Filaria - Brent Hayward [9]
A soft rumbling, coming from the soil beneath her feet, almost as if the supervisor — her father’s trusted right arm, Deidre’s own best friend, the greatest machine ever designed — had laughed at her. Walking toward the nearby trees, she demanded, “Show me where it is, Sam,” and, passing a small vent poking up from the soil, she smacked the hoop of her collecting net against its smooth surface to demonstrate her intent.
Overhead, wisps of cloud passed slowly, just under the ceiling, gathering there for rain. Grass tickled Deidre’s shins as she scanned the branches for a second bluebird or other sign of response from the supervisor but when she approached the feed-stream that circled the grove of trees, the dead boy sat up suddenly, grinning, from the water. Deidre was startled; their gasps were simultaneous. The dripping boy pretended he was out of breath when probably he had been underwater, inert, for hours. Maybe all night long.
“You missed it, you missed it,” the dead boy chided, his voice barely loud enough for Deidre to hear. He appeared greatly amused. His wet skin, in this burgeoning light, looked whiter even than his tiny white teeth. He clambered up onto a mossy stone, in the middle of the stream, and sat there, rocking, shivering, arms folded tight around his knees. The dead boy always shivered. He’d probably been shivering since Sam had brought him back to life. Deidre averted her eyes from the pale naked body.
“Thought you were going to get it? I did too, D. But you didn’t move. Not for a long time. You had that far-away look on your face.”
“I choked, Sam. I was thinking about something else. But I do want that moth.” Suddenly, picturing the white she’d seen on the insect’s hind wings, Deidre became overwhelmed by a giddy wave of earnestness. She said, “Gee, Sam, you built me a White Underwing. It’s my favourite yet. You know I love Underwings. Thank you.”
Proud of what had been made, proud of the reaction elicited from his young, human companion, the dead boy turned his face away coyly. Unfortunately, in doing so, the wounds that had killed him were exposed: down the left side of his pale neck ran two parallel slits, gashes that had not healed over all the years and certainly never would now. These opened, like grey gills.
Looking upon the wounds caused a terrible sadness in Deidre; her euphoria evaporated. She clenched the collecting net tighter and swallowed a quick rise of bile, muttering, “Please show me where the moth is.”
Those dead eyes gleamed green, the colour of leaves, yet flat and lustreless. They stared at her, unreadable. “You won’t take it alive, you know. Those days are over. Ever since the Eastern Panthea got away I’ve built in timers.” But when he saw her expression, the boy added, “You know I can’t let the moths live, D. Your dad’ll be down here soon. His gardeners are already getting warmed up. Can you imagine what would happen if the Orchard Keeper came across the bianca in a day from now, or if it landed on his jacket?”
“Can you imagine, dead boy, what would happen if my dad found you lurking in his fruit trees?”
“Ho! That won’t ever transpire.”
“No?”
“No.”
The boy had died years before Deidre’s birth. Sam had found the blood-drained corpse facedown in one of the wooded gardens. After reanimation, the plantation supervisor had kept the undead child hidden from those who sought him, and who, eventually, gave up their search, grew older — healed somewhat from their loss but never fully — and finally died themselves. The dead boy had been hidden from the procession of Orchard Keepers down through the generations, including Deidre’s own father. He was Sam’s indulgence, his puppet, and one of his favorite mouthpieces.
Only Deidre knew about his existence.
Watching the passage of the net, which Deidre swept backwards and forwards in frustration, the dead boy said, “D, listen. I wanna tell you about another project we’re working on. Inspired by your moths,