“We didn’t stop,” said Kitty. “We kept right on. That can’t be one of ours. You weren’t down here, were you?”
He shook his head.
“Then it must be Eric.”
“You stay here,” he said.
He plunged into the water and waded across and on the other edge the tracks were going out—tracks heading back the way that they had come.
He stopped and shouted.
“Eric! Eric! Eric!”
He waited for an answer. There was nothing.
A mile farther on, he came to the great morass they had crossed the day before—the mile or more of muck and water that had eaten at their strength. And here, on the muddy edge, the tracks went into the sea of sucking mud and water and disappeared from sight.
He crouched on the shore and peered across the water, interspersed by hummocks that were poison green in the early light. There was no sign of life or movement. Once a fish (perhaps not a fish, perhaps only something) broke the water for an instant, sending out a circle of ripples. But that was all there was.
Heavily, he turned back.
Kitty still crouched beside the water’s edge.
He shook his head at her.
“He went back,” he said. “I don’t see how he could have. He was weak and…”
“Determination,” Kitty said. “And, perhaps, devotion, too.”
“Devotion?”
“Don’t you see,” she said. “He knew that he was sick. He knew he couldn’t make it. And he knew that we’d stay with him.”
“But that’s what we all agreed,” said Alden.
Kitty shook her head. “He wouldn’t have it that way. He is giving us a chance.”
“No!” yelled Alden. “I won’t let him do it. I’m going back and find him.”
“Across that last stretch of swamp?” asked Kitty.
Alden nodded. “Probably he was just able to make it. He more than likely is holed up on the other side somewhere.”
“And what if he didn’t make it? What if he never got across?”
“Then I won’t find him, of course. But I have to try.”
“What I’m worried about,” said Kitty, “is what you’d do if you did find him. What would you do about him? What would you say to him?”
“I’d bring him back,” said Alden, “or I’d stay with him.”
She lifted her face and tears were standing in her eyes. “You’d give him back his gift,” she said. “You’d throw it in his face. You’d make this last great gesture of his mean absolutely nothing.”
She looked at Alden. “You could do that?” she asked. “He has done a fine and decent thing. Thinking, perhaps, that it’s the last chance he’ll have for decency. And you wouldn’t let him keep it?”
Alden shook his head.
“He’d do as much for you,” she said. “He’d let you keep that final decency.”
On the morning of the eighth day, Kitty moaned and tossed with fever. The day before had been a sunlit nightmare of mud and saw grass, of terrible heat, of snakes and mosquitoes, of waning hope and a mounting fear that stirred sluggishly in the middle of one’s gut.
It had been crazy for them to try it, Alden thought, crazy from the very start—three people who had no right to try it, too out of condition, too ill-equipped, and in his case, at least, too old to try a thing like this. To cross forty miles of swamp took youth and strength, and all that any of the three of them had to qualify had been determination. Perhaps, he thought, a misplaced determination, each of them driven by something which, more than likely, they did not understand.
Why, he wondered, had Kitty and Eric wished to escape from Limbo?
It was something they had never talked about. Although perhaps they would have if there had been a lot of talk. But there had never been. There had been no time or breath for talk.
For, he realized now, there was no real escape. You could escape the swamp, but you could not flee from Limbo. For you became a part of Limbo. Once in Limbo and there was no place left for you in the outside world.
Had it been a gesture only, he wondered—a gesture of defiance. Like that foolish, noble gesture of Eric’s in leaving them when he had fallen ill.
And the question of their decision back there came to haunt him once again.
All he had to do, even in the glare of noonday sun, was to shut his eyes and see it all again—a starving, helpless, dying man who had crawled off the path and hidden in a clump of tangled underbrush so he could not be found even if one, or both, of his companions should come seeking him. There were flies crawling on his face and he dare not (or could not?) raise a hand to brush them off. There was a gaunt, black bird sitting on a dead tree stump, waiting patiently, and there was an alligator that lay in the water watching and there were many crawling, creeping, hopping creatures swarming in the grass and in the stunted brush.
The vision never changed; it was a fixed and terrible vision painted in a single stroke by imagination, which then had walked away and let it stand in all its garish detail.
Now it was Kitty, lying there and moaning through clenched teeth—an old and useless woman as he was an old and useless man. Kitty, with her lined face and her straggly hair and the terrible gauntness of her, but still possessed of that haunting sense of eternal youth somehow trapped tight inside her body.
He should go, he thought, and get some water. Bathe her face and arms with it, force some down her throat. But the water was scarcely fit to drink. It was old and stagnant and it stank of rotted vegetation and it had the taste of ancient dead things one tried hard not to visualize.
He went over to the small pack that belonged to Kitty and from it he took the battered and fire-blackened sauce pan that was the one utensil they had brought along.
Picking his way carefully down the tiny island on which they’d spent the night, he approached the water’s edge and scouted watchfully along it, seeking for a place where the water might appear a bit less poisonous. Although that, he knew, was foolishness; the water was the same no matter where one looked.
It was bitter water in a bitter swamp that had fought them for seven days, that had sought to trap them and had tried to hold them back, that had bit and stung them and tried to drive them crazy, that had waited, knowing there would come a slip or some misstep or fall that would put them at its mercy.
He shivered, thinking of it. This was the first time, he realized, that he had thought of it. He had never thought of it before; he had merely fought it. All his energy had been directed toward getting over that yard of ground ahead, and after that, another yard of ground.
Time had lost its meaning, measured only in a man’s endurance. Distance had come to have no significance, for it stretched on every side. There would always be that distance; there would be no end to it.
It had been a murderous seven days and the first two of them he had known he could not make it, that there was not another day left in him. But each day there had been another day left in him and he’d made each day to its bitter end.
Of the three of them, he thought, he was the only one who still was on his feet. And another funny thing: He knew now that he had another day left in him, that he had many other days left in him. He could keep on forever, if it took forever. Now the swamp could never stop him. Somewhere in that terrible, tangled greenness he had found a hidden strength and had gotten second wind.
Why should this be, he wondered. What was that inner strength? From what source had it come?
Was it, perhaps, because his purpose had been strong?
And once again he stood at the window, wondering if there’d be a butterfly this time or if the butterfly were only a certain part of childhood. But never questioning for a moment that the magic still was there, that it had been so strong and shining that thirty years could not have tarnished it.