Hot Valley (30 page)

“Jack.”

“Yes, Aaron, it's me, Jack.”

“You found me.”

I thought he might be delirious.

“I need you to wake up, Aaron, and help me. We're in danger here. We've got to get away. Can you open your eyes for me?”

“Jack… I knew you'd find me…” His voice faded, like a man falling asleep.

“Don't leave me like this, Aaron. You've got to wake up. We're in danger. Please, Aaron, help me.”

I kissed him again, the tears rolling down my cheeks and into our mingling lips. He smiled slightly and seemed on the verge of dreamland.

“No! You must not fall asleep!” I shouted, shook him by the shoulder, slapped him around the face. The boy in my lap sensed the movement, and groaned in pain. The situation was hopeless; we were all surely going to die here together.

“God damn you, Aaron Johnson!” I shouted. “Wake up!”

My voice sounded strange in that quiet landscape, muffled by the soft ash that covered everything like black snow. A crow flapped overhead, waiting for its meal. Not long now, little brother, I thought.

And then Aaron's eyes opened. I had seen this happen in the hospital—the moment of lucidity that comes directly
before the end. I held my breath, waiting for the death rattle, but it did not come. Aaron's eyes focused on mine, and he breathed normally.

“Still the same old Jack Edgerton,” he said, with a scowl. “Always telling other people what to do.”

“You're awake!”

“How could I sleep, with all that racket? The question is, am I really alive?”

“You're alive, all right.”

“This isn't another dream? I haven't gone to heaven?”

“You call this heaven?” I looked around at the black ground, the burnt trees, the corpses and crows.

“Well, you're here. That's good enough for me, Jack.”

I didn't have time to think about what this meant, particularly as the boy was groaning in what sounded like serious agony.

“We've got to move. Can you stand?”

“No… Let's stay here. I'm afraid that if I wake up properly, you'll disappear. Kiss me again…”

I kissed him again, and would have sunk into death in that kiss, but for the crying of the boy. “Please, Aaron. Just try for me. Get up. I won't leave you, I promise. I'm not a dream. I'm real. Look at me. Do I look like a dream?”

His eyes focused again, taking in my face.

“No. You look like hell.”

“Thanks a lot. Now get yourself up on your feet and help me carry this kid.”

Aaron struggled up, obviously in great pain, and was almost sick—but he swallowed it, braced himself, and stood shakily erect. “Fuck. Where are we?”

“Somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley.”

“Oh, that wasn't a dream, then. Or a nightmare.”

When he was standing, I could see what a sorry state he was in, his limbs crisscrossed with improvised bandages, his clothes black with dried blood.

“What happened to you?”

“There's no time for that now. We've got to hide. Come on, get him to his feet.”

Between us, we managed to raise the dying boy and support him on our shoulders. He was shorter than the two of us, and if we stood up straight we could keep his feet from dragging in the dirt. I could see how much pain and effort this was costing Aaron, but he overcame it and led us toward the thickest part of the burnt forest.

“There's a cave and a spring,” he said. “Come on.”

How we made it to that place of safety I do not understand; perhaps the hand of God was guiding us. Fires were burning all around us—small fires, dying down for lack of fuel, a few flickering tongues of flame springing from the black ash like crocus bursting through the late snows of Vermont. Smoke was everywhere, hanging over the valley like a morning mist, permeating our clothes, our hair, our lungs. Every so often we heard the sharp whiz of a bullet from a sniper somewhere close at hand. Were they shooting at us? I didn't know. There was nowhere to shelter, no cover from their fire. The bullets came randomly, from different directions, occasionally hitting a burnt tree, occasionally landing in the soft ash with a weird, muffled “whumph.” All we could do was pursue the shortest course across that burning field of death, hoping not to catch a bullet ourselves. I might survive a flesh wound, but for Aaron and the boy, it would mean certain death.

The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like hours, but I suppose we covered little more than half a mile before we reached the extent of the fire. Suddenly, the trees were green rather than black, the grass unscorched. Scrubby bushes became thickets and then woods; here, at last, was some shelter. Aaron led us through a thicket, the branches scratching our faces; I had to hoist the boy over my shoulder like a sack of corn. And then Aaron ducked down behind a bush and disappeared from view. A large rock concealed the
mouth of a small cave in the hillside. I managed to push the boy through and followed him into the darkness.

We rested for a while, hearing only our own breathing and the faint tinkle of water. We could no longer hear the bullets. We were safe, crouching together in the blissful dark and dampness. After the hell of the burning valley, this tiny cave with its wet rocky floor seemed like heaven. Aaron rested his head on my chest, the boy lay in my lap. I sat, cradling them both, loving them both. War had brought us together, perhaps to die but at least for a moment to love and care for each other. Aaron worked my shirt open and rested against my bare chest, kissing it and licking it. I stroked his hair, felt the powerful muscles of his neck and shoulders, smelled the sweat and dirt on his body.

We could not stay like this for long. For one thing, the boy was in a bad way—and I wasn't too happy about Aaron's condition either. As for myself, I knew that I was badly dehydrated, but that was about all; I seemed to have escaped without even a scratch. The hospital must have burned down, all the patients must be dead, God knows what had happened to Jenny—but Jack Edgerton had nothing more to complain of than a dirty face.

I roused Aaron. “What do we do now?”

“Further in,” he said. “Water.”

I could see nothing, but there was an unmistakable sound of water from not so far away. I groped my way in and found that the ground sloped down, allowing just enough room for a man to squeeze under the stone of the roof. Trusting to the Providence that had kept me safe so far, I wriggled through, leaving Aaron and the boy together in the mouth of the cave. I slid down a sandy slope and landed softly in a pile of leaves. I could tell from the echoes that I was in a larger chamber, but I could see nothing; it was pitch-dark. I could hear the water, lapping and dripping. I could smell it.

But there were other things in there apart from leaves and water. My hand came to rest on a cold metallic object—a rifle, I quickly realized. And there were sticks in a pile, and something sharp that turned out to be a knife. I continued to explore with my fingers and found the one thing I hoped to find—a box of matches. They were slightly damp, and it took a few attempts before I finally lit one. It sputtered into life, then burned steadily, enough to show me that I was in a roughly circular chamber about eight feet in diameter, with a pool of fresh, bubbling water and the makings of a rudimentary camp. This must be where Aaron had been hiding out, making his raids on the Yankee troops, earning himself the reputation—for who else could it be?—of the Black Devil.

I collected a few of the drier leaves and sticks and made a loose pile as far from the water as possible. The entrance tunnel would act like a chimney; I prayed that the smoke would not betray our presence. But there was enough smoke in the valley already; another wisp would not make too much difference. I struck the match, held it to the edge of one curled brown leaf and watched the flame lick its way along. Fire, which had seemed so ghastly on the outside, here seemed like the key to life itself.

When the sticks had caught, I called to Aaron to come down. There was no response, and I feared that he had lost consciousness again. I called again, and now there was a groan and the sound of shifting. The boy's legs appeared in the tunnel, and I caught them, lowering him into the cave. Aaron followed him.

“All the comforts of home,” he said, before collapsing at the side of the pool and drinking his fill. I cupped my hands, filled them with water, and brought them to the boy's mouth. His lips opened, and the water ran in. Perhaps we could save his life.

The fire burned steadily, warming and lighting the cave. I could see enough to dress the boy's wounds and make him comfortable on the smooth sandy floor. He slept, but now
his breath was gentle and regular. He had lost a lot of blood, but he might make it; he was young and strong. I smoothed his hair away from his face and caressed his smooth, beardless cheek. He was so young, so young…

“Cadet brigade,” Aaron said, propping himself up on one arm. “Virginia Military Institute. Some of the bravest soldiers I've ever seen.”

“He's a child.”

“He's a vicious child,” Aaron said. “They bite and scratch like cats.”

He looked so peaceful, sleeping there on the floor, his head on a rolled-up sack, a few leaves piled over him for warmth.

“And you, Aaron.” I hardly knew what to say;
How have you been?
seemed inadequate.

“Yes, me. Well, what's left of me. They took a few chunks out of me.” He pointed to his patchwork of filthy bandages.

“I'd better take a look at those.”

“Yeah. I think some of them have gone bad. They smell like death.”

It was true; Aaron was exuding an unwholesome, putrid smell, suggesting that infection was gaining a foothold. I knew what to do. I could clean and, if necessary, cauterize his wounds. It would hurt him, but it might save his life.

“Don't worry,” I said, sounding as cheerful as possible. “Luckily for you, I'm a trained nurse.”

“No shit,” he said, laughing and groaning. “Aren't you full of surprises, little Jack.”

“And aren't you full of crap, Aaron Johnson. Now you just lie back there and let me take a look at this.” I started to pull his shirt away from his shoulders; it adhered in places, stuck to the skin with dried blood. He winced.

“Always trying to get my clothes off, Jack. Some things never change.”

“Yeah, and this time you're going to lie back and shut up and let me do what I want to do.”

“Oh, baby,” he said, “whatever's left, you're welcome to it. Ouch! Fuck, Jack!” A strip of burned skin came away with his shirt; the flesh underneath was raw and wet but, from what I could see, quite wholesome.

“How have you stayed alive, Aaron?” I said, cleaning the wound with a handkerchief dipped in water. “You should have died a thousand times, by the look of it.”

“They took everything else from me, but they couldn't take my life.”

His hand dug into my leg; he was obviously in agony but bearing it with fortitude. He stared into my face throughout.

“They took my friend…” There were tears rolling down his face, whether from physical pain or the pain of bereavement I could not tell. “Only boy who ever cared for me, for myself. Howard Porter. Stood by me, took the bullet that was meant for me, fought like a tiger to stay alive but died in my arms.”

“When was this?” I tried not to look in his eyes, knowing that the pain I'd see there would distract me from my task.

“I don't know. A week. A month. How do you tell day from night when everything is black and burning? Sometimes the smoke and the fire seemed like we were in hell—”

“Hold still now. This is going to hurt.”

I'd found a large splinter of metal buried in a wound on his back, near the kidneys; had it penetrated any further, he would have died quickly. As it was, the wound was dirty, stinking, unable to heal. Aaron bit down hard on his wrist and I yanked the metal out of him, knowing from my experience in the hospital that one short unbearable blast of pain was easier to survive than the slow agony of a more cautious approach. He screamed and passed out. While he was unconscious, I probed the wound and found there were no more fragments, I cut away some of the infected tissue, and then, heating the blade of the knife in the fire, cauterized the ghastly graying flesh. The smell was foul but was
soon carried away with the smoke from the fire through our chimney. Aaron didn't stir, and I thanked God that he had been spared this horror. If he survived this, he had a chance.

I cut away the rest of his clothes, trying not to disturb his sleep, and converted any shred of fabric that was not positively filthy into a bandage. At last he was naked, the dressings forming a map of pain on his huge black body. The firelight showed every contour, every bone, every muscle, every scar. I had him now as I had so often wanted him—vulnerable, at my mercy. I kissed his mouth, his neck, his chest, his nipples. Resting my head on his stomach, I felt his shallow breathing. I buried my face in his soft, wiry bush, and inhaled his odor. Finally, I kissed his cock, placed my hand over it, lay down by his side, and tried to keep him warm. And so we all slept.

 

A sickly light was filtering through the tunnel when I awoke. I had no idea what time it was. My mouth was dry, and I was cold; the fire had gone out, leaving a damp smoky smell behind it. My arms were around Aaron, my leg thrown over his. He was still warm, breathing, alive. I disentangled myself, crawled over to the boy, terrified that he had died in the night—but he too was warm and breathing.

Aaron's wounds were still terribly raw and would cause him a lot of pain, but he was not feverish and there was no further danger of blood poisoning or gangrene. If I could keep him clean, warm, and hydrated, he would survive. The boy was weak, but if he was as much of a fighter as Aaron said, he might make it. I did not want to give another meal to the crows if I could possibly help it.