men walking with its own running commentary. The earth talks to us, but we don’t speak its language, Tom had told Chin. Chin listened harder. Fallen tree here, the stream said. Rocks. More rocks.
B.J.’s voice was almost as incessant. Chin had not seen Sarah Canary since they left the asylum, but B.J., walking ahead, gave him regular reports on Sarah Canary’s activities. ‘She’s picking up leaves now,’ B.J. said. ‘She looks happy.’ Chin counted steps. The path ceased to be a path and became the ghost of a path. They stayed beside the stream. Chin stepped over a puddle. He stepped over a rock. He saw Sarah Canary’s heel-print in the crushed leaves of a fern. ‘She’s leaning against a tree and looking up at the sun,’ said B.J. ‘She’s hugging herself like she’s cold.’ The fir needles beneath Chin’s feet were bound together at the tops like miniature wok brushes. Chin walked in and out of the sunlight. He noticed that the pine smell was sharpest in the shadows. He noticed he could smell wet rocks in the stream.
‘She has a stick in her mouth.
‘She’s throwing a stone at a tree.
‘She’s stopped to . . . urinate.’ B.J.’s tone was hushed. He turned back, facing Chin with his eyes closed. ‘Into the creek. Don’t look.’ They waited a few moments and then began to walk again. The trail sloped downward and the trunks of the trees bent at identical angles, keeping the branches upright. Hemlock crowded out the fir, long cones abundant at the ends of the branches, the top shoots curving over in an arc of new green. Chin saw the scars of an old fire.
‘She’s caught a frog!’ B.J. said. ‘She’s getting smaller. Are we going down now?’
‘Yes,’ said Chin.
‘Oh, well, that explains it. I mean, she would then, wouldn’t she? Get shorter.’
‘I don’t see her at all,’ said Chin.
‘She’s just ahead. She’s putting flowers in her hair. Phlox. Pink phlox.’
‘Where is she getting the flowers?’ Chin asked. He saw no flowers. It was the wrong season for flowers. B.J. did not answer.
The absence of a path led to a narrow gap between two rounded stones. The stream turned sharply to the left. B.J. chose the passageway. His shoulders were almost too wide for him to walk through squarely, and Chin had to hold the bedroll in front of his body. It was slippery underfoot; between the stones and the trees, no sunlight penetrated, so the ground was perpetually damp. As Chin passed through, the stones around him shuddered. A ripple of earth lifted Chin slightly and then set him down. He heard a tree crack. ‘Did you feel that?’ Chin asked B.J.
‘Feel what?’
The passageway ended in the air. Chin stepped out beside B.J., who stood staring over the edge of the cliff. Chin’s next step would take him out onto the treetops. A cold wind blew the loose hair from his queue back off his face. ‘Where did Sarah Canary go?’ Chin asked.
B.J. shrugged. ‘I’m hungry.’ His hands and knees were shaking. ‘I think it’s time for my medication. I feel kind of trembly.’
‘Where is Sarah Canary?’ said Chin.
‘Really. I feel sick.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Chin sat on the heels of his heavy mining boots in the small square of ground they shared and opened the bedroll. He had taken some of the asylum bread; he removed it now from his blanket. B.J. sank beside him, holding his legs with his hands to try to keep them still. Chin watched him. You’re an opium addict, Chin did not say. I see what kind of medication they had you on. ‘You’re just tired. You probably haven’t walked for a while.’ A second tree cracked behind them. ‘I don’t think we should sit on this ledge.’ Chin gathered up his belongings. ‘Just go back through the passage. Then we’ll eat. You’ll feel better.’
Once B.J. had mentioned food, Chin became ravenous. He broke the bread with his fingernails. It was
B.J.’s voice was almost as incessant. Chin had not seen Sarah Canary since they left the asylum, but B.J., walking ahead, gave him regular reports on Sarah Canary’s activities. ‘She’s picking up leaves now,’ B.J. said. ‘She looks happy.’ Chin counted steps. The path ceased to be a path and became the ghost of a path. They stayed beside the stream. Chin stepped over a puddle. He stepped over a rock. He saw Sarah Canary’s heel-print in the crushed leaves of a fern. ‘She’s leaning against a tree and looking up at the sun,’ said B.J. ‘She’s hugging herself like she’s cold.’ The fir needles beneath Chin’s feet were bound together at the tops like miniature wok brushes. Chin walked in and out of the sunlight. He noticed that the pine smell was sharpest in the shadows. He noticed he could smell wet rocks in the stream.
‘She has a stick in her mouth.
‘She’s throwing a stone at a tree.
‘She’s stopped to . . . urinate.’ B.J.’s tone was hushed. He turned back, facing Chin with his eyes closed. ‘Into the creek. Don’t look.’ They waited a few moments and then began to walk again. The trail sloped downward and the trunks of the trees bent at identical angles, keeping the branches upright. Hemlock crowded out the fir, long cones abundant at the ends of the branches, the top shoots curving over in an arc of new green. Chin saw the scars of an old fire.
‘She’s caught a frog!’ B.J. said. ‘She’s getting smaller. Are we going down now?’
‘Yes,’ said Chin.
‘Oh, well, that explains it. I mean, she would then, wouldn’t she? Get shorter.’
‘I don’t see her at all,’ said Chin.
‘She’s just ahead. She’s putting flowers in her hair. Phlox. Pink phlox.’
‘Where is she getting the flowers?’ Chin asked. He saw no flowers. It was the wrong season for flowers. B.J. did not answer.
The absence of a path led to a narrow gap between two rounded stones. The stream turned sharply to the left. B.J. chose the passageway. His shoulders were almost too wide for him to walk through squarely, and Chin had to hold the bedroll in front of his body. It was slippery underfoot; between the stones and the trees, no sunlight penetrated, so the ground was perpetually damp. As Chin passed through, the stones around him shuddered. A ripple of earth lifted Chin slightly and then set him down. He heard a tree crack. ‘Did you feel that?’ Chin asked B.J.
‘Feel what?’
The passageway ended in the air. Chin stepped out beside B.J., who stood staring over the edge of the cliff. Chin’s next step would take him out onto the treetops. A cold wind blew the loose hair from his queue back off his face. ‘Where did Sarah Canary go?’ Chin asked.
B.J. shrugged. ‘I’m hungry.’ His hands and knees were shaking. ‘I think it’s time for my medication. I feel kind of trembly.’
‘Where is Sarah Canary?’ said Chin.
‘Really. I feel sick.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Chin sat on the heels of his heavy mining boots in the small square of ground they shared and opened the bedroll. He had taken some of the asylum bread; he removed it now from his blanket. B.J. sank beside him, holding his legs with his hands to try to keep them still. Chin watched him. You’re an opium addict, Chin did not say. I see what kind of medication they had you on. ‘You’re just tired. You probably haven’t walked for a while.’ A second tree cracked behind them. ‘I don’t think we should sit on this ledge.’ Chin gathered up his belongings. ‘Just go back through the passage. Then we’ll eat. You’ll feel better.’
Once B.J. had mentioned food, Chin became ravenous. He broke the bread with his fingernails. It was
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