Messenger - Lois Lowry [44]
"And look at your poor arms," she said. His torn sleeves were stained with seepage from his wounds.
He remembered the days of Village in the past, when a person who had difficulty walking would be helped cheerfully by someone stronger. When a person with an injured arm would be tended and assisted till he healed.
He heard sounds all around them and thought them to be the sounds of Village: soft laughter, quiet conversation, and the bustle of daily work and happy lives. But that was an illusion born of memory and yearning. The sounds he heard were the rasping croak of a toad, the stealthy movement of a rodent in the bushes, and foamy bubbles belching from some slithery malevolent creature in the dark waters of the pond.
"I'm really having trouble breathing," Kira said.
Matty realized that he was, too. It was the heaviness of the air with its terrible smell. It was like a foul pillow held tightly to their faces, cutting off their air, choking them. He coughed.
He thought of his gift. Useless now. Probably he still had the strength and power to repair his own wounded arms or Kira's tortured feet. But then the next onslaught would come, and the next, and he would be too weakened to resist it. Even now, looking listlessly down, he saw a pale green tendril emerge from the lower portion of a thorny bush and slide silently toward them. He watched in a kind of fascination. It moved like a young viper: purposeful, silent, and lethal.
Matty took his knife from his pocket again. When the sinister, curling stem—in appearance not unlike the pea vines that grew in early summer in their garden—reached his ankle, it began to curl tightly around his flesh. Quickly he reached down and severed it with the small blade. Within seconds it turned brown and fell away from him, lifeless.
But there seemed no victory to it. Only a pause in a battle he was bound to lose.
He noticed Kira reaching for her pack and spoke sharply to her. "What are you doing? We have to move on a minute. It's dangerous here." She hadn't seen the deadly thing that had grabbed at Matty, but he knew there would be more; he watched the bushes for them.
It had come for him first, he realized. He did not want to be the first to die, to leave her alone.
To his dismay, she was removing her embroidery tools. "Kira! There's no time!"
"I might be able to..." Then she deftly threaded a needle.
To what? he wondered bitterly. To create a handsome wall-hanging depicting our last hours? He remembered that in the art books he had leafed through at Leader's, many paintings depicted death. A severed head on a platter. A battle, and the ground strewn with bodies. Swords and spears and fire; and nails being pounded into the tender flesh of a man's hands. Painters had preserved such pain through beauty.
Perhaps she would.
He watched her hands. They flew over the small frame, moving in and out with the needle. Her eyes were closed. She was not directing her own fingers. They simply moved.
He waited, his eyes vigilant, watching the surrounding bushes for the next attack. He feared the coming dark. He wanted to move on, out of this place, before evening came. But he waited while her hands moved.
Finally she looked up. "Someone is coming to help us," she said. "It's the young man with the blue eyes."
Leader.
"Leader's coming?"
"He has entered Forest."
Matty sighed. "It's too late, Kira. He'll never find us in time."
"He knows just where we are."
"He can see beyond," he said, and coughed. "Have I already told you that? I can't remember."
"See beyond?" She had begun to pack her things away.
"It's his gift. You see ahead. He sees beyond. And I..." Matty fell silent. He raised one hideously swollen arm and looked listlessly at the pus that seeped through the fabric of his sleeve. Then he laughed harshly. "I can fix a frog."
18
The blind man was alone now, with his fear, since Leader had gone. He had returned to his own house to wait, passing as he did