Last Day of Love(2)

One day you will be the one to stop her, and the world will credit you for its salvation. Forever.

I remember how sick I felt. I knew I had to flee that destiny, but I only made it into the indifferent arms of an ancient cypress tree at the edge of our yard. I stayed there an eternal evening, my unfed imagination powerless to think of anywhere else to go.

As my family searched for me, I heard Starling say, “What if he left us, like the last one?”

“He is not like the last one,” came Albion’s calm reply.

He was right. I climbed down for dinner. They never told me who “the last one” was, and I knew better than to ask.

A tap on my window startles me. Critias turns down the radio and I roll down the window. Albion’s face appears in the cold square of darkness. He hands me a large, sturdy envelope. I’ve never received a birthday card before. I slip my thumb under the flap but stop when Albion slaps me across the cheek. I inhale sharply. A sea of red washes over my eyes.

“Open it tomorrow. Inside there are things you know but do not think you know.” Albion looks at Shiloh. “First thing you do, get rid of the dog.”

I swallow and don’t look at anyone.

Critias puts the car in drive.

“This is not a game, Ander,” Albion says, as if I have ever played one.

The drive to Kisatchie will take two hours. I’ve camped there twice but never alone. I’m considering running away a second time, when Critias takes a wrong turn.

“You missed the ramp,” I tell him.

Critias looks straight ahead. “I want to show you something.”

He drives downtown through short streets and turns into the parking lot of the Pancake Barn. I know why we’re here.

Because she is here.

Eureka sits at a window booth with her mother. She’s so lovely I can’t breathe. Her sweater and her hair are golden. Her eyes are alive with the story she’s telling. Her hands never rest when she speaks. Her mother, Diana, catches Eureka’s orange juice just before it spills.

Eureka’s funny. Laughing, Diana, puts up her hand, begging for a chance to swallow. I can’t resist tilting my head a little, entranced as a wild bird.

A waitress delivers a can of whipped cream. Eureka swirls a white tower onto her pancakes. I’ve seen her do this many times, like an angel building a cloud above an island. I wonder if clouds taste like whipped cream to angels. Eureka licks her fork.

She waves at someone by the door, then jumps up from the table. A brown-haired boy approaches. Brooks. I feel sweat on my temples as she embraces him and slides to make room for him in the booth. Brooks picks up her fork as if it also belongs to him. I want to kill him.

“Tell me what you see,” Critias says.

Radiance.

Meaning.

“Danger,” I say.

Critias nods. “Your work with the girl will feel different when you return.”

Never, I think, hoping my uncle might be right. Unrequited love is the deepest misery I have ever known. Maybe the Passage will free me. Or maybe, I fear, I will climb above all desire for pleasure—every intense emotion in every sphere of my life—and yet will not find the strength to slow down my love for her.

Critias moistens his lips. “No, ‘feel’ is the wrong word. It will simply be different.”

“But my being is so full of feeling.”

Critias starts the car again. “You will understand tomorrow.”





II





Night falls early, sealing off another day. Eureka sits in my mind like a patch of sun in winter. Every now and then, the way she looked this morning diverts me from the burden I carry.

In the gray-brown dusk Shiloh leads me along the snaking bayou, beyond the oaks’ canopy, into a quiet, starry night. I am surprised to be surprised by the spreading darkness.

Shiloh shakes out his fur. He looks at me. Which way?

I don’t know where we are. My vision adjusts and I notice a stand of trees around a small, flat clearing. It’s as good a place as any to make camp. Though everything is wet, I begin to gather wood. The air is brittle, as if I could snap it into pieces and make an arsenal of knives.

In my mind I see Eureka, back at the restaurant. Her head falling back, eyes squeezed shut, her mouth wide open. What made her laugh like that? Maybe she was laughing because it was the last time I would love her. Maybe she was laughing at me and everything I’ve done.

I curse Critias as I drop wet wood onto the wet earth. Did my uncle know I would consume Eureka’s image until she consumed me, until I disappeared into the darkness like a dwindling match? Only now do I hear the drilling sound of a nearby woodpecker, the slosh of the bayou below.

I can’t remember anyone ever speaking frankly about what happens on the Passage. But I’ve always known what’s expected of me: a renunciation of pleasure, of memories I hold dear, of anything or anyone whose appeal borders on dependence. Tomorrow, when I appear before my family to prove that I’m completely free, they’ll open the Seedbearers’ secrets to me. They will have nothing more to hide.