Possession (26 page)

Sam blew out the smoke that swelled forgotten in his throat and lowered his hand very slowly. The snake watched him but made no attempt to coil. Its forked tongue flashed and the wedged head followed his movements. He inhaled again, trying to match his arm motion to the snake's torpor.

"Want a puff?"

The eyes blinked; the tongue shot out.

"No? Nasty habit, anyway. Get much traffic through here?"

Gone fucking crazy. Talking to rattlers.

He'd be damned if he was going to move first—not until he'd finished the cigarette. He took his time, watching for a sudden change in the serpent's position, but it moved nothing but its head. He searched the ground where he sat for other snakes, but there were none; then he ground the butt out under his heel. He wouldn't know until he tried just how much agility remained in his bad hip. He rolled to his right, away from the rattler, balanced for an instant on his boots and fingertips, and then was on his feet and out of striking range. When he looked back at the rock pile, the snake was gone.

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17

She knew that they had been in the same meadow for a long time, but she was not sure how long. She forgot things very quickly and it was so hard to call them back. One morning—it might have been the second or the third, she wasn't sure—they couldn't leave because a thick fog made the trees vanish and he'd said they would fall off the mountain if they tried to move down. Remembering the drop so dangerous even in clear air, she knew he was right. The next day, or maybe some other day, there was a reason to stay. What was it? She couldn't remember. Sometimes it seemed as if the light lasted so long that night would never come, and at other times, the periods between day and night and day again flittered by in minutes. He liked it when she sat quietly and listened to him talk, but there was often a sudden panic that demanded that she move. When that happened, she found she could lessen the terror by action. She circled the meadow's boundaries then, hurrying faster and faster to leave the crawling feeling behind. He always made her stop before she was entirely free of it and led her back to their little camp. She tried not to cry because it seemed to annoy him, no—infuriate him. Sometimes in the night she had to cry because her tears choked up in her throat and she couldn't breathe, but she learned to do it softly. Even so, he caught her at it, his thick fingers finding the tears on her face.

And once he had touched her he would not let her go until he had touched her all over, exciting himself and finally plunging into her. She had learned to lie still and accept him passively so that he wouldn't hurt her, and afterward he was nicer and calmer and left her alone. In the blackness and especially in the fog—when she thought she had died—his hands defining her were proof that she was still alive. When 191

she didn't fight him, he was almost gentle with her. He let her breathe, and he allowed her to live.

In the daytime, when she could see his face, he looked at her so strangely sometimes as if there were something she should know. Once in a while, when he came, he cried out some name or some word that sounded like

"Reen" or "Reenee," but she didn't know what it meant.

When he talked, she didn't have to think or remember and she could let her mind rest. And when he talked, he would not fondle her—as long as she responded correctly. When his voice made her drowsy with the deep buzzing cadence it could have, she had to balance her answers carefully. Most of the time, he only wanted her to listen and to look at him.

". . . some souls never die." He was staring at her again with his questioning look.

"No. They go to be with God."

"There is no God. There is only a continuum of particular, special souls. Special people—the rest are only reflections of the best and they die like cows. I am a special one. So are you. We will never die."

Hadn't he talked about God? She was sure it was the red man who was talking about God a long time ago.

"What cannot be seen by fools is truth. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

"She died when you were ten years old and became part

of you. Do you remember?" he asked. «'!_"

"Say you remember!" He was angry, demanding an answer.

"I remember."

"I always knew you. All the times we were together, you always needed me. When I had to leave you, you died. But when you left me, I was stronger. I was always stronger because you belonged to me, and I possessed your soul. I never let it go, but you hurt me when you went away."

"I'm sorry." His stories were so confusing. They made her feel dreamy, tumbling along the tunnels he formed, trying to understand.

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"I forgave you. I always forgave you because you were weak. Do you remember who we were?"

"I don't understand—"

"Don't make me angry. You said you remembered when you started to be Lureen."

"... oh, yes." Maybe she did remember. He was so sure of it, and she was no longer positive of who it was that she was now. There were no mirrors here, only his eyes, and he seemed to recognize her.

"I went to libraries and I saw our pictures in old books. We had different names, but our eyes stay the same. That's how you can be sure—by the eyes. I knew you when I saw your eyes. Did you know me?"

"I—yes, I knew you." She couldn't seem to pull her gaze away from his, and she could truly see her image in them. She finally looked away because they made her so dizzy.

"Would you like to sing?"

"What?"

"You always liked to sing—Elvis's songs. Love me tender___" She joined in because it seemed important to him. They had sung at their other camp. .. . No. Not with him. She had sung with someone. With Danny, maybe, but she couldn't remember.

All she could remember was that she had been safe then—and happy—and the thought of it made her want to cry again. But she sang with the red man for a long time because it seemed to calm him. When he was calm, because she pleased him, he seemed almost nice. He didn't frighten her then. She only had to remember not to talk about things that bothered him. There were so many things she had to keep track of. To keep from dying.

They had stayed in the meadow far too long, and he railed t himself for that. It had been so perfect, having her with him, belonging so totally to him, that he had not wanted to end it. But the days had run on, and they had only come four miles from the lake. He had seen no one, but there could conceivably be searchers. He couldn't be sure because

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she didn't remember when her vacation was supposed to end. When he asked her, she would say "Monday" one time, and another time she said "In time for graduation." He should have questioned her earlier. He was pleased by the vague hazy way her mind was—it made her sweeter. Physically, she was doing well; she ate and slept when he told her to, and she complained only rarely of nausea. She let him make love to her, and she allowed him to hold her at night and fit himself around her to keep her warm.

But they had to leave now, and he was ill; his body had suddenly betrayed him. He was certain it would pass, but his mind was dulled by a stubborn fever. His body responded slowly to what he asked of it. He could work his way around the pain by blocking it out, but his swollen arm got in his way, and the burning in his head expanded and made it impossible to concentrate.

The damned arm had wakened him Monday night. He thought at first that she had pulled on her hobble and was trying to leave him, but she lay asleep beside him. It was not his leg, but the arm that felt oddly tight as if its skin had shrunk and could no longer accommodate his flesh and muscle. He could not tell what it was then, not by the quartering moon and the remnants of fire. It itched and hurt when he scratched it and was full of unhealthy heat.

He finally found sleep again just before dawn by letting the swollen arm rest outside his sleeping bag and pretending it was not part of him. When he awoke, he saw the arm swollen from his wrist to his armpit where the lymph nodes bulged like walnuts. The scratches and the marks left by her teeth gleamed a bright, unnatural color.

She didn't know. He'd kept his sleeves rolled down, and the new coldness in the air made that seem reasonable. But the arm seemed almost alien now, a heavy, throbbing weight. He tried to throw it out in a wide gesture to end the song, and she looked at him sharply when he could not.

"What's the matter with you? What's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothing. I got scratched when—you remember, I told you. The grizzly ripped up my arm some. It's kind of sore."

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"Let me see it." She reached for his arm and he drew back.

"It's nothing. It's beginning to feel better now."

"You're moving funny, and you've been dropping things." He shrugged and rolled up his sleeve, holding the arm out.

"Oh my God!"

He followed her stare and was startled to see the arm, swollen and darkened so that it looked sausagelike. The tracks were spread apart and oozing pus. Her teeth marks looked worse. He shivered.

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? You've let it get infected. What happened to you? What did this?"

"You've forgotten again."

She turned his hand in hers, gently pressed the tooth marks. "What's this? What bit you?"

"You did."

"I couldn't have!"

"When we were in the tree."

Her face was stricken. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You were hitting my head—"

"You were hysterical; I had to keep you from slipping down. You didn't mean to. It doesn't matter now."

"No. I wouldn't have done that to anyone deliberately." She turned away and started pawing through her pack. She looked back at him. "Are you allergic to penicillin?"

"I don't know. I never had it."

"What about when you were a child? You never had it for a sore throat?

You must have."

He stared back at her, wondering at the vast blank spaces in her recollection. She seemed truly to have forgotten.

"No. Never. I always got better eventually—even that time with my ears." She dug a brown plastic tube out of her pack and shook two round white tablets out. "Take these. I'll get the canteen. Just take them. I have enough for four days—that should help. I always bring them just in case."

"What if I'm allergic?"

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"We can't think about that; we don't have a choice. You're not allergic to bee stings, are you?"

"No."

"Then it will be all right, I think." She carried a silver | tube with a paper label with her and reached for his arm. I "Neosporin. We'll put that on too. You should have told me before, though."

And it had helped some. His arm still bothered him, but >| the infection seemed static, neither retreating nor accelerating, only smoldering with chronic pain. He liked having her take care of him, and what he had viewed as a setback seemed actually to be a blessing. During the time she fussed over him, she seemed serene; nurturing seemed a comfortable role for her. It was only when she had nothing to do that she grew restive.

She was afraid he was going to die, and that she would have caused it. She could not remember that she had tried to kill him before; she only knew that if he died, she would be all alone. He told her that often, reminding her that it was her teeth that had sent the deadly spores into his bloodstream, and then he cried when he talked about what would happen to her without him. He slept, or seemed to sleep, much of the time, and she had to keep the fire going and fix food to make him stronger. But he would not eat, and he grew weaker.

He had promised her he would take care of her and he had done that. She didn't know where Danny had gone, but Danny had left her on the mountain and something bad had happened to her. But she couldn't recall what it was. She could not remember beyond yesterday. When he touched her, he had given her life; he had willed her to live. She remembered that. Alone, even standing alone in the meadow, she was afraid. She needed some human thing to touch and hold on to because the air around her was empty. Caring for him was the most important thing. Women took care.

Sometime, sometime when there were walls to lean against and secure space with a roof and doors, she would

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sort it out. Unless he died and left her behind even though he had assured her he wouldn't. If he died, there would be no one left to see her. She would not belong to anyone, and she would cease to exist. She had misjudged him, thought he had deliberately kept her in the meadow. And that was wrong. As sick as he was, he kept rousing from his delirium and telling her they had to leave. Of course, she could not let him do that. When she pushed him carefully back to his sleeping pallet, his muscles were still as heavy and strong but they seemed not to be able to work efficiently. He looked at her, but he seemed not to see her, and still he let her gentle him.

Someone—or something—had frightened her but she did not know who it was. She belonged to the sick man, and she knew that because he had explained it to her so many times. If she belonged to him and let him die, nobody would forgive her.

She watched him. He moaned in his sleep, but he would not talk to her, no matter how often she called out to him.

When he opened his eyes and saw her and she knew he knew her, she was grateful. He seemed to be in terrible pain still, but she thought her medicine was helping.

"Tell me the stories," she pleaded, and he talked to her again, in a voice not so deep, but steady.

"You won't leave me, will you?" she asked.

"I will never leave you. I possess you. I am part of you." And she felt alive again.

"I have to know how protected we are," he explained. "You must go out into the woods and show me. I have to know if something could sneak up on us. Try to surprise me. Go far enough away so that I can't see you, and then try to fool me. I'll close my eyes. When I hear you, I'll shout 'Bingo.'"

She was rather good at it, but he always heard her; she betrayed herself with a crackling branch or a rustle of leaves when she was closer to him than a hundred yards or so. Even when he drowsed in his fever, he heard her. It made her feel safe.