Foreverland Is Dead

flashes in the shadows.
    She almost drops the binoculars this time.
    “Our Father…”
    Cyn just went down the dead body path.

21

    Where once there was floating,
    Now there is ground.
    Where once there was nowhere
    Now there is land.

    The rooster.
    Cyn rises from sleep, her head still in the clouds, listening to wind harvesters thump and the rain patter. She hooks the clothes at the bottom of the bed with her foot and dresses without breaking the warm seal of the blankets. Her feet are sore.
    She sits up, inspects the scratches on the soles and the dirt around her ankles. Doesn’t notice the smell anymore. Mud flakes on the floor. She doubles up on socks.
    The sole is breaking away on one of her leather boots. It won’t last ten more miles. The old boots probably can’t make it to the chicken coop and back. She could duct tape it, but a new pair of L.L. Bean duck boots is under her bed.
    Cyn shoves her feet inside, laces up. The soles rap the wood planks. They’re damn snug, but dry. She rolls the pant legs over them and tosses the old leather boots under the bed.
    The knife is already packed so she uses the edge of her candleholder to make a thin scratch on the wall. The girls snore on.
    Outside, the sky is a colorless tarp. Rain taps the hood of her coat. The windows in the brick house are lit. Cyn fantasizes Miranda will wave from the front porch, tell her she found something, anything, so she doesn’t have to hike.
    False hope brings false suffering.
    She takes her first step. Due south.

    Her feet already ache.
    There was a dense stretch of forest at about the half-mile mark, but it didn’t last long. It’s hard climbing after that, mostly hills with boulders and grassy clumps in between conifers. There’s easier ground if she goes around, but she stays on a southern course. It’ll be easier to map, and she won’t get lost.
    The sun is a hazy circle . Cyn unzips her coat, lets in the cool air. She doesn’t want to break a sweat. Too late for that.
    She takes a swallow of water. If she can reach the next summit, she’ll have a look around, stop for a snack. She hoists the backpack and grinds ahead.
    She hasn’t been at it long and her legs are weak . Hopefully, she’ll find a second wind by noon when she turns back. Maybe she’ll glimpse a column of smoke before that, or a road or town. Something.
    So far, nothing but God’s country.
    The back of her right foot is on fire. She limps along, takes easier paths that puts her slightly off course. She stops often to correct her path. Her breathing falls into rhythm with her stride, head down. One step at a time.
    One after another.
    Her head feels light. There’s a buzziness behind her eyes. She’s breathing heavily, maybe the air is thinning. She can’t dehydrate, not out here.
    There’s a large boulder at the summit next to a dead tree. If she can make that, she’ll rest. She’ll eat. She’s been hiking for an hour, maybe longer. Each step forward is another step back.
    She figures she’s about a mile out from the cabins when she reaches the top . Cyn throws the bag down, collapsing against the stone. The aluminum strip dances around. She’s winded, can’t catch her breath. So dizzy. So thin. The sensation is sort of like a fence, but slightly different. Not so much in the neck, more in the gut.
    She chews a bite of jerky and leans her head against the boulder. The tree, its gnarly trunk long dead, the bark flaked off and blown away, exposing the smooth weathered grain beneath, is wedged inside a fracture, as if it broke the stone but couldn’t survive.
    To her right, far to the west, is a large lake. The water is glassy and blue. It looks like a day or two away. Where there’s water, there are animals. People, too. To the East, open valley.
    She peels off her right boot. The heel of her sock is soaked red, a hole worn through the outer sock. She strips them off. The skin is stripped off her Achilles. What was she thinking, hiking in brand new boots?
    Stupid . Head back before things get worse.
    She leans her head back, working on the last strip of jerky, staring down the slope. It’d be nice if the rest of the trail were that easy. The grassy hill goes down a mile or so to a line of trees. May as well go back, there’s nothing but grass and rocks, a scraggly tree here and there. Unless there’s someone in a hole, she’s not going to find anything.
    She washes the jerky down with a swallow of water, chases that with the yams. A