Four years ago, it was no larger than the button of a shirt. Two years back it outgrew their home. It was difficult to tell just how expansive it had become this year; the far distant hills were overtaken some weeks ago. Arlen's concern grew Just as quickly, yet he could not help but feel powerless. He knew there would be nothing left to see for miles by the time her fifth birthday came about.
Arlen watched as the sun climbed over the horizon, illuminating the barren landscape sprawled out before him. Sitting here on the ecotone, the border between life and death, he could see everything for which he had ever cared. Just in front of him was Death's ever-expanding concourse... desiccated, fractured, and unmoving-and in the middle of it, his home. Behind him was the opposite: a rainforest, a living ecosystem, an image of nature imbued with near limitless energy...a testament of beauty. He wasn't ready to go back home, he never quite was, but there was no choice to be had. Each year, the trek to the jungle would only become longer and more arduous. Not only would his body suffer from the physical labors involved in these excursions, but also the mental burden he carried had been far heavier than his journey's provisions. In his line of work, finding things was second nature, yet lately, it was solace that was scarcely found. However, Arlen committed to rising with the sun every day-for her sake, if not his own.
In his hand, he held a bouquet of various plants and flowers he had gathered from the rainforest's edge. The colors he had collected this time had hues ranging from mulberry purple to a blazing, rosy red. He knew both of his girls would be very happy with this assortment. He let loose one brief sigh--containing at least a fraction of his worries-before he stood up, regarded the jungle one more time, and made his way back into the wasteland.
The sun was about a quarter of the way through the sky when Arlen reached the foot of their home. It was an old, semi-wooden chapel that had been long abandoned before Arlen stumbled upon it. The structure aged well enough; it was sturdy and accommodating.
The doors creaked and wavered in the wind as Arlen anproached. "Quiet, please," he told them as he entered. His internal monologue was quite loud enough. Aside from an occasional gust of wind, days like these were virtually silent- the dust had something to say, he would certainly have no trouble hearing it. More importantly, he could hear thạt she wasn't yet awake. He would use this time to prepare for the day ahead.
Light filtered in from the far end of the chapel. The shadow of a crucifix adorned the floor. The south side of the chapel was reserved for her; pews formed a makeshift playpen, and various wooden toys were scattered throughout. There were drawings pinned to the wall. Each one was a different, childish rendition of the chapel. It is all she has ever known. A few of them included smiling stick figures. The north side, however, was arranged for supplies, workspace, and Arlen's amenities. The wall here was festooned with plaques, Bible passage cutouts, and, most notably, a large world map with thumbtacks dotting every named landmass.
Arlen went to his desk, placed the flowers gently on his handcrafted dinner table, and sat down. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a few minutes, listening to the wind and the silence. Briefly, he thought about the future... and all futures he could foresee were disastrous. Then, he opened his eyes and stared at the wall. His eves landed on one of the plaques:
That plaque was representative of a life long gone; for all intents and purposes, Arlen Strand was dead. No longer would he be leading expeditions, no longer would he would he be living the life of a nomad, no longer would he discover new life, no longer would he be at all connected to the world beyond this chapel. He opened one of the desk's drawers and pulled out a small journal with a padlock to scale. The key was located in a small hole in the floorboard directly beneath his chair. He fished it out with a fish-hooked paper clip. He stared at the cover for a moment. He decided he felt fine. Then be opened to the first page, and read:
May 6th, Year 1
Today I lost-
He looked up. The tears started welling in the corners of his eyes; he wasn't as prepared as he thought he was. It hurt just as much this time as it did the last three times. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began again:
May 6th, Year 1
Today I lost my best friend. Today I buried the love of my life. Today my daughter was born. Her name is Emmeline. Emmeline is the reason my wife is buried. We were prepared for anything. We had conquered the world together. Emma was supposed to be the start of a new story for us. I know it's not her fault, but I can't bring myself to look at her without feeling a pit swelling within me...it's a terrible feeling. I'm soaked from the rain, I'm covered in the dirt that covers my dearest. I'm alone and I'm angry; angry at the world, angry at Celeste, angry at Emmeline. Why should I be expected to be rational in an irrational universe? The rain has not let up and I can't think... She has been crying ceaselessly, as if she's lost someone dear to her.
May 7th, Year 1
Today I have returned to myself. Catharsis. I remember why we moved here. I remember why we started this lifelong adventure. This morning I observed the wildlife. A sloth lazing about. Macaws, toucans, and other birds darting around beneath the canopy. Howler monkeys speaking without shame of being heard. A human sitting on the steps of its domain, among the ground-dwelling plants and insects. Being here-living here-is indescribable. Life and all its facets could be found here, penetrating my senses. The Amazon has much to show us.
Right now, branches are knocking on the windows, and the doors rattle incessantly. The downpour from last night has continued to this very moment, yet Emmeline has stopped crying. Her mood has thus far been reflective of my own. Emma looks very much like her mother, bright-eyed and peaceable. She grabs for my beard as I write. I think she likes it here. She's smiling and cooing. Should she keep it up, I may just end up loving her.
July 12th, Year 1
I was going to reflect on how difficult it's been raising Emma out here alone, but that's secondary to something else I've noticed. Today is absolutely beautiful; the kind of day Celeste would want to capture in her art. I took Emma with me on a walk around the surrounding brush. Birds chirping, bugs clicking. Emma seemed to enjoy it; it looked like her eyes simply could not be big enough to take it all in. But on the way back I noticed something peculiar. The path of the forest floor we'd been walking through was now dead. All of it, completely wilted. Brown and yellow, not a sliver of green remaining. I couldn't explain it. I took a few steps over into a lively patch of grass, and before my very eyes, it died. After a bit of pondering and investigating, it was not difficult to pinpoint the source...
February 22nd, Year 2
Emma's affliction is worrying me. It's killing more than just the local vegetation. I took a trip up the steeple of the church and found a graveyard of rotting birds. Surprising that I am still standing. She hasn't been the death of me, at least yet. Maybe this means hunans are immune to whatever it is she has? But then I think of Celeste. It's unclear to me what I should do about this. Luckily, in a place like this, I should have plenty of time to think about it before it becomes a much larger issue...Perhaps it will pass with time. Her first word: "Okay." Seems like she thinks things are going to work out just fine.
May 6th, Year 2
I miss you. Today I've been thinking about a lot. In one moment, you were so very excited to be holding your daughter, Crying through your smile, and in the next you were silent. I don't understand how she could hurt you, but not me. What does it mean? Emma's been getting worse. Much worse. I'm not sure what to do. I keep myself busy building things, and carving toys for her to keep her distracted. Ive been surviving. If I don't have something in my hands, I feel myself losing touch. This journal doesn't feel like it's helping. Emma needs me.
May 6th, Year 3
The forest runs away from you...That must be so confusing little girl. You get scared when the grass withers. I don't know what the future looks like, but I'm going to protect you.
That was last year's entry. A lot had changed since Arlen last opened the journal; the stakes were becoming very real. He added:
May 6th, Year 4
I'm not sure how much longer we can go on like this. Shes starting to ask questions. She’s curious about the world. She’s the safest child in the world, yet the truth could break her. I don’t know how I could ever tell her how she’s different. How she’s condemned to be the decay of the world. How she will never get to experience life. Soon there are going to be consequences. People will catch on. I mean what I said. I’ll protect her. But I don’t know what that looks like.
He locked the journal and put the key away. It was time to face the day. He grabbed the flowers and went to the cellar door. He descended quietly, finding Emmeline asleep on her cot. Arlen tapped her on the shoulder. Once. Twice. Three times. He knew she was awake, he could see her eyes were open. She tended toward theatrics.
“Okay, I guess the birthday girl is just going to sleep through her special day. That’s pretty unfortunate. I suppose it’s okay though, her presents can wait for next year.”
“Presents?!” She rolled over and jumped out of bed like she’d never heard of such a concept. She got presents all the time. Arlen never missed chances to make her happy.
“Happy birthday, kiddo,” he handed her the bouquet of flowers.
She gasped, “So pretty.” Nothing could beat that smile.
“I thought you might like them. Be gentle, they’re fragile. Just like little Emma.”
“Nuh-uh. I’m strong,” she bent her arms, but didn’t flex.
“Uh-huh. Now let’s get you dressed. We have to go say hi to Mommy and get breakfast. There might be another present waiting for you too.”
“Two presents?!” Her freckles were practically lighting up. That face reminded him of Celeste the last time he saw her.
The two of them headed toward the River, a fairly short walk (or skip, in Emma’s case). Every chance she could, she would walk along the dead trees, all the while making sure her flowers stayed in tip-top shape. Arlen was flipping through Celeste’s Bible, reading all of the passages she had circled but never had the chance to cut out. Arlen himself wasn’t religious, but he would sometimes read the stories to Emma; she liked when he would describe all the imaginary animals. She especially liked the concept of sheep—clouds with faces.
They reached the ridge overlooking the River, and approached Celeste’s resting place. Emmeline put the flowers in front of the crucifix, as she did last year. She looked up at Arlen to make sure that was the right thing to do. He nodded and held out his hand for her to hold.
“Hi, Mommy,” Emmeline said, waving. They stood in silence for a few minutes, then Emmeline asked, “Did Mommy look like you?”
“She looked more like you.”
Emma was a little confused. “What do I look like?”
Arlen crouched down and pinched her cheek, “Like very, very pretty flowers.”
“Prettier than those?”
“Much prettier than those.” He stood up, “Let’s go get some food, okay?”
She nodded.
They both said their goodbyes and then made their way down to the bank of the river. No matter how many times Arlen saw it, he would still be taken aback. Dead fish lined the waters, flowing downstream at the same pace. It was unsettling for Arlen; some of the fish were real mean looking, terrifying even. He looked at Emmeline. She was still giddy as ever. Every now and then, they would see a new fish break the surface of the water. Arlen had taught her that those were the ones they wanted; they were fresher than the others.
“Think you can get one?”
“Daddy, I’m four now.” She approached the water confidently.
“Oh, right, of course! I’m silly. Make sure you grab tight.”
She waited with her hands in the water, letting the big floaters go by. Soon enough, a little fish reached the surface within reach of her stubby arms. She didn’t even have to grab it, it was so small. She cupped her hands and it floated right in. Arlen thought she was pretty smart and coordinated for her age; her independence was worrying.
Arlen caught some fish of his own, and they returned to the chapel. Emma, of course, asked for her second present when they returned.
“It’s a sheep,” Arlen presented her with a miniature wooden sculpture. She ‘baaa’d for days.
May 5th, Year 8
It gets more difficult every passing day to explain to Emma the state of the world. Her curiosity is growing exponentially, and I can only fabricate for so long. She’s also become restless. She wants to know what’s beyond the river; she wants to know where I get your flowers. She’ll go where she shouldn’t. She’ll put the pieces together. Her circle has expanded far beyond the horizon. It takes a full day to reach the edge and return. I find more and more death every time I venture out. Nothing too serious yet, but…how can I save her? We need you now more than ever.
“Emma, I’m going out. I’ll be back tomorrow early in the morning.”
“Can I come with you this time? I won’t get in your way.”
“We’ve talked about this, Emmeline. You have to stay here, okay? You can go as far as the river if you want.”
She frowned, “I’m not a little girl anymore. I can handle whatever is out there.”
“Maybe—”
“Maybe next year. You say that every time.”
“This isn’t a debate.” Arlen took a look at the south side of the chapel before leaving. The playpen became something of a studio. The childish drawings of the chapel had transformed into imaginative landscapes full of color and wonder. Emma glared at him; he could do nothing but feel her dismay. With that, he left.
Upon reaching the edge, Arlen didn’t feel any better. Usually the sight of life was enough to pull him from his funk, but this time it just wouldn’t cut it. Perhaps it was because of the dead jaguar he had come across. Nothing but its paw was in the dead zone. Its curiosity meant its death. Now, he just wanted to get his flowers and get back home. There weren’t any flowers at this edge this time, so he ventured a little deeper into the jungle. He only found lilies. They would do.
Arlen reached the chapel just as the sun was rising. He entered looking for Emma; he wanted to wish her happy birthday and make her smile again. She wasn’t in the cellar.
“Emma?” Arlen yelled. No response. He checked the steeple, sometimes she liked to watch the clouds from there. She wasn’t there either. Arlen was getting worried now. The only other place he could know to check was the river, so he headed that direction. It was starting to rain.
Arlen reached Celeste’s grave and yelled, “Emmeline!” There was no response. Instead, he heard crying. Wailing. He looked over the ridge, and saw Emma down by the water, knees to her chest. Arlen made his way down as fast as he could. She was crying so very loudly.
“Emma. Emma. What’s wrong? I’m here.” She looked up at him, eyes a blazing, rosy red. She ignored him.
“Why did you die?! Why are you dead?! Why…why…I don’t…” Her voice was hysterical.
Arlen had no idea what she was saying. He hugged her tightly and looked about the bank. That’s when he understood what she was saying. A little farther downstream, a man’s body was face down in the mud of the bank. Lifeless. Still. Dead fish piling up on his legs.
“I don’t want to be here, Daddy! I don’t want to be here!
I want to be with Mommy. I want to be in the clouds. I want to be in Heaven. I want to be in Heaven with Mommy.”
Arlen was crying now, too. The downpour drowned out their cries.
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