Withering Hope (24 page)

E
arly the next day I saunter out of the plane to search for eggs. It'll be our last meal before we leave, and I want it to be nourishing. We have some leftovers from the bird Tristan caught yesterday, but it won't be enough. My stomach constricts at the sight of numerous, fresh paw prints on the ground. Tristan prepares the bait we'll use to lure the jaguars away. I pray it'll work and climb in one of the trees on the inside of the fence, a basket hanging from my left hand. I find enough nests on the upper branches to fill my basket with eggs. My thoughts keep flipping between being so close to safety and my rapidly approaching encounter with Chris. I'm not paying as much attention as I should to my surroundings when I jump down from the tree, my basket filled with eggs. I scan the area for any signs of a jaguar waiting to sink its fangs into me and rip me apart, and seeing none, proceed back to the plane. Or at least I attempt to.

It's not a jaguar that stops me, but a sharp bite on my left ankle. I cry out, dropping the basket. My heart leaps to my throat at about the same time my eyes drop to the ground. My stomach recoils when I find half a dozen black, thin snakes slinking around my feet, two with heads roaring open, ready to sink their teeth into my leg again. I've stepped right into the viper lair I discovered in our first weeks here but forgot about. Adrenaline courses through me as my legs dart forward, not before I feel a second sharp sting. Dizzy with horror and pain, I race to the plane, soon out of breath but afraid to stop, because if I do, the adrenaline sustaining me might succumb to the poison.

"Tristan," I say when I reach the airstairs, leaning against the railing. Heavy beads of sweat trickle down my forehead. Tristan looks at my basketless arms with raised eyebrows, but his bafflement turns into a mask of horror when I point down to my feet. I look down and dart forward, throwing up. The flesh is torn apart where the second viper bit me—no doubt its fangs were still in my flesh when I ran—blood trickling out as the venom trickles in. The sight makes me nauseous, but I don't throw up again. Instead, I lose balance. Tristan catches me just before I hit the ground. He lifts me in his arms, hurrying inside the plane. I try to ignore the pulsing pain in my foot but fail, resorting to biting my fist to keep from screaming.

When Tristan puts me down on my chair, I want to lift my foot up, to get a better look at the wound.

"No," he says, gripping my thigh to keep my leg immobilized. "It's important to keep the injured part below the heart level."

"What now?" I ask.

Tristan runs his hand through his hair, not meeting my eyes. Panic swells in my chest at his silence. "Tristan?" I press. "How do we get the venom out?" I remember reading in a travelling guide never to suck out the poison from a venomous snakebite… or use a tourniquet to stop the venom from spreading. That could cause gangrene. In fact, the guide emphasized not to attempt anything and get to a medical unit as fast as possible, because venom gets into the bloodstream quickly. It seemed like sound advice when I read it. Now it seems a cruel joke. Still, I hold the hope that Tristan has learned some kind of emergency trick during his time in the Army. The desperation in his eyes tells the exact opposite.

"We can't," he says, and despite the fact that his voice appears calm, steady, I can hear cracks starting to tear at his confidence. "But maybe there is no poison."

"No poison?" I raise my voice, partly because a new wave of pain just seared through me, and partly because what he's saying is ridiculous. "Are you forgetting where we are? Even the damn frogs are poisonous here."

"Listen to me. When a poisonous snake strikes, it doesn't always release venom." His voice trembled when he spoke the first words but as he continues, it becomes smoother, almost official. He must have said this before, maybe to one of his comrades when they were on a mission. "But in case venom did enter your bloodstream, it's important that you remain calm so your heart rate doesn't speed up. That keeps the blood from circulating faster, thus spreading the venom faster."

"And I'm supposed to remain calm knowing this?"

"It's a protection measure, Aimee." His hand caresses my cheeks, and then he pulls me into an embrace. I press my cheek against his chest, losing myself in his arms. For a moment, I believe everything will be all right. Then the pain strikes again. I bite my lip hard to keep from screaming. Tristan's heartbeats are frantic—I don't want him to worry even more. "You most likely have no venom in your blood at all."

"You're not saying that just so I don't panic, are you?"

"No, it's true. That happened a couple of times when we were on missions." I want to believe him. I want to know what happened to those guys, but I'm afraid to ask. Even if they didn't die from the snake bite, chances are bad things happened to them anyway. And I don't want Tristan to think of those days again. I just pulled him out of his nightmares. My desperation to know is not worth losing his peace of mind. "I'm not worried about venom."

I lick my lips, and nod. He brings the alcohol bottle and starts cleaning the wound. He frowns, his eyes probing the bite on my leg, and my heart rate speeds up. He might not be worried about the venom, but he's worried about
something
.

"Can we still leave?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"That's out of question," he says. "You can't walk." Then he adds, "I could carry you."

"We'd be too slow. And easy prey." We both fall silent, probably thinking the same thing. We're easy prey here already. "I'll send the rescue team a message: We'll delay leaving for a few days until you recover."

I don't recover. My leg starts swelling in the first few hours, and I hardly sleep for fear I won't wake up or my leg will double in size in my sleep. Tristan doesn't sleep the entire night, just holding me in his arms, checking on my foot every now and again. It turns out the snakes didn't release venom when they bit me—perhaps they weren’t venomous at all. If they were, I'd be dead already. But something equally dangerous looms over me nonetheless.

Infection.

Infection was Tristan’s worry from the beginning. Since we have no antibiotic, there's no way to stop it from spreading. Disinfecting it with alcohol doesn't do much. The swelling is almost gone by the second morning, but the edges of the wound turn a stomach-churning shade of violet and yellow. Tristan put a bandage on it, and I wear a long dress so I don't see it, but hiding it doesn't make its effects any less noticeable. I can’t walk, even with the cane Tristan makes for me. I give up going out of the plane at all. Leaving to meet the rescue group is out of the question. Our best chance is to wait for them here. Except, that's not a good chance—not even a real one. The jaguars will finish us before our rescuers arrive.

They come inside our fence during the day now, too. There are four of them. We are forced to stay in the plane and keep the airstairs raised above the ground. Tristan hunts from the edge of the door. He develops a clever system to retrieve his prey by binding a thin thread to the end of the arrow. After the speared animal drops to the ground, he pulls in the thread until the prey is in his hands. It doesn't work all the time because the movement catches the jaguars' attention, and sometimes they capture the animal before Tristan manages to pull it up to us. We remain hungry more often than not. We're also permanently thirsty because his system doesn't work to bring the water baskets closer to us, so we collect rain water by lining our old soda cans on the edge of the door and the elevated airstairs. Tristan tried shooting the jaguars, but they are smart. It’s as if they can tell the exact moment he releases the arrow, even if they appear to concentrate on something else—like eating our dinner—and get out of the way.

If we can make it until the rescue team arrives, they have guns and can take out the jaguars immediately. But two weeks is a long time to subsist on air and a very long time to resist with an infection this serious. Still, I cling to the hope that I will resist. But the hope withers, day by day.

On the fifth day after the bite, I realize just how unrealistic that hope is. Tristan is in the cockpit and I am alone in the cabin. I drag myself down the aisle toward my suitcase. I need to change my dress because I can’t stand the sight of the blood and pus on it. I do my best to hurry so I can get back to my seat before Tristan leaves the cockpit. He insists I don't move at all and would be beside himself if he saw me. But I
need
to move, otherwise I'll grow roots on my seat. Moving hurts like hell, though. I change my dress. The bandage on my foot catches my attention. I haven't looked at the wound in two days. Tristan won't let me, even when he changes the bandages. Biting my lips, I undo it and my heart stops as my eyes try to take in the horror. The image blurs, as tears fill my eyes and realization seeps in.

I will not get better.

I will not last until the rescue team arrives.

I cry out in rage at the unfairness of it all. Tears stream down my cheeks as my whole body starts shaking. I try to calm myself but fail. Why does it matter anymore?

When I hear noise from the cockpit, I remember why calming myself matters. I can't let Tristan see me like this. He must know how bad my wound is. That’s why he didn’t let me see it. But he must not know how devastated I am. I crawl back to my seat just as Tristan comes out of the cockpit. He doesn't walk my way, but remains at the door of the plane, crouching down with his back to me. I'm grateful I'm sitting in the second row with a row of seats between me and Tristan. It hides me from his view.

"I’ll try to get us some food," Tristan calls over his shoulder. "Maybe I'll get lucky."

"Okay," I say. His hunting will give me enough time to pull myself together. I wipe away my tears, but fresh ones burst. Why now? Why couldn't I have died when the plane crashed? Quickly, perhaps even painlessly. Before I became whole in a way I had never been before, only to lose everything. I shake my head, then hide it between my knees. I can't think like this. I will break down and won't be able to piece myself back together. Drawing in deep breaths, I attempt to calm myself. The effort of not crying slices at my chest with excruciating whiplashes, again and again, until I'm convinced the effort itself will be enough to break me down. I bite my arm when sobs overtake me, and give in to the pain and the fear. I let the pain bleed out in silent tears, until I have none left.

"No chance," Tristan says after what feels like hours. "I've shot down a bird, but the jaguars jumped on it right away. As usual, they've cut the thread with their fangs, so I've lost that arrow, too." Watching me with worry he says, "You're hungry, aren't you?"

"To be honest I can't feel the hunger anymore." Side effects of the pain.

"You still have to eat. I'll try going outside to dig for some roots."

"No. Absolutely not. It's too dangerous."

"So is dying from starvation, Aimee."

I almost laugh out loud. My infected wound will see to it that I don't die of starvation.

And then it strikes me. He will.

Stuck here with me, nothing awaits him but death.
We
might be unable to leave. But Tristan isn't. I've seen him move through the forest. He's agile, strong and fast. If he manages to get past the jaguars, he stands a good chance of reaching the rescue group. Without me as a burden, he can reach safety. The thought fuels my hope. I cling to it for dear life. Oh, I cling to it so desperately. Now I have to convince him to leave.

"I have an idea," I say as Tristan lies on his seat with his eyes closed, tired, hungry, and thirsty. "Why don't you go and meet the rescue team?"

"What?" his sharp voice is accompanied by a loud crack as he bolts into a sitting position, his eyes piercing me.

"It’s a good idea. You'd have food and be rejuvenated so you could lead them back to the plane and help me." I don't meet his eyes when I utter the last part, but Tristan can probably read my true intentions. "I know how you move through the forest, Tristan. You can do this better on your own. Even if I were healthy, I'd hold you back. I'm slow and clumsy."

"We're a team, Aimee. You said that."

I sigh. "Well, this would be for the benefit of the team. If you can lead them here quicker, I can receive medical aid quicker."

"I am not leaving you here," he says. "I'm not leaving you at all."

"But you are starving, Tristan. You can't wait for them to reach us." To reach him; by the time the rescue team arrives, I will be dead. He knows that. I know that. Neither of us says it out loud.

He kneels in front of me taking both my hands in his, and then puts them on the sides of his neck. "Remember what you told me when I was sick?"

"I remember we had a thorough astronomy class," I say. At his quizzical look I add, "We talked a lot about stars."

"You said that if I didn't wake up tomorrow, you didn't want to wake up either." His voice is breathy and shaky, as if he's trying to withhold tears "Now I'm telling you that. If you don't make it until the rescue team arrives, I don't want them to rescue me at all." He slings his arms around me in a tender embrace. "But you'll be all right, Aimee. You'll see."