Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [54]
Regina offered her vision quest to solve that mystery as well but he suspected it was a way for her to control him, subdue his behaviour, trap him even. She would bind him up in his own mind and he would never return. Yet she coaxed so innocently at times, as if she had no selfish thought or agenda other than his wellbeing. Could he trust that? It was worth the risk, she’d say, but she didn’t know the child’s true origins, or what he’d done in the past. No one did, and these strange happenings were between him and the thief alone. He would succeed, some day, if he persevered. He had dreamed it. And the thief always returned, a strange cloaked figure that arrived in the morning like a crow, vanishing before he could find out what had happened to the children. He would find the thief and bring the children back.
‘Find the thief? There’s something to laugh at. I can’t even find myself.’ He slammed his hand into the trunk then roared with pain. His knuckles were bleeding now. Why did he do that? He slammed the tree again; tears were running down his cheeks as he tried to remember where he was. ‘I’m hunting the demon,’ he told himself and sprang back to his feet.
He capped the waterskin and, using double-handed swipes with the machete, he chopped his way through a mass of palm fronds. They fell to the ground, leaving a carpeted trail, a bridge over the rich loam of the jungle floor. He altered his course, taking the easiest way he could find—the path of least resistance. Being with Regina had taught him that, when he could remember it. When he could trust it.
‘Life is best when you travel with ease and peace,’ she’d said, and she was right. Why did he ever doubt her?
He hacked again at the leaves; working his way forward, he moved steadily towards the thinning foliage. Another clap of thunder ripped overhead. ‘Here it comes.’ He gazed skyward.
The birds went silent. That was a sure sign. The thunder sounded again and the rain hit his shoulders in fat heavy drops, cold and stinging like needles. In moments, water ran into his eyes and down his back, soaking his socks and boots. Winding up for the next slice, he tightened his grip, stopping short before the swing. He squinted, pushing his glasses up his nose. There was movement ahead.
He lowered his arms and squatted to watch through the cover. He recognised the valley, the edge of the Borderlands. That was something. He knew his way home from here, but who was that sheltering under the strangler fig, huddled in a large sheepskin coat?
It wasn’t anyone from the village, but the man ahead did remind him of something, someone. The way he sat there immobile, as if asleep, registered in the back of Everett’s mind. For an instant, a slice of light cut through the gloom and he recognised him. Then it was gone. He scratched his head. At least he had found his way back to the edge. That was good. The thief had eluded him again, but it was time to return home. He would try again tomorrow. He laughed to himself, a chicken’s cackle.
He thought he’d been lost when it turned out he was paralleling the valley all along. When he shifted his weight a frond snapped and the sound brought the other man’s head around. Not asleep after all. Everett froze, uncertain what to do next. This was the Borderlands. All forms of strange people could wander here. But there was still something evocative about this one. It reminded Everett of another time in his life—a time before the darkness grabbed hold. A time before the thief.
He straightened his back and took a chance. ‘Hey there!’ He waved, cutting his way out of the last line of twisting vines and fronds. ‘Are you lost?’ Everett’s grip stayed tight on the machete.
The other man called out to him, waving back. ‘I’m not certain.’
Everett sheathed his machete and trotted down the grassy slope. The voice was kind, easy.
‘Kelly?’ the man said. ‘Everett Kelly?’ His voice was a whisper, his brow furrowed.
‘Do I know you?’ Everett asked. He wiped his hand on his soaked shirt and extended it.