‘It’s Eli. How are you feeling? I am happy to hear your voice.’
‘Where is Morris?’
‘Morris has died. We have buried him up from the river. Do you think we should mark his grave or leave him be?’
‘Morris . . . died?’ He began to shake his head back and forth, then to silently weep, and I went away from the tent.
‘Well?’ said Charlie.
‘I will ask again later.’
I thought, I have had enough of grown men crying.
Chapter 56
We combined the entire pull of gold, which between our four-man effort from the night before and Morris and Warm’s initial two-man affair made for near an entire bucket’s worth. This represented a fortune and I could scarcely lift the thing of my own strength. I asked Charlie to lift it but he said he did not want to. I told him it was very heavy and he said he believed me.
In a fit of practicality, and with my thoughts moving inevitably to the future, I began to look over Morris’s horse. He was a sturdy animal, and despite a pang of guilt I put my saddle on him and rode him up and down through the river shallows. He was a smooth rider and something of a gentleman. I had no particular feeling for him but I thought it was likely to follow if we spent any amount of time together. I decided I would win him over with kindness and sugar and trust. ‘I am going to adopt Morris’s horse,’ I said to Charlie.
‘Oh,’ he answered.
Warm was too unwell to transport, and anyway I did not think he could be saved even if we moved him. He was scarcely aware of my nearness but I did not want to leave him to die alone. Charlie brought up the fact that we did not know the recipe for the formula and I said I knew that and what did he think we should do, torture the dying man for every last instruction and ingredient? His tone was somber, and he said, ‘Don’t talk to me like that, Eli. I’ve lost my work hand in this. I am only telling you what is on my mind. After all, Warm may very well want us to know it.’ He was looking away as he said it; and I had never heard him speak this way, even when we were boys. I thought he sounded something like me, actually. He had never been afraid before, that I could remember, but now he was, and he did not know what it meant or what to make of it. I told him I was sorry I had jumped on him about the formula and he accepted my apology. Warm called out my name, and Charlie and I entered his tent. ‘Yes, Hermann?’ I said.
He was flat on his back, his eyes directed upward at the crest of the tent. His chest was rising and falling unnaturally quickly, and he was wheezing and breathing heavily. He told me, ‘I am ready to dictate Morris’s tombstone.’ I fetched a pencil and paper and knelt by his side; when I told him to go ahead he nodded, cleared his throat, and spit straight into the air, a thick globule that doubled back in a graceful arc and landed on the center of his forehead. I do not think he noticed this, or perhaps he did not care. Either way, he did not clean himself or ask to be cleaned. He said: ‘Here lies Morris, a good man and friend. He enjoyed the finer points of civilized life but never shied from a hearty adventure or hard work. He died a free man, which is more than most people can say, if we are going to be honest about it. Most people are chained to their own fear and stupidity and haven’t the sense to level a cold eye at just what is wrong with their lives. Most people will continue on, dissatisfied but never attempting to understand why, or how they might change things for the better, and they die with nothing in their hearts but dirt and old, thin blood—weak blood, diluted—and their memories aren’t worth a goddamned thing, you will see what I mean. Most people are imbeciles, really, but Morris was not like this. He should have lived longer. He had more to give. And if there is a God he is a son of a bitch.’ Warm paused. He spit again, this time to the side, onto the ground. ‘There is no God,’ he said, and closed his eyes. I did not know if he wanted the last sentence included on the tombstone and I did not ask, for I had no plans to transfer the speech, as it was clear to me he was not completely in his own mind any longer. But I promised Warm I would write it out just as he had said it, and I believe this consoled him. He thanked Charlie and I and we left the tent to sit before the fire. Charlie, gripping the wrist of his wounded hand, said, ‘Don’t you think it might be time to go now?’
I shook my head. ‘We can’t leave Warm to die alone.’
‘It could take him days to die.’
‘Then we will stay here for days.’
This was all that was said on the matter; and this was the beginning of our new brotherhood, with Charlie never again to be the one so far ahead, and me following clumsily behind, which is not to say the roles were reversed, but destroyed. Afterward, and even today, we are careful in our relationship, as though fearful of upsetting each other. In terms of our previous manner of correspondence I cannot say why it vanished suddenly then, snuffed as it was like a candle. Of course the moment it passed I became fond of it in a sorrowful kind of way, at least in theory or maudlin memory. But the question has entered my mind so many times: Whatever became of my bold brother? I can never say, only that he was gone and has yet to return.
As it happened, anyway, we would not have to wait days for Warm to pass, but hours. Night had fallen and Charlie and I were lying beside the fire, feeling very lazy and heavy, when Warm spoke in a wispy voice, ‘Hello?’ Charlie said he did not want to go, and I entered the tent alone.
Warm was breathing his last. He knew this and was frightened. I thought, Will he turn religious at the end, and plead for a speedy entry into heaven? But no, the man was too firm in his nonbeliefs for any last-minute cowardice. He did not wish to speak with me but asked after Morris, having forgotten the man was dead.
‘Why is he not here?’ Warm gasped.
‘He died this morning, Hermann, don’t you remember?’
‘Morris? Died?’ His forehead accordioned and his mouth parted, fixed open in anguish, and I stared at his gums, shiny with blood. He turned away, inhaling choppily, haltingly, as though the passage were partially blocked. I shifted my feet and he turned to follow the sound, asking, ‘Who’s there? Is that Morris?’
I told him, ‘It is Morris.’
‘Oh, Morris! Where have you been all this time?’ His tone was so deeply relieved and moved, I felt a tightening of emotion in my throat.
‘I was gathering firewood.’
Warm, invigorated: ‘What’s that? Firewood? Foraging fuel? That’s the idea. We will have a bonfire tonight, light up the entire operation. All the better to sort through our buckets of fortune, eh?’
‘All the better,’ I agreed.
‘What about the others?’ he wondered. ‘Where have they run off to? That Charlie doesn’t much like the hard work, I have noticed.’
‘No, he would rather stand by.’
‘Not much for cleaning up, is he?’
‘No, he’s not.’
‘But he has turned out a good man, you can’t say otherwise.’
‘He’s a good man, Hermann, you were right about it.’
‘And the other, Eli, where has he gone?’
‘He is out there somewhere.’
‘Making his rounds? Securing the camp?’
‘He is in the darkness, out.’
In a lower tone he said, ‘Well, I don’t know how you feel about it, but I have come to like that one quite a lot, actually.’
‘Yes. And I know he likes you, too, Hermann.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I said I know he likes you, too.’
‘Do I hear a trace of jealousy in your voice?’
‘No!’
‘I’m very flattered by it! All these men crowding around, and all of them so decent and honorable. I felt such the outcast, and for such a long time.’ At these words, his lips curled in bittersweet sadness, and he closed his eyes; tears bloomed from the closed corners of his lids and I wiped these away with my thumbs. Warm kept his eyes shut after this. They would not open again. He said, ‘Morris, if I shouldn’t make it through the night, I want you to carry on with the formula.’