63 Days

The sun was warm as I opened my eyes. The clouds were leaving to the east, and this the bluest sky I’d ever seen. Birds were chirping and I sat up to see what the wind had done to my little haven.

There were tracks in the sand. Footprints. They led from the entrance of the inlet all the way to the firepit, to the woodpile and all over the place. I saw that the tracks had come over to where I was sleeping, and then turned and walked away. Next to my pillow were some matches…matches and a note. It read:

Burn this after you read it. Make a fire and hide the matches somewhere they won’t find them. They’re all in meetings til this afternoon. Please don’t run again, just be still. I’ll check on you, but I was supposed to start your fire, but I didn’t want to wake you. I’m sorry about what happened last night. He told a few of us what happened with you last night, but he said you begged him for it. I don’t believe it. Just so you know. Now eat. Make a fire. Don’t tell anyone I left these for you. John

I hadn’t even heard his footsteps around the camp that night. The night before, after “he” left, I’d fallen asleep in terror. I had dreamed about monsters, about scorpions, about the things out here that could hurt me. They’d all had the faces of the man who’d left me as I’d drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the howling wind.

I stood up and stretched. Sand fell out of my blanket, and I pulled on my pants that were balled at the bottom of my bedroll down by my feet. I was still shaking, but I wasn’t crying anymore, that was a plus.

My water bottles were on the rock, full. There were still drops from where he’d spilled as he poured the water into them. I must have just missed John. Maybe he’d woken me as he’d left. I peered out into the desert around me and didn’t see another soul, nor any dust from a vehicle anywhere.

I walked over to behind the rock to get some wood to start my fire all the while looking at the sky. It was calm and the most beautiful blue I’d ever seen. It almost made me dizzy just to see it. As I came around the corner, I tripped on something. Looking down at my feet, I was shocked to see the bird from yesterday, laying dead on the ground, its tiny feet curled into themselves, rigid.

I knelt down to the bird’s body, and noticed its eyes were glazed over. There were feathers all around it, and a few flies starting to gather around its body. In its side, right below its neck, I saw a hole had been torn in its flesh, a bit of bone sticking out and when I got closer, I saw what appeared to be tiny pieces of black rocks. I recalled a time in my childhood where I’d seen the same kind of rocks in a barn door at our friends house in Spanish Fork, Utah. The dad who lived there with the kids we played with had shot at the door with his shot gun and this was what it had looked like.

I jumped to my feet, terrified. But John had said that they were all in a meeting! How was this possible? Why were they shooting at me?

I lifted the bird with my finger, tossing away all warnings I’d been told as a child about touching dead birds, and it was hard and cold. I carried it over to the entrance of my area, and started to dig a tiny hole for it under the tree where it had first appeared to me the day before. The sand was warm on top, the sun beating down on it, but when I got a few inches down, the sand turned to a cold moist clay. The rain had saturated the ground the day before, and as I dug in with my fingers, I recalled another time as a child when I used to play out in the back yard. We’d dig tunnels and caves, running small cars and trucks through the mound. I’d start digging on one side of the hill, and my friends would start on the other sides til our fingers met in the middle somewhere, completing our tunnels and drive throughs that we’d play in for hours and hours til the sun went down and the street lights came on. Then we’d return home, exhausted and tired, nails filthy with earth.

I got about a foot down and I placed the bird in the hole. I sat looking at it for a moment and realized that I hadn’t even heard the bird go down. I hadn’t even heard a gunshot. Why hadn’t I heard any of this? Why hadn’t I heard John? What was happening to me? Was I going deaf or something?

I covered the hole and stepped back. It was obvious that I’d been there, but any animal would have to have a really strong sense of smell to dig him up.

Walking back to the firepit, I grabbed some bark off of the dead tree. It was brittle and surprisingly dry. I fashioned a small nest out of the tinder and set it in the middle of the firepit. There were short sticks in the firepit and I made a little log cabin around the nest, leaving the top mostly open and lit a match. It went out immediately. I lit another…same thing. At this rate, I’d use the entire book of matches before the day was done. I remembered what John had said in the note and….wait! The note! I had to burn it anyway.

I reached in my pocket and brought it out. Turning it into a small twist, ropelike, I lit the end. It was a small flame at first, but as I turned it so the flame was down, it began to really catch fire. I sat it down excitedly in the middle of the cabin and into the nest I’d made. White smoke poured out from where I’d sat it, and I was delighted to see the flames start to lick their way up the walls of it all.

Soon the fire was roaring, the heat making the skin on my face and arms feel like they were baking, but it felt good. I felt warm and the reality of my place in the desert was feeling real…I was FEELING again. This was the truth of it all. I was out here, and I’d be here until they let me out. There was no use in fighting it, I was again powerless.

My journal was sitting in a little overhang, and I pulled it out and started to write. I wrote a letter to my parents telling them I was alive. I wrote a letter to my siblings telling them I was alive. I wrote a letter to me, telling myself I was alive. I stared again at the desert, and for a moment, I felt like my eyes connected with another person. I thought I saw something move, but before I could focus in, it was gone.

Down the hill, John sat watching. He told me later that he’d seen the smoke start pouring out of my spot, and when he did, he knew I was ok. He had a few more gifts for me, but they’d have to wait. He needed to come back to me when it was dark, when the others wouldn’t notice him missing.

He looked up and saw me approach the entrance of the inlet, and he thought he saw me look at him. He saw me go rigid, trying to see him, so he ducked behind a bend in the wash, and smiled.