Just Deserts (19 page)

As I stood there I watched as my tracks, hardly a minute old, were erased, filled in by the wind and the sand. The wind had continued to pick up, obliterating any sign of where I'd been and where I should go. I wondered how long it would be until the sand covered
me
up, until there was no trace of me ever being here. Then I tried to figure out how long they'd search until they realized there was no point in searching any longer. And who could blame them for stopping? What was the point in risking lives to find a body … especially my body? Who really cared? It wasn't like I'd done anything that would make them want to try to find me. They were probably all sitting around a fire, eating, having a good laugh, glad to be done with me.

No, that wasn't who they were. Certainly not Connor or Kajsa. Certainly not Larson, who respected all life, and not Andy. Maybe he was the Terminator, but he would willingly go back in time to save lives—even a life as worthless as mine.

There was a rise up ahead. Against my will and against gravity, I'd force myself to climb it. It was harder with each hill because I was no longer able to use the buoyancy of hope to help me climb, believing, the way I had the first fifty times, that once I'd crested the hill I'd see them. But still, there was the tiniest little glimmer of hope, and that was all that kept me moving.

Where there's life, there's hope
. I chuckled to myself. My brain was so fried that I was talking in bumper sticker sayings. Larson would be so proud of me. Shame my father wouldn't be. My death would be just one more screw-up, one more way that I'd failed to live up to expectations. I'd die the way I lived, a failure.

The hill was taller than the others I'd climbed. Or maybe it just seemed higher. It was steep and made of rock and sand. As I got close to the top I realized I was going to have to leave the shelter of the shade. I stopped climbing. I didn't want to go back out into that sun. It was like it was an animal, a dangerous animal that I needed to avoid, needed to escape. Here I was safe, out of its grip, away from its fangs and claws.

Anyway, what was the point in going on? When I got to the top, I'd see there was nothing, nobody, and that last little flicker of hope would be snuffed out—because I knew this was the last hill I was going to
climb today … maybe the last hill I was going to climb ever.

At least down at the bottom I could live with the belief that they were just on the other side. I could lay down my head and rest, let the darkness surround me, go to sleep, dream, pretend … deny. Better just to give up and give in, because whether I climbed the hill or not, I was going to die.

Going to die
… now that was a bumper sticker for you. We were all going to die. I just hadn't figured my death would be so soon, and so strange, and so pointless. Pointless, like my life.

I was going to die. That thought should have terrified me. Instead it was almost a relief. It was as though a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I took a deep breath and my lungs filled with air. I wasn't dead yet. I was going to climb that hill. When they found me—if they found me—nobody would know whether I'd died trying or I'd lain down and given in and quit. But I'd know.

I started back up. The pitch became steeper and I used my hands to help my feet, dropping to all fours in places, climbing up as if my life really did depend on it. I didn't care what I'd find up there. All I knew was that I was going to reach the top, and if I found nothing, then maybe I'd have to climb to the next hill, and if that didn't bring me something, then the next hill. I had no guarantees
other than the one that was certain if I stopped trying.

I reached the summit and tried to scream out in victory, but my voice came out cracked and hoarse and weak. Still, I was there. I hesitated for just a second before starting to look around, allowing myself one little moment of triumph before the certainty of defeat.

I gazed all around. I was high, higher than any other vantage point, and I could see in all directions. And in all directions there was nobody, nothing except the sand and rock and the sun getting ready to dip below the horizon. Yet in all that nothing, there was such a peace, a calm.

Without my realizing it, almost against my will, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the place. I took off my pack, set it down and sat on top of it, drinking in the surroundings. I watched as the sun turned orange and then red and sank into the sand, disappearing but leaving behind a warm, soft glow.

I pulled L'Orange of Tunisia out of my pocket. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to share it with somebody else, especially a native Tunisian like L'Orange.

“Pretty amazing view,” I said.

He didn't answer, which I took as a vote of agreement, as well as a sign that I still had limited sanity. If
he had answered back, I would have been even more worried about that.

“People would pay big bucks to see something this beautiful, and neither of us paid a dime.”

L'Orange didn't look impressed or unimpressed. He was very Zenlike that way. Although he'd shared the pleasant plumpness of Buddha in the beginning, he now looked as worn and shrivelled as I felt. There couldn't have been much liquid left inside of that orange peel. And then I thought that if there was any whatsoever, it would mean so much, it would taste so sweet.

I held L'Orange up higher so that he could see the sunset and I could see him more clearly. There had to be something still left in there … something. But how could I even think about that? Wasn't it almost like cannibalism?

That was so
stupid
. This was just an orange, an orange that had been tossed out the window to me as a final insult. It was just an orange like all the others that had been bought and brought on this trip to eat.

I started to dig a fingernail into the peel and stopped myself. This
was
more than just an orange. L'Orange was my companion, one of the best friends I'd ever had. If Captain Evans asked me now who I'd never lied to, I'd at least have an answer—L'Orange of Tunisia. How pathetic was that? An orange was my best friend.

Really, though, even if it was my friend, it would want me to do what I needed to do so that I could survive. Didn't friends sacrifice for each other? Wasn't that what friendship was about? It was, I was certain.
Just eat the stupid orange,
I thought.

“I really appreciate you sacrificing yourself this way,” I said. “Sorry, buddy.”

I laughed—that was what Connor called me, “buddy.” Connor probably had a lot of friends. He probably
deserved
to have a lot of friends.

I tucked L'Orange into my pocket. At least I could be a good friend at the end.

THE NIGHT TEMPERATURE
had gone from a refreshing, wonderful, rewarding, valued cool to an uncomfortable cold. I pulled the sleeping bag a little tighter around my shoulders to ward off the chill. I was shaking. Was that a symptom of dehydration or the last little kick of my body suffering from alcohol withdrawal? I desperately could have used a drink right then, but for the first time in a long time, water would have been my preference.

I stood up and flicked the light on my headlamp. In the total darkness, it was amazing to me how far the beam extended. It lit a little path down the ridge right to the bottom. I played the light around in all directions, seeing everything that was to be seen—which of course was nothing.

I thought about how if I slowly spun around, I'd be like a little lighthouse, warning all ships out at sea not to get caught on the rocks of the ridge on which I sat. They called camels the ships of the desert. I guess my last efforts would be to provide safety for the camels. Maybe I'd even provide safety for the camels that led me astray. A final act of forgiveness.

I was guessing the little beam would be visible a long way off … and then it came to me. This light wouldn't just warn camels, it could make
me
visible! If Larson was out there looking for me and he saw this light, he'd have to know it was me. What else could it be? And if he saw the light, he'd come and find me. There was still life—there was still hope.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I started to turn around. I kept the beam as level as I could, not pointing up at the empty sky or down at the ground below, so that it would broadcast out into the night. I didn't know how far it would be seen, but I could see where the beam stopped being visible to me. That didn't mean anything, though, did it? I had to think.

I knew that I could see a light from a plane flying overhead at thousands of feet even if that light didn't exactly shine on me. I could see stars in the sky that were millions of miles away. So why couldn't somebody see this light from a few miles away? Of course they'd be able to see the light. But then again, the stars were gigantic balls of gas and the lights from the
planes were brilliantly bright and big … still … in the darkness, it certainly seemed bright to me.

I continued to rotate on the spot. Not too quickly or I'd make myself dizzy, and not too slowly or it would take so long to rotate that they wouldn't be able to follow it, or they might just think their eyes were playing a little trick on them.

I let the sleeping bag fall to the sand. I wasn't feeling cold anymore. Maybe it was the motion, but more likely it was the heat of hope that was driving away the cold. The darkness, which I'd feared so much, was no longer my enemy—it was my friend, or if not a friend, at least an ally, working with me.

I was tired. My legs were sore and my feet hurt. My mouth felt dusty and dry, my throat was parched, and my whole body was crying out for water. Every muscle seemed to be close to the edge of exhaustion, and all I wanted to do was sit down, lie down, and stop moving. But I didn't. Like a good little lighthouse, I stood in place and slowly turned … slowly turned … slowly turned.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I STARTED
, waking myself up again, and experienced a micro-second of panic when I didn't know where I was. Then waking up more fully, I fought off real panic. I couldn't waste any energy on panic. That was the twentieth time I'd fallen asleep, not standing and sleeping but spinning around and sleeping. Not walking in my sleep but rotating in my sleep.

As long as I was alert again, I decided to use the opportunity to change direction and rotate counter-clockwise for a while. I didn't know what time it was. I didn't know how long I'd been doing this. It had all become almost hypnotizing, mesmerizing, like that strange form of meditation that had made counting out my steps seem creative. My whole mind just went blank. Not thinking was refreshing, but now that I was back inside my head, I was starting to feel tired and thirsty again.

I remembered a conversation I'd had with Larson about how he could do the things he did. He'd told me about how you had to rise above your mind, to
separate yourself from yourself so that you couldn't feel your body anymore, as if you were sitting or standing, or
floating,
above your own body and looking down at yourself. I needed to do that and allow my body to continue to be a good little lighthouse.

“Ethan.”

Strange. My own name just popped into my head. Was this my body trying to keep my head connected to it, reminding me of who I was? Or was it L'Orange calling out encouragement from my pocket? He'd been silent up to that point, but maybe he was feeling dizzy and wanted me to stop.

“Ethan!”

My eyes popped open. That wasn't in my head. That was in my
ears
. I stopped rotating and listened. There was nothing except for the vague, soft whooshing of the wind. It might have just been the wind calling out to me. Was that a sign of insanity or was I simply in touch with my surroundings? Had all the inside-my-head sounds ceased and allowed me to hear the rhythm of the world around me?

“Ethan, can you hear me!”

It was faint but clear. That wasn't the wind—that was Larson.

“I hear …” My voice died, unable to make any sound except a low, crackling groan.

“Ethan, where are you!”

That was Andy's voice!

I turned and looked all around, searching for them, but I couldn't see anything. They must have seen my light, and now that I was standing still with the light shining down at the ground, they wouldn't be able to see it anymore.

“Ethan, can you hear me?” Larson yelled.

I struggled, trying to think: was his voice louder or softer? Were they coming closer or moving farther away, and which direction were the voices coming from?

I started to slowly spin again, hoping they could fix on the light and come to me. Even if I couldn't call them, at least they could see me, and the light would guide them toward me. If only I could call out.

My mouth felt bone dry. If I could work up some saliva to lubricate my vocal cords, I could yell out to them. I tried, straining to get some moisture into my mouth. If only there were just a few drops left in my water bottle or—there was L'Orange.

Like a strange animal, as if it weren't even connected to my mind, my hand crept down my side and into my pocket, pulling L'Orange free. He felt warm in my hand. Living, almost breathing. And inside his skin, inside that peel, was the little burst of moisture that would allow me to call out, allow them to find me. I didn't even have to eat all of him, just a section. How would that be different from an organ
transplant, like a brother giving another brother his kidney? I'd do that for him. I'd give him a kidney if he needed one … or a seed or two.

I'd try once more, first. I took a deep breath. “I'm here!” I screamed, the loudness of my own voice surprising me, jarring me back to reality.

“I'm here! I'm here! I'm here!” I screamed.

I waited, unable to say anything more, and listened. Had they heard me? Had my voice travelled far enough?

“Ethan, we see you!” Larson yelled, and that was followed by a loud whooping sound that I knew had been made by Andy.