The ambulance arrives, barreling through the campground. Curious people gather nearby and murmur as the EMTs hunch into the yellow tent and, after a few minutes, slide out a stretcher with a sheet strapped over a body. That’s what it is, Bethany realizes. A body.
“This happens every year,” Bethany hears someone say in a hushed, authoritative tone. “There’s always at least one person . . .”
The police come. When it’s her turn to talk, Bethany feels like she is reading lines in an audition. She listens to herself telling the story of her evening, pointing to the white tent, pointing to Chris. The officers seem serious but unsurprised. Their tone wavers between sympathy and contempt. They unceremoniously take down her name and address in case they have further questions. She gives her home address—her father’s address—-without thinking, then feels a blade of fear that her parents might find out about this.
The police move on to Rufus. They speak to him for a long time. After they finish, one officer remains with him as the others poke around the tents. Bethany wonders what has happened to the magic brew, whether they’d drunk all of it last night, or if Rufus—or, more likely, Rebekah—had poured the remainder somewhere. Maybe a dog would sniff it out, attuned to whatever telltale chemicals, but the officers have not brought dogs.
After the police lead Rufus away, people from other campsites begin to infiltrate, rooting for information. Rebekah will not talk to them, but walks around in circles shaking her head. She is still in her patchwork pants and tank top. Her hair is snarled down to the tips.
“Well, it’s bound to happen, with people mixing drugs,” one girl is rattling on in a regular voice. “Not everyone knows what they’re doing. People make dumb mistakes all the time. It happens every year.”
“He was probably one of the Yggdrasil crew. I heard they had some bad Molly.”
“Did you know him?” someone asks Bethany. She shakes her head mutely.
“We need to find Amos,” Rebekah says, suddenly insistent. Her voice is high and strained. “You know, not having phone service fucking sucks. What the fuck are you supposed to do in an emergency? Walk around with a freakin’ totem until someone sees you?”
“I think he’s with his bandmates,” Bethany offers. “He said he was going to stay at their campsite.”
With a growl, Rebekah grabs the Argus totem. She holds it aloft as they wander the campground, until at last they find Amos and his friends playing guitars around a little table of bagels. Amos looks clean and rested. The breakfast setup strikes Bethany as neat and civilized; the mugs appear to be filled with real coffee. Bethany wishes intensely that she could sit down with them and pretend nothing has happened.
Amos looks up with innocent surprise.
“Let’s go,” Rebekah says to her brother. “We’re leaving.”
“What? Why?” His brow knits, and he keeps strumming the guitar.
Rebekah yanks him up by the arm. She takes him aside and talks quietly. Bethany can see her back quaver as she starts to cry, and she sees Amos put an arm around her.
They collect everything they can from the campsite and lug it out with them. Rebekah carries the Argus totem, now an unwelcome beacon. As they walk, it seems that some people are whispering, watching them with a curiosity bordering on envy. Others look on ignorantly, blinking like dumb cows, wondering why they are leaving the festival early. The story will spread through the campground, through the festival, eventually reach the ears of the performers themselves. It will dampen the mood for a while, or—possibly—enliven it, add new fuel to the manic dancers. Perhaps this direct news of death will underscore the present moment for them. They won’t be surprised, that much is certain. This happens, apparently, every year. If that is true, Bethany thinks, then the festival itself is nothing but an enormous glittering gambling table where life is traded roughly in order to inflate its value, remove its guarantee.
Rebekah walks with a look of grim focus. Amos, too, is quiet. Bethany feels no sharp emotion, just a general numbness. Only in an abstract way does she understand that a man is abruptly dead—a man who was alive in front of her just hours ago, only a few years older than herself. The idea beads on the surface of her consciousness like oil on water.
A girl in braids approaches them. “Hey, are you leaving already? Here, take this.” She holds out a fan of glossy postcards. Did you become someone else at Aether? the postcards inquire, showing a picture of a purple-wigged woman with butterfly wings. Send us your photos!