Why is the world so cruel?
To me, to the boy, Jimson!
What did you do to deserve your death and leave us behind?
Nothing.
This life, these acts of love we endure—never for ourselves.
No. We do it for hope.
That fleeting, illogical drive, that forces us to march forward with the promise of fulfillment.
It is unreasonable, unceasing, festering, yet necessary. Like a cancer, the feeling can only grow and grow. Without it you die.
So, I must endure, for you are no longer with us.
This is the path forward.
My hands rest on Sharkie's matted fur.
The dog pants beside me, his tongue lolling out against the salty breeze.I
This dog, Sharkie, has been acting strangely for a while now, but more so since Jimson died.
He's skittish, aggressive, snapping at invisible shadows.
Tim has also changed; I can feel it.
Sitting ahead on Cindy, he clutches around his father's body.
Only the amulet strap remains, tight and empty around his corpse.
The boy's shoulders shake and he sobs silently.
Sharkie watches too.
Strange.
His eyes feel wrong.
They're clouded, distant, with jolts of rage.
Holding him in a gentle but binding embrace, I ride closer to Tim to inquire further.
Fuck
He just tried to lunge at him.
"Sharkie, it's just me," I speak down at him softly, but his growl deepens in response.
This is very wrong.
Since the fire. Since the smoke. Past the mud. Then Jim died too.
I never acknowledged it then, never needed to. But now, it is evident.
He is not the same.
His breathing is faster now.
His movements are jerky too.
I can only watch as his paw trembles, keeping his claws tame.
But that's it.
He's only getting worse, why didn't I notice before. Perhaps I'm wrong, I should ask.
"Tim," I call out tenderly. "Is this normal?"
Turning towards Tim, I angle Sharkie up for him to see.
"He's fine." He chokes back, not even bothering to turn around to check.
"Has he eaten anything today?" I push.
"He's fine, Desmond." His voice grows firmer, but I still need my answer.
"Tim, I need you to be honest with me—"
"I said he's fine!" His voice cracks. "Just leave him alone. Leave us alone."
"..."
He twists back around and stares at his father.
He is a child after all, what am I doing?
I sigh a sigh of resigned air.
I am the adult here. I have to take the initiative myself, even if I make a bad judgment.
Regarding this dog, I don't know, but he really seems off to me.
If push comes to shove, I need to be prepared to—"
A blinding light cuts through the chasm ahead. The canyon walls widen. Through the gap, I see green. Real green, not the sickly moss of the dark lands.
We must be close now.
Sharkie whimpers as he vomits out a puddle of black bile.
Tim, looking back at the sound sees it stick to his fur-coat and gives me a scared look.
"What's wrong with him?" His tone seemingly more timid now.
I just asked that. I thought you knew. I hold back my bitter words and try to comfort him instead.
"I don't know. Maybe it's something he ate. Just be careful alright."
I swear sometimes, kids, confusing. But that's the point I suppose.
Sharkie convulses again in my grasp. More black.
"Des.." Tim's face goes white.
"He'll be okay. We just need to—"
Snap. Teeth graze at my hand. I barely manage to pull away as his jaws clamp down on solid air.
Be rational and patient was what I was going to say, however.
My vision locks onto the dog and I hold him tighter.
From the corner of my eyes I see glimpses of Tim as he only stares back.
You see this, don't you? The way his eyes have gone wrong. Please, Tim, please see what I'm seeing. I can't be the only one who understands we're in danger. If I have to be the one to do this alone, if you hate me for it—God, that just might destroy me.
"He's sick," Tim whispers.
"But, he's dangerous." I warn.
"Really sick." He repeats back louder.
"No, dangerous."
"Just look at him." he points back sharply before giving me the side eye.
He makes a point, maybe I was too harsh in my assessment.
After backing down I resign myself to the silence while I try to divert the topic.
"Either way, we should stop here, the yonks need water anyway and I can hear a stream ahead." I try to explain.
"But the prowlers!" he refutes before I cut him off.
"We will only be a moment." I reassure him getting ready to dismount as we approach.
He stays quiet and nods slowly.
---
We find the stream not long after, cutting through the ravine's side. Within its isolated enclosure, it runs shallow, barely clear enough to see the bottom.
The yonks charge over and grunt loudly as they drink from the water.
Jumping off in the muddy water, I splash over to help Tim down from Cindy.
However, upon my approach he dismounts from the opposite side, then glares up at me.
Ignoring my presence further, he waddling past scooping Sharkie up without speaking a word.
The dog, unable to resist, looks too weak now to hurt anyone.
I should apologise later, my ignorance regarding this world and its culture made me say something offensive. Biting is just a form of play after all, I was being too overprotective.
"Fine, take Sharkie. I need to check on your father, make sure he's... secured properly for the last stretch before camp." I grumble out in defeat.
Tim, with closed ears, slumps flatly on a rock nearby the stream and plays with the dog.
Taking a second, I watch them; the boy and his dying dog.
Remember, I'm just a guest here. Speculation doesn't trump experience. I make sure to remind myself.
Turning away, I lean over Cindy and grab the pendant around Jimson's neck.
My fingers try unfastening it, working out the tired knot until its set free.
For now I am more concerned about the dangers of this 'thing'.
I hold up the lace, inspecting it deeply.
We must leave it here, bury it, whatever needs to be done. We can't have the prowlers attracted to the camp.
That would only be a massacre.
Jim mentioned as such himself.
Determined in this, I shift my gaze up to see if Tim's watching.
"Help!"
Tim?!
I run.
Tumbling around the yonk, I freeze.
The dog has Tim pinned, back against the ground;
His arms are clearly strained keeping the snapping jaws away from his throat.
The dog snarls, completely lost to its own madness. It has become feral.
"SHARKIE, NO!" Tim howls. "IT'S ME! IT'S TIM!"
Except it doesn't listen.
Making my move, I grab hold of a nearby rock.
Both cold and solid it's enough for the job.
Good.
Moving for the finish, I bring it down on Sharkie's skull.
Once.
I reach out as it yelps and staggers, trying to contain him.
No use.
It turns toward my shadow and lunges.
I catch him mid-air and we go down hard.
Teeth snap past my face.
I roll, pinning him down before hammering his skull with the rock.
Crack.
A muffled cry, followed by quiet.
"I'm sorry boy" I mutter softly and stroke behind his lifeless ears.
That sound replays itself in my head: Wet, stiff and final before the body went limp.
I rise, my chest, heaving.
Black stains are smeared everywhere now: On my shirt, on the rock, on my face.
Taking a step forward I look to Tim for assurance.
On approach my shadow only grows bigger. It shimmers strangely as it casts itself over his collapsed body.
I feel intimidated by this presence.
Then the stone slips from my hand and I bend down about to care for his wound.
He slaps my hand back before finding his words.
"What did you do to his body?"
His left shoulder hangs limp slightly injured. Shallow, but still bleeding as he holds it with his other hand.
"Tim," I breathe. "Are you—"
"You killed him." His response is empty.
"He was going to kill you. You saw—" I try to defend myself but it only causes him to fall back on himself.
Scraping the rocky gravel beneath, he drags himself further away from me into the river.
"Tim, look at me. He attacked you. I told you, he was dangerous. That unknown sickness—"
"Stop." Tim's hands shake.
"Just stop." He turns away from my gaze collapsing into the shallow water.
"He was a good boy," I murmur. "I won't deny that. But he tried to hurt you."
I spit on the ground to cleanse the foul from my mouth.
"What do you know?" He retorts in defiance and points up a finger at me.
"Jimson's dead now. The weight of those words may never sink in, Tim, but whether we like it or not, I have a responsibility now to keep you safe. My life and yours are both entwined and hanging like a threaded needle. I just couldn't let anything unforeseen happen to us."
I kneel next to him and offer out my hand.
He shivers, clearly processing everything that just happened.
His face then hardens as he shifts his pointer to the nearby distance.
"What did you do to his body then?"
I turn and look to where he's pointing.
There's nothing there.
"What am I looking for Tim, there's nothing." Then it all hits me.
The corpse. Where is it?
I turn back to him and notice he's only in more horror pointing at something in my hand now.
"Why-why do you have that?"
Shit, he saw the lace.
I open my palm and show where the strap was hidden, Tim's suspicious eyes follow each of my movements.
"You were going to take it," he says. Not a question. An accusation.
Should I lie? Make an excuse. Say It must've fallen.
No, that is not what trust is about.
"Yeah," I admit.
"I was going to bury it here. Leaving it behind."
"But why?"
I take a shallow breath and a long exhale.
"Because it's my belief that it is the cause for attracting the prowlers. When your father used it initially, when it healed him, they reached out for it when they attacked.
I thought if I just... removed it, you wouldn't have to make that choice."
"You mean you were going to just take it away." His voice is harder now.
"To protect you, yes—"
"By lying to me?" Tim's hands clench as he pulls himself upright.
"By sneaking off and burying the last thing I have left of my family?"
Those true words make my gut clench and make me feel sick, but my resolve hardens.
"I made a promise to your father, Tim. And I intend to keep it." I hold up the object in front of his dripping face.
"Your life, boy—this pendant may hold meaning to you. I won't discredit your feelings for it. But we cannot keep it any longer."
It is my honest belief that we must let go of the past to move forward. Take my words with a grain of salt or learn from them, hate me even, but no matter how you justify it the memories of the past hold less weight than the potential of our future.
You can only move forward by carrying the past with you, not being crushed by it.
Don't throw away your life."
I step closer. He doesn't flinch.
"Your memories aren't in that pendant. They're here." I tap his chest gently. "Where no man can ever reach."
"But what if I forget—"
"Then you shall forget," I say bluntly.
"It will hurt. But you'll be alive to experience the hurt. That's the difference."
I hold the cord between us.
"Tim, listen to me. I wish I could give you time. I wish I could let you say goodbye on your own terms, bury it with your father properly at Settlers' Camp, do this right. But we don't have time. The prowlers could already be tracking us. Every minute we keep this thing is another minute closer to dying."
"So I don't have a choice." His voice is hollow.
I pause. Look him in the eyes.
"You have a choice," I say carefully. "But I need you to understand what you're choosing between. Keep the pendant—maybe we make it to camp, maybe we don't. The prowlers might find us. They might kill us both. Or maybe I'm wrong, and nothing happens."
"Or?"
"Or you let it go now. We bury it here, we move fast, and we have the best chance of reaching safety."
"That's not a choice. That's you telling me what to do."
"No." I kneel to his level.
"These are the stakes reality has imposed onto us. The choice remains still yours. But Tim—" I grab his uninjured shoulder and hold squeeze it, "If you choose to keep it, and they really come, I won't blame you. We'll fight them off together. However I need you to choose knowing what might happen, the cost of our actions. Not hoping. Knowing."
His eyes don't move off the lace in my hand. His breathing is uneven.
"What of the dog then, what did you do to his body?"
"I'll be honest, I have no Idea. How about you, did you see anything regarding that."
At that his body goes still and his chin goes stiff.
"No. I didn't see anything at all." He manages to get out before changing the subject.
"I'll trust you since you were honest before, but please don't do that again. I think that's what dad would've wanted from me."
He finally manages to stand up, and, after thinking for a second, he grips my hand in his, drenching it all wet.
"He'd want you alive.. Even if it meant letting him go." I blabber on, but I think I get my point across.
Stopping in his track he reaches up with his injured arm before whispering.
"I want to keep it. Just until we get to camp. Just for a little longer."
My grasp tightens, about to criticise.
"But I can't. Can I? If what you're saying is true, I'm choosing this thing over both our lives. And that's... that's not what he would want. That's not what I want." His voice breaks.
He looks up at me, eyes reddening.
My chest tightens as I weaken my grip and lament.
"But I hate this. I hate that I have to choose. I hate that you're making me choose."
"I know."
"And I'm going to be angry at you."
"I know."
Breaking his hold, he takes the string from my left hand and holds it close to his chest.
I stare into his eyes unflinching, weaving my fingers through his brown curls streaked with that all-too-familiar highlight of golden edge.
His face catches the fluorescent green glow of the mossy overgrowth above, casting deep shadows beneath his troubled eyes in deep consideration.
What is he feeling? Hatred, emptiness, defeat—a burning, all-consuming rage. I know I deserve it all.
He looks down for a moment, our gazes descending into quiet rumination.
Then, suddenly, he tosses it away—the string, the ornamental beads on it. They collide against the rockface, scattering and drifting along the air currents before vanishing into the narrow crevices along the canyon's edge.
The echo of their fall still ringing in my ears.
His shoulder begins to shake before his holds it again.
Then he leans into my embrace, other arm wrapping tightly around my body, tucking his head beneath my chest.
He quivers in my embrace.
"This is what you wanted right!" His voice volatile, fingers clawing at my back.
"Well?" I stare down at him dumbfounded.
"No matter what it was, I realised it never really meant anything to me. I was convinced that somehow holding it would give me some comfort, some tribute to his memory, but" He looks up at me with thick tears.
"It was my father who valued it, not me. I don't know why he did, I don't need too. It means nothing. Just please… don't ever leave me," he softly squeaks.
"I need you!"
My eyes soften. My heart palpitates.
What is this? I've heard compliments and gratitude many times throughout my life for my deeds, but they never meant anything to me—too shallow, too insensitive, or too misaligned with my perception of my actions' worth.
But now… why does this feel different? A small warmth flickers in this infernal void of mine.
What is the difference? Is this what people call bliss?
Why am I only feeling it now?
I lightly hold his back, then pat it gently.
"I will be here for you always Tim, we'll stick together. You can rely on me just as I will rely on you."
He laughs and looks up at me through smiling tears revealing a struggling but toothy grin.
Then his smile falters slightly. "Rely on you?" he giggles to himself.
A smile returns, but there's something different in it now.
I can't bring myself to let go.