The second grave was tougher than the first. The ground was too wet. It rained just enough for pools to form as I dug, but not so hard that I could be excused. I lifted my head to let the water wash mud from my eyes. When I looked back down, the hole was full of leaves, floating like empty lifeboats.
Where is Lola? I closed my eyes for a moment and hoped that she at least had shelter from this rain. That it had driven her into one of the barns along Joni’s latest route, so she would find her this time.
The kids sat on the tree line beneath a tarpaulin bivouac that Charlie had mastered from his survival manual. Huddled in the glow of an oil lamp, they fed themselves beans from the tin and drank cans of sticky pop. As I worked, I glanced up to check on them. Each glimpse of my children gave me a frisson of angst in the gut, like passing a shrine on a mountain road. This grave could have been for one of them.
I hauled sodden soil until the hole was almost knee-deep. But it wasn’t enough. I brought the pickax down again and again, and every movement cauterized my aching shoulders. Sometime later the grave was thigh-deep. I scooped loose soil away with the metal bowl I was using in lieu of the broken shovel, throwing it onto the grass, sitting for a moment to rest my thighs while bailing out. The hole still wasn’t deep enough, but my wrists were so weakened, I could hardly lift a full bowl of earth. A sob broke over me as I stood on burning legs to prize the pickax out of the mud again and haul it onto my shoulder. I spread my feet apart for balance, and they slapped into water. No, not yet—I had to go deeper. It wasn’t deep enough. Above me, yellow lightning strobed inside the clouds. The sky growled an immediate response. The pickax slipped from my numbing hands and slapped into the wet mud. Maybe I had done enough. “Thank you,” I whispered to the storm. And gathered my tools from the grave.
I carried the sleeping children one by one in juddering arms to the camp. The treetops thrashed in ecstasy at the high wind, and moments later a wall of water fell from the sky. Horatio darted inside our tent for cover. I ripped off my wet clothes and zipped us inside our cave, then reached up to extinguish the hanging lamp. My fingers fluttered around the dial like a moth. I stopped. The darkness was a hot breath against the scorched muscles of my neck.
I unhooked the lamp and unzipped the door again, stepping back out into cold rain. My bare feet splashed across to the food tent. I adjusted the light so it would burn for as long as possible, stood it on a chair next to Peter. He couldn’t lie alone in the dark.
In the steaming light of morning, I inspected a food parcel that had been left outside our tent. A sprawling note informed me that our benefactor intended to “clear out before the end of the day following the sighting of individuals in a helicopter who failed to identify themselves.” He said he thought we could make use of the perishable food items he’d delivered. Plus he had additional news, he’d written in an enigmatic postscript, which he could explain if I’d come to his dell.
If he’d found out where the helicopters came from or where we should go for help, why didn’t he just write it down? I cursed the prissy old fart, but knew I’d be too intrigued to let it go.
First things first, though: we needed food, and then Lola. He’d left us a dozen eggs, fresh tomatoes, and newly baked buns, as well as some tins of food. I sniffed the buns, checking for any whiff of contaminant, but my stomach grumbled at my cynicism. I broke one open and breathed in its warmth. The kids piled out of the tent and fell on the bread. Charlie sunk his teeth into a tomato and chewed with his eyes closed and red juice on his chin. It must have been days since we’d eaten anything fresh. Even Joni’s watercress might have tempted me now. I lit the stove to cook up the eggs.
While I cooked and we ate, I started a game to forestall the inevitable onslaught of questions. “We went to the supermarket and we bought . . . smoked salmon and gravlax sauce.”
Charlie picked up the thread: “We went to the supermarket and we bought smoked salmon and Galaxy sauce and big juicy sausages.”
“Smokey Simon and Galaxy sauce and big juicy sausages and Oreos,” said Billy.
“Smokey salmon and Galaxy sauce and big juicy sausages and no Oreos because we’ve already got some so that’s just stupid and chicken nuggets,” said Maggie. We waited for the Lost Boy, but all that passed his lips was scrambled egg.
“We’ll get all those things,” I said after a while, “and he can pick something yummy for himself.”
“And Peter,” said Maggie, “can we get something yummy for Peter, too?”
I was saved from answering because the flap of the yurt opened, and Joni slipped out. She must have been out most of the night; I never heard her get back.
“Good morning, Auntie Joni,” the kids chorused.
Without looking our way, she ducked behind the tent toward the latrine.
“What’s the matter with Auntie Joni?” asked Charlie. “Is she impressed?”
“Depressed.” I dished up more eggs. “She’s feeling bad about Peter. And she’s very tired. Eat up, we’ve got a big day today.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to get Lola and then find somewhere nice to live.”
I took Joni’s plate and carried it into the yurt. The place seemed massive now that we had all cleared out, leaving only Joni’s jumble in the corner, which was heaped up as though she were still hunched inside. I made the bed, straightening the blankets and putting her pillow back together: a bundle of Lola’s T-shirts wrapped inside Lola’s black jumper. I pressed it to my face, but it only smelled of forest. The canvas flap moved behind me, and I dropped the pillow onto the mattress, bending to fiddle with the plate and mug instead.
Joni brushed past me and flopped onto the mattress, rolling away to the side, her limbs folded together like the fingers in a fist.
“I brought you some breakfast. There’s eggs and tomatoes and fresh bread.”
She drew her knees to her chest, fetal.
“Are you hungry? You must be hungry.”
Her neglected hair spread off the mattress. I hunkered down and picked up a chunk that was twisting around itself, starting to dreadlock. It was messy-beautiful, like the undergrowth that coated the huge tree Peter had climbed in the forest on the first day.
“I wish I’d believed Peter when he saw those fires,” I said. “Given him the benefit of the doubt. It wouldn’t have killed me to listen to him.”
Joni humphed.
“What?”
“It would have killed you. We would have gone out and got infected. That’s what kills me about you, Marlene. Even when you’re acting like a piece a shit, you still come out smelling like a rose.”
“I’m sorry, Joni. I just came in to give you some breakfast. And say that we’re having a funeral for Peter today. You were right about that: it’s an important ritual. We need to do it.”
She didn’t reply.