage didn’t seem enough to explain the effort of sitting upright.

I’d looked at the altered tissue more than once.

There was silver in it.

That wasn’t a discovery by itself. We’d learned too much about what had been put into people to mistake finding it for knowing what it was doing.

But something in the way it responded kept reminding me of another set of drawings.

I asked Toby for the old notebooks.

He knew which ones before I said.

We laid them out on the table.

Priya’s hands. Ilse’s. Holt’s.

The changes between the mountains and the green. The little marks Toby had made because once wasn’t enough and memory was a poor instrument when you desperately wanted a thing to be true.

He turned a page and stopped.

His fingers rested beside the old curves.

The notes from the time he’d answered the slow signal.

I looked at him.

“We’re reading,” I said.

He nodded.

“I’m not asking you to do that again.”

“I know.”

He took his hand off the page.

Then, after a moment, he added, “I needed you to say it anyway.”

So we read together, with his wall where it belonged and the past left on paper.

Pella watched us when we brought the drawings to her.

“Have you found it?”

“Something worth comparing,” I said.

She made a face.

“I’ve begun to dislike how careful you are with that answer.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad you’re careful. I just wish the answer would improve.”

Toby sat beside her.

“So do we.”

We asked about where she’d been living before Iona’s last shelter.

Not just how long she’d felt ill.

Where she’d slept. How often they’d moved. Whether there had been live growth close to the bedding or bare stone around it.

She answered what she could.

Then called for Iona, who remembered the places better than the dates.

Bram remembered the dates because one move had cost them a pot he’d liked.

Between them, a pattern began to appear.

Not proof.

A reason to keep looking.

Their first shelter had been close to the green.

The next had stood higher, after water damaged the lower place. The final one had been higher still, on a dry shelf where the roof was easier to keep standing and the walk for water was worse.

Pella’s weakness hadn’t begun neatly on moving day.

It had become more noticeable afterward.

Neri’s injury had made them stay. Aven’s shoulder had made fetching things slower. Food, sleep, worry, weather. Too many changes to pretend we’d found one clean cause just because we could draw a line through the dates.

Still, I remembered Holt describing the years in the green.

I remembered the sleeping silver in Priya’s hands.

And I could see Pella’s altered tissue responding unevenly where a steadier response ought to have been doing part of the work.

We put the two kinds of evidence beside each other.

What she’d lived through.

What we could see now.

She asked to go outside before we suggested it.

“Somewhere I can see something besides that roof.”

We had a shaded place on the checked upper path, near the living fronds beyond the field. People already sat there when the camp grew crowded.

Not down in the unstable canyon floor.

Not beside the dark fragments below.

A short journey with a chair, water, and enough people that getting back wouldn’t depend on her strength.

Toby checked her before we moved.

I told her what we were thinking about the green and what we didn’t know.

She listened, then looked toward the open door.

“I wanted the sky anyway.”

We took her there.

Nothing happened at once.

The chair was uncomfortable until Bram shifted the folded cloth behind her shoulders. The shade moved. A fly or something close enough to one investigated the cup.

Pella watched the field.

I sat where I could look without making her feel as though every breath needed to be performed for me.

After a while, she asked whether the fronds always turned like that.

“Toward the light?”

“Toward you.”

I looked at them.

A faint silver movement passed through the nearest growth.

“Yes. Sometimes.”

She considered that.

“Does it make gardening awkward?”

I laughed.

“It makes me feel supervised.”

“Good. Somebody should understand how I feel.”

I put the notebook down for a while.

Later, when I looked again, the response had changed.

Not everywhere.

Not enough that I would have trusted myself to call it improvement without checking the earlier page.

But in the small region I’d been following, the silver answered with fewer of the interruptions I’d recorded that morning.

The ordinary tissue around it seemed to be working less hard.

I drew what I saw.

Waited.

Looked again.

Pella was still tired. Her leg hadn’t become stronger because I’d found something interesting in her hand.

She did finish a longer sentence without stopping to rest halfway through it.

That went on the page too.

When she wanted to go back, we took her back.

A useful observation wasn’t a reason to keep her sitting until she was exhausted.

Toby met us at the shelter.

I gave him the notes before saying what I hoped they meant.

He read them carefully.

Then asked Pella how she’d felt.

“Better outside,” she said. “I don’t know how much was being outside.”

“That matters too,” he told her.

She smiled at him.

We arranged to repeat the ordinary outing if she wanted one the next day, with the same observations before and afterward.

No manufactured signal.

No attempt to make Toby into the thing that had nearly killed him.

We could learn from the green without demanding that he become its voice.

When we left the shelter, he stood beside me for a moment.

Then said, “I think that’s a better way to begin.”

“So do I.”

Holt was in his chair when I went to ask him about the earliest changes he’d noticed in himself.

He listened while I explained Pella’s afternoon.

Then put his cup down.

“You want to know whether it happened all at once.”

“Yes.”

“It didn’t.”

He looked toward the field.

“Some days I’d realize I’d done a thing without thinking about whether my hands would let me. Then the next morning they’d argue again.”

“Did you write any of it down?”

“Wren did. I complained. She wrote that down too.”

I smiled.

He watched me for a moment.

“Ask what you need, Dask. Just don’t turn me into a corpse you’re practicing on before I’m finished annoying everyone.”

I looked at him sharply.

He grinned.

“I’ve got plans for that next shelter. They include a better seat.”

I believed him.

I wrote down his account and left him very much alive in his chair.

By late afternoon, I had three open books and the beginning of a headache.

Sera came to the table.

She read the new page, asked two questions that made me correct the order of the observations, then laid a hand over the next book before I opened it.

“Are you trying to answer another question?”

“Yes.”

“Can you answer it tonight?”

I looked at the drawings.

Not without turning the hope of a connection into more certainty than the day had earned.

“No.”

She nodded.

“Then stop at the thing you actually learned.”

I closed the book.

She smiled and bent to kiss me.

“There. You can be taught.”

“Slowly.”

“I have evidence.”

She took my hand and pulled me gently to my feet.

“Wash. Eat. Risa’s been looking forward to this.”

“So have I.”

“Then look as though you remember.”

Luna and Sera went to supper with Liam and Anja.

They took books afterward and claimed the seats beneath the shelter overhang, where the lamps were good and Holt had been explaining the rules of a game nobody trusted him to lose honestly.

Neither looked banished from our room.

Sera waved me away when I glanced toward her a second time.

Luna caught my eye and smiled.

“Go, Lucas.”

So I went.

Risa was waiting beside the table.

She had washed the mud stain out of the sleeve she’d worn on the survey. Her hair was loose. There were two cups, a small plate of food she’d saved, and no maps anywhere I could see.

My notebook was on its shelf.

Closed.

She followed my glance.

“I haven’t hidden it. I’m trusting you.”

“That seems ambitious.”

“I enjoy a challenge.”

She closed the door.

Not firmly enough to make it a statement.

Just closed it, because we were inside and wanted the room to ourselves for a while.

Then she turned and looked at me.

I suddenly forgot what my hands normally did.

Risa smiled.

“There he is.”

“Who?”

“The boy who can fly a boat and still gets nervous because a girl shut a door.”

“I think the girl matters.”

Her smile softened.

“Yes,” she said. “I think so too.”

She came close and took my hands.

I could feel the warmth of her fingers, the little movement of her thumb against my wrist.

For a moment, she didn’t kiss me.

She let me look at her.

I realized how often I’d glanced at her between other things instead of allowing myself to stop.

“You’re beautiful,” I said.

“I was hoping you’d notice.”

Then she kissed me.

We sat beside the window afterward.

Risa gave me a piece of the food she’d saved and asked me a question with an alarming amount of satisfaction.

“What did you think of me when we first met?”

I looked at her.

“You’re asking on purpose.”

“Very much.”

I tried to find an answer that was honest without being foolish.

Failed.

“That you knew things I didn’t.”

“Everybody knew things you didn’t, Lucas. You knew things nobody else did.”

“I mean about people. About what to say.”

She laughed softly.

“I knew how to sound as though I did.”

“You were convincing.”

“I had practice.”

She looked down at our joined hands.

“And I thought you looked at people as though what happened to them mattered even when you couldn’t do anything about it.”

I swallowed.

“That was sometimes frightening,” she added.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted you to look at me.”

I remembered the gym.

The things she’d told me before we’d stopped pretending about how we felt. Her certainty about how long she’d wanted this, and how much longer it had taken me to understand what she was saying.

“You had to wait too long,” I said.

“Some of that was both of us being very bad at this.”

“I’m still learning.”

“So am I.”

She moved closer until her knee touched mine.

“I don’t want us to become good at surviving together and forget to enjoy being together.”

I looked around the room.

The pictures. The cups. Her coat beside mine.

“We’re not forgetting tonight.”

“No.”

She kissed me again, slowly enough that I stopped thinking about what would be a good thing to say next.

That seemed to please her.

There was music outside.

Not an instrument. Someone trying the song Pella had remembered, with another voice helping when the tune wandered.

Risa tilted her head to listen.

Then stood and held out a hand.

I looked at it.

“You said no dancing promised.”

“I said we could choose something your leg likes.”

“My leg has very limited musical ambitions.”

“Then we’ll be unimpressive.”

She guided me up carefully. Her ankle wasn’t ready for anything clever either.

We stood close, one of my hands at her waist and hers against my shoulder.

No turning. No steps that needed a healthy leg and confidence I didn’t possess.

Just a slow shift of weight on the flat floor, keeping close enough that neither of us had to pretend it was difficult choreography.

Risa smiled up at me.

“There.”

“This counts?”

“It does if we say it does.”

We lasted less than a whole song.

My leg began objecting. Risa’s ankle had an opinion too.

We sat down before either objection became worth Toby’s attention.

She laughed as she settled beside me.

“A triumph.”

“I didn’t stand on you.”

“High standards. That’s why I chose you.”

I put my arm around her.

She leaned against me, then lifted her face.

The next kiss was warmer, less careful about where our hands went so long as we stayed comfortable.

When we drew apart, her forehead rested against mine.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.”

She breathed out and closed her eyes for a moment.

We had said it before.

I liked that it hadn’t become a thing either of us said without feeling it.

She asked me to stay like that.

So I did.

Her head against my shoulder. My hand moving slowly through her hair. The room dimming as the sky beyond the curtain lost its last light.

We talked a little.

Then stopped talking without treating the silence as a failure.

I didn’t reach for the notebook.

Risa noticed.

She took my free hand and kissed the inside of my wrist.

I had helped people breathe. Changed stone. Held a heart moving when it had stopped remembering how.

Nothing had prepared me for how difficult it could be to sit still while someone loved me without requiring anything else.

I kept practicing.

Sera and Luna came back later with their books.

They knocked.

Risa called them in, still leaning against me.

Sera looked at the two untouched pages we’d left on the shelf and raised an eyebrow.

“Promising.”

Luna sat beside us and put her book down.

“How was your evening?” Risa asked.

“Holt cheats,” she said.

“We knew that.”

“Yes. We have more evidence now.”

Sera took my hand, bent, and kissed me before going to change for bed.

Luna leaned against my other shoulder.

Risa’s fingers stayed threaded through mine.

The room became four people’s again without the evening Risa and I had spent disappearing.

I liked that more than I knew how to explain.

On Day 487, Pella asked to go outside again.

We made the same checks before leaving. Used the same chair. Took the same route to the shaded place near the fronds.

Bram came with her this time and sat close enough to talk without making her raise her voice.

I compared what I could see with the previous morning’s record.

Then waited.

The change wasn’t identical.

Bodies weren’t drawings, and neither day was a copy of the other.

But the same small part of the process became steadier near the living growth. Pella said she felt less emptied by talking after she’d sat there a while.

She still needed help getting back.

Both facts mattered.

When I showed Toby the pages afterward, he put them beside the old records from the first-wave survivors.

“We’ve got a reason to continue,” he said.

“Yes.”

Not an answer to everything.

A reason.

Teo came to look at the shaded place before we decided to make it more comfortable.

I had been thinking about a low rail, a level patch for the chair, perhaps a roof that would keep Pella dry if the weather changed while she was outside.

He listened, then crouched near the edge of the fronds.

“Don’t cut here.”

He pointed to a narrow place where the growth passed through the stone.

I could see the silver beneath the surface when I looked carefully. Thin. Connected to what lay beyond my view.

“I wasn’t planning to change the plants.”

“You were planning to flatten what they’re growing through.”

I looked at the place again.

He was right.

The shape I’d begun imagining as a tidy edge wasn’t empty.

We moved the proposed chair space a little farther back, onto the ground people already used. The difference was small enough that I was embarrassed by how quickly I’d assumed it wouldn’t matter.

Teo brushed the dirt from his hands.

“If you’re trying to learn what being near this does, don’t change all of this first.”

I wrote that down.

It was better advice than anything I’d come to ask him.

Sera looked over the new drawing when I returned.

“Could we grow some nearer the shelter eventually?”

“Perhaps. We don’t know whether a smaller planting would do the same thing. Or whether moving it would change the part we need.”

She nodded.

“Then eventually can wait.”

Risa put the two afternoon records beside the drawing.

“There’s another thing. Pella enjoyed being outside.”

“I know.”

“Keep that on the page. Even if the silver turns out to be doing something useful, she still gets to want the sky.”

I looked at the space beneath the observations.

Then wrote down the question Pella had asked about gardening.

Luna leaned over my shoulder to read it.

“She’ll like knowing you remembered that.”

“I didn’t think it was part of the medical account.”

“It doesn’t have to be in that account,” Sera said. “You have other pages.”

I took one of those pages back to Pella.

Not the medical drawings. The plan for the chair space and a simple sketch of where the roof might cast its shade.

She studied it for a while.

“Don’t cover the whole sky.”

“I won’t.”

“And I’d like to see people walking past. I don’t want to be put somewhere pretty and forgotten.”

I moved the little roof on the drawing until she approved the angle.

Then I asked whether she wanted it built yet.

“Yes,” she said. “Even if it turns out the fresh air is just fresh air.”

That was a reason I understood without opening another book.

We asked Iona whether she would go through the older days with us again.

Not because we hadn’t believed her the first time.

Because now we knew which questions we hadn’t thought to ask.

She brought her notes, and Bram brought his memory of the lost pot, and Pella corrected both of them about the day they’d moved the bedding.

Wren lent us the records she’d kept about Holt.

He arrived with them, carrying his cup.

“If you’re using my excellent medical history, you can at least give me a decent seat.”

Sera moved a chair closer.

Risa brought the other cup.

Luna laid out the dates where everyone could see them.

I looked around the table.

The work was still difficult.

It had become possible to do it without making one person disappear inside it.

That evening, we took the books down from the shelf.

The ones that weren’t medical.

Luna handed me the one she’d promised beside the ice field. Sera settled at the table with a drawing. Risa sat close enough to steal part of my blanket while insisting that was simply the nearest available part.

I began at the front, as instructed.

For the first few pages, I kept expecting someone to ask what the book was for.

Nobody did.

Outside, there were signals to keep and people to care for. There would be work again in the morning.

Inside, Luna read beside me. Sera’s pencil moved over the paper. Risa turned a page and made a disapproving sound at something in her own book.

I wanted to ask what had happened.

She looked up.

“You haven’t reached it. Keep reading.”

So I did.

Days 486–487. A different kind of answer.

Pella’s old living places compared with the dates of her weakness. More questions than the first account knew to ask.

Two outings near the living green. Steadier response in the silver observed both times. She reports less effort talking. Still weak. No cure claimed.

Toby’s old notes useful. No repeated signal. His wall stays his protection, not a reason to ask more of him.

Holt helping with the earlier dates. Still arguing about chairs. Future shelter improvements threatened.

Risa invited me to an evening. Door closed. No maps.

Danced badly and briefly. Nobody stepped on anybody. Both pleased.

Four of us with books tonight. Sera drawing.

I started at the front.