Sylvie been taken from them? His conscious mind would not admit it, but he hated God at that moment, hated with a passion so intense he swooned and fell back once again to the dust.
Drew knew his mother was dead, just by looking at her. His father was still alive, but with eyes closed in the painful half-sleep Drew had just woken from. His first thoughts, knowing Sylvie was gone, were of sadness for himself; without her he couldn’t possibly be happy anymore. For his father, Drew felt a kind of bafflement that almost turned to anger. He recognized that Sylvie’s death was Morgan’s fault, for having led them into the desert, but Morgan was a good and loving man, so Drew could not allow himself the easy pleasure of hating him for what he had done.
There had to be another culprit, someone equally culpable. The only suitable individual was God. It was God’s fault. Drew opened himself fully to hatred of the Almighty, and his anger thrust him up from the ground, onto his feet. He took several steps in search of God, and tripped over a leather water bag. The sloshing of its contents erased all notions of revenge; Drew fell to his knees and pulled at the crude wooden stopper, tipped the bag and inundated his burning throat with tepid water, choked, drank more and fell back beside his father, carefully holding the bag upright to avoid spilling a drop. Where had it come from, this miraculous thing?
He shook Morgan to consciousness and pressed the water bag to his lips. Morgan drank deeply, coughed some of it back up again, then passed out anew.
Drew continued sipping from the bag. He looked again at Sylvie, then away. She hadn’t been his real mother, he told himself, so it was all right not to cry; he doubted his dried-out body could make tears anyway. If he kept telling himself she wasn’t his mother, then this thing that had happened to her could be lived with. Drew wanted above all else to continue living, and he reasoned, bit by bit, that living was best accomplished while a person wasn’t crippled up with sadness. So she was not his mother. And the man lying with mouth open a short distance away was not his father.
Moments before, Drew had wanted to blame God for everything, but staring at Morgan rekindled his original anger, the anger he had stifled. No gun, no compass, no map or guide, and not enough water. The man was a fool. And yet Drew loved him. He tried again to summon hatred for God, but God seemed less substantial than the afternoon heat waves dancing over the wagon, and so Drew was left with nothing but despair and a great hunger to live, even if living meant being aware at all times of this same unresolvable despair.
His head hurt even more now, from the effort of thinking. He turned from his parents, and decided to walk away from this place on his own if Morgan didn’t agree to give up the search for whatever it was he thought was out there. Drew decided also he would take the water bag with him when he went; if Morgan didn’t quit searching, he was crazy, and Drew wasn’t about to let a crazy man drink his water.
It was night again when Drew next opened his eyes. A campfire was burning close by, Morgan hunched over it, turning a rabbit carcass on a stick. Drew reached for the water bag, and in lifting it discovered the impossible—it was heavier than it had been earlier. He decided he must be wrong about that.
Morgan was smiling at him as he drank. “It’ll be ready soon. Are you hungry?”
Drew nodded, and came closer to the fire.
“How’d you catch it?”
“I didn’t. The Lord provided, or should I say, His angel.”
“Angel?”
“I saw him once. He was old, not like you’d expect from pictures. He must have made the fire as well. It was already burning when I woke up, and the rabbit was on the stick.”
“An angel did it?”
“Without doubt.”
Drew did not accept this. He would eat the rabbit, enjoy the fire’s warmth and light, and drink from the water bag, but he would
Drew knew his mother was dead, just by looking at her. His father was still alive, but with eyes closed in the painful half-sleep Drew had just woken from. His first thoughts, knowing Sylvie was gone, were of sadness for himself; without her he couldn’t possibly be happy anymore. For his father, Drew felt a kind of bafflement that almost turned to anger. He recognized that Sylvie’s death was Morgan’s fault, for having led them into the desert, but Morgan was a good and loving man, so Drew could not allow himself the easy pleasure of hating him for what he had done.
There had to be another culprit, someone equally culpable. The only suitable individual was God. It was God’s fault. Drew opened himself fully to hatred of the Almighty, and his anger thrust him up from the ground, onto his feet. He took several steps in search of God, and tripped over a leather water bag. The sloshing of its contents erased all notions of revenge; Drew fell to his knees and pulled at the crude wooden stopper, tipped the bag and inundated his burning throat with tepid water, choked, drank more and fell back beside his father, carefully holding the bag upright to avoid spilling a drop. Where had it come from, this miraculous thing?
He shook Morgan to consciousness and pressed the water bag to his lips. Morgan drank deeply, coughed some of it back up again, then passed out anew.
Drew continued sipping from the bag. He looked again at Sylvie, then away. She hadn’t been his real mother, he told himself, so it was all right not to cry; he doubted his dried-out body could make tears anyway. If he kept telling himself she wasn’t his mother, then this thing that had happened to her could be lived with. Drew wanted above all else to continue living, and he reasoned, bit by bit, that living was best accomplished while a person wasn’t crippled up with sadness. So she was not his mother. And the man lying with mouth open a short distance away was not his father.
Moments before, Drew had wanted to blame God for everything, but staring at Morgan rekindled his original anger, the anger he had stifled. No gun, no compass, no map or guide, and not enough water. The man was a fool. And yet Drew loved him. He tried again to summon hatred for God, but God seemed less substantial than the afternoon heat waves dancing over the wagon, and so Drew was left with nothing but despair and a great hunger to live, even if living meant being aware at all times of this same unresolvable despair.
His head hurt even more now, from the effort of thinking. He turned from his parents, and decided to walk away from this place on his own if Morgan didn’t agree to give up the search for whatever it was he thought was out there. Drew decided also he would take the water bag with him when he went; if Morgan didn’t quit searching, he was crazy, and Drew wasn’t about to let a crazy man drink his water.
It was night again when Drew next opened his eyes. A campfire was burning close by, Morgan hunched over it, turning a rabbit carcass on a stick. Drew reached for the water bag, and in lifting it discovered the impossible—it was heavier than it had been earlier. He decided he must be wrong about that.
Morgan was smiling at him as he drank. “It’ll be ready soon. Are you hungry?”
Drew nodded, and came closer to the fire.
“How’d you catch it?”
“I didn’t. The Lord provided, or should I say, His angel.”
“Angel?”
“I saw him once. He was old, not like you’d expect from pictures. He must have made the fire as well. It was already burning when I woke up, and the rabbit was on the stick.”
“An angel did it?”
“Without doubt.”
Drew did not accept this. He would eat the rabbit, enjoy the fire’s warmth and light, and drink from the water bag, but he would
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