cleared, the look that remained told me she understood what I had tried to
do. It wasn’t even a look of surprise; more that in her mind I had confirmed an impression
of me that had been slowly forming but was now set. Now, too, I had learned that hypnotic
cues only worked for the psychologist.
“You’d do anything, wouldn’t you, to get your way,” the surveyor said, but the fact
was: She held the rifle. What weapon did I really have? And I told myself it was because
I didn’t want the anthropologist’s death to be meaningless that I had suggested this
course of action.
When I did not reply, she sighed, then said, with weariness in her voice, “You know,
I finally figured it out while I was developing those useless photographs. What bothered
me the most. It’s not the thing in the tunnel or the way you conduct yourself or anything
the psychologist did. It’s this rifle I’m holding. This damn rifle. I stripped it
down to clean it and found it was made of thirty-year-old parts, cobbled together. Nothing we brought with us is from the present. Not our clothes, not our shoes. It’s all
old junk. Restored crap. We’ve been living in the past this whole time. In some sort
of reenactment . And why?” She made a derisive sound. “You don’t even know why.”
It was as much as she’d ever said to me at one time. I wanted to say that this information
registered as little more than the mildest of surprises in the hierarchy of what we
had thus far discovered. But I didn’t. All I had left was to be succinct.
“Will you remain here until I return?” I asked.
This was now the essential question, and I didn’t like the speed of her reply, or
its tone.
“Whatever you want.”
“Don’t say anything you can’t back up,” I said. I had long ago stopped believing in
promises. Biological imperatives, yes. Environmental factors, yes. Promises, no.
“Fuck off,” she said.
So that’s how we left it—her leaning back in that rickety chair, holding her assault
rifle, as I went off to discover the source of the light I had seen the night before.
I had with me a knapsack full of food and water, along with two of the guns, equipment
to take samples, and one of the microscopes. Somehow I felt safer taking a microscope
with me. Some part of me, too, no matter how I had tried to convince the surveyor
to come with me, welcomed the chance to explore alone, to not be dependent on, or
worried about, anyone else.
I looked back a couple of times before the trail twisted away, and the surveyor was
still sitting there, staring at me like a distorted reflection of who I’d been just
days before.
03: IMMOLATION
Now a strange mood took hold of me, as I walked silent and alone through the last
of the pines and the cypress knees that seemed to float in the black water, the gray
moss that coated everything. It was as if I traveled through the landscape with the
sound of an expressive and intense aria playing in my ears. Everything was imbued
with emotion, awash in it, and I was no longer a biologist but somehow the crest of
a wave building and building but never crashing to shore. I saw with such new eyes
the subtleties of the transition to the marsh, the salt flats. As the trail became
a raised berm, dull, algae-choked lakes spread out to the right and a canal flanked
it to the left. Rough channels of water meandered out in a maze through a forest of
reeds on the canal side, and islands, oases of wind-contorted trees, appeared in the
distance like sudden revelations. The stooped and blackened appearance of these trees
was shocking against the vast and shimmering gold-brown of the reeds. The strange
quality of the light upon this habitat, the stillness of it all, the sense of waiting , brought me halfway to a kind of ecstasy.
Beyond, the lighthouse stood, and before that, I knew, the remains of a village, also
marked on the map. But in front of me
do. It wasn’t even a look of surprise; more that in her mind I had confirmed an impression
of me that had been slowly forming but was now set. Now, too, I had learned that hypnotic
cues only worked for the psychologist.
“You’d do anything, wouldn’t you, to get your way,” the surveyor said, but the fact
was: She held the rifle. What weapon did I really have? And I told myself it was because
I didn’t want the anthropologist’s death to be meaningless that I had suggested this
course of action.
When I did not reply, she sighed, then said, with weariness in her voice, “You know,
I finally figured it out while I was developing those useless photographs. What bothered
me the most. It’s not the thing in the tunnel or the way you conduct yourself or anything
the psychologist did. It’s this rifle I’m holding. This damn rifle. I stripped it
down to clean it and found it was made of thirty-year-old parts, cobbled together. Nothing we brought with us is from the present. Not our clothes, not our shoes. It’s all
old junk. Restored crap. We’ve been living in the past this whole time. In some sort
of reenactment . And why?” She made a derisive sound. “You don’t even know why.”
It was as much as she’d ever said to me at one time. I wanted to say that this information
registered as little more than the mildest of surprises in the hierarchy of what we
had thus far discovered. But I didn’t. All I had left was to be succinct.
“Will you remain here until I return?” I asked.
This was now the essential question, and I didn’t like the speed of her reply, or
its tone.
“Whatever you want.”
“Don’t say anything you can’t back up,” I said. I had long ago stopped believing in
promises. Biological imperatives, yes. Environmental factors, yes. Promises, no.
“Fuck off,” she said.
So that’s how we left it—her leaning back in that rickety chair, holding her assault
rifle, as I went off to discover the source of the light I had seen the night before.
I had with me a knapsack full of food and water, along with two of the guns, equipment
to take samples, and one of the microscopes. Somehow I felt safer taking a microscope
with me. Some part of me, too, no matter how I had tried to convince the surveyor
to come with me, welcomed the chance to explore alone, to not be dependent on, or
worried about, anyone else.
I looked back a couple of times before the trail twisted away, and the surveyor was
still sitting there, staring at me like a distorted reflection of who I’d been just
days before.
03: IMMOLATION
Now a strange mood took hold of me, as I walked silent and alone through the last
of the pines and the cypress knees that seemed to float in the black water, the gray
moss that coated everything. It was as if I traveled through the landscape with the
sound of an expressive and intense aria playing in my ears. Everything was imbued
with emotion, awash in it, and I was no longer a biologist but somehow the crest of
a wave building and building but never crashing to shore. I saw with such new eyes
the subtleties of the transition to the marsh, the salt flats. As the trail became
a raised berm, dull, algae-choked lakes spread out to the right and a canal flanked
it to the left. Rough channels of water meandered out in a maze through a forest of
reeds on the canal side, and islands, oases of wind-contorted trees, appeared in the
distance like sudden revelations. The stooped and blackened appearance of these trees
was shocking against the vast and shimmering gold-brown of the reeds. The strange
quality of the light upon this habitat, the stillness of it all, the sense of waiting , brought me halfway to a kind of ecstasy.
Beyond, the lighthouse stood, and before that, I knew, the remains of a village, also
marked on the map. But in front of me
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