After the Ashes (23 page)

My heart pounded, and my breath came in short bursts. My thirst had nearly overwhelmed me by the time I reached Brigitta.

She didn't move when I plopped down beside her. Holding a hand under her nose, I was reassured by the cool breaths I felt on my fingers.

I rested my head on my knees and waited for some of my strength to return. Walking exhausted me, but we still needed water and food.

Staggering upright, I headed north. “One. Two. Three . . .” So tired. So hungry. So thirsty.

Twigs and branches and debris cut further into my feet as I shuffled. I had no energy to lift them. I should have taken Sister Hilde's shoes, too. Except they were buried in the muck.

Crawling over another huge tree—this one a strangler fig—I stopped. In front of me was a small area that must have been a clearing at some point. Now, what was once a grassy field was covered in bodies. Men, women, children. They lay battered and broken, facing every direction.

I collapsed against the fig. I had never seen such loss of life, like the end of a battle.

Only these people had not been fighting. They had been living their lives. They didn't deserve this!

“Come on, Katrien,” I told myself. “You can't help them. You need to find water.”

But I also needed shoes.

From the pile of bodies, a woman's boot stuck up at an odd angle, about six or seven meters from me. It looked to be about my size. Three corpses lay between me and the shoe.

I grimaced and shuddered as I made my way forward. My feet brushed the bodies and I felt their cold, waxy skin. Then a frisson passed over me, as if Death himself had run a finger down my spine.

I reached for the boot. I was only close enough to grab the heel, but I clutched it anyway, intending to use it for balance as I pulled myself closer.

Unfortunately, my weight was too much. The boot couldn't hold me, and bodies tumbled as I tried to get nearer. I fell face-first onto the stomach of a dead man lying below me. When I landed, his stomach made a belching noise. I yelped and jumped backward, smashing into the face of a child. His teeth grazed my toes.

Horrified, I fled back to the fig tree, and only when I got there did I realize I now had the entire boot in my hand.

A leg, from the knee down, filled the shoe. It didn't belong to any of the bodies I'd just seen. Somehow it had become separated from its owner. The jagged bits of flesh and bone reminded me of the guts Tante Greet and Indah ripped out of fish.

The image made me retch. “Oh, my God!” I cast the boot aside.

Heaving great gasping breaths, I firmly turned my back on the field of bodies.

Again I sensed Death crawling all over me. My feet. My hands. My legs. My face. This feeling would never leave. Never. I shivered.

My toes tingled. I rubbed them, and my hand came away bloody.

I pushed Sister Hilde's spectacles up. A thin red line stretched along three toes. “That can't be good.”

When had this happened? Now both my feet had injuries.

When my breathing returned to normal, I left. I would find shoes elsewhere. I needed to let these poor people rest in peace.

I walked on, cursing the lack of water, when I noticed a pile
of strange green spheres wedged under a tree trunk. Reaching down, I pulled and yanked one out. The welcome scent of citrus greeted me as the sphere came free. I couldn't believe it. It was five unripe oranges that sat resting there, nestled like a clutch of eggs.

“They must have come from Mr. Stuyvesant's trees!” His grove of orange and lemon trees grew at the northern edge of Anjer. Had I walked that far?

I pushed Sister Hilde's spectacles up and scoured the area for more oranges but didn't see any.

I dumped the fruit into what was left of my skirt and returned as quickly as I could to Brigitta.

When I reached her, she hadn't moved. I dropped down beside her and shook her shoulders. “Brigitta, wake up. I found something to eat.”

Her eyes snapped open, and she inhaled deeply. Rubbing her face, she said, “Oh, Katrien.” The disappointment was thick in her voice. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Ja.”
I thrust the fruit in her face, like a hunter returning with food for his family. “I found oranges.”

“But it's green.”

I frowned. “It's just not ripe yet.”

“Is it safe to eat?”

“Of course,” I answered with as much certainty as I could. I didn't truly know if the fruit was safe or not, but it was food. And I thought any food—especially food we didn't have to cook—was worth eating.

Brigitta gave me a skeptical look, but she took the orange and began to peel it.

I did the same. The inside was a pale, translucent color. I tilted my head back, tore off a segment, and bit into it.

My lips puckered around the fruit, sealing shut like the lid on a pickle jar. It took all my effort not to spit it back out. I had never eaten anything so sour.

Fighting back a gag, I managed to swallow the bite.

“Katrien,” Brigitta said. Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as she choked down her own segment.

“Ja?”
I struggled against the laughter that threatened to bubble up and took another bite.

“This is the worst orange I have ever eaten in my life.”

My laugh escaped, and the sound surprised me. I thought I would never laugh again. “I know, it's terrible. But it's food. Doesn't it taste wonderful for that reason alone?”

“Well.” She dragged the word out before shrugging and eating another segment.

“I have another one.”

“I can't eat another one, Katrien.”

“Ja
, you can. We need to eat. Mr. Charles Darwin says,
‘Though food may be now superabundant, it is not so at all seasons of each recurring year.' ” Or when a volcano and giant waves obliterate the landscape
, I thought. I handed Brigitta a second orange.

She gave the green fruit a dubious look. “Superabundant?”

I waved my hand and chuckled. “He was using it in a different context. But we'll stay here, eat our abundant oranges and regain our strength.”

We both gave in to the absurdity and roared with laughter.

Sunlight warmed my face. My aunt would knock on the door soon, telling me I had slept too long. Spent too much time staring at the stars on my ceiling or reading. Or both.

I cracked my eyes open. The stars weren't over my head. The sky—a beautiful blue sky—was.

The sky!

I shot up, ignoring the aches and pains in my body.

The sun!

I could see.

Some ash remained, floating to the earth, but the sunlight glowed on our surroundings.

“Brigitta, wake up!” I shoved her. “Wake up! There's sunlight!” I grabbed Sister Hilde's spectacles and put them on.

“Oh, my goodness.” She rubbed her eyes. “I forgot how bright it was.”

“Me, too.” I squinted.

Brigitta stared at me. “Where did you get those spectacles?”

She must not have noticed them the day before. “I . . . found . . . them.” My throat closed around the words.

“What, just lying on the ground?”

“No.” I traced my fingers in the dirt and avoided her gaze. “They're Sister Hilde's. I found her.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Where?” Her question was a solemn whisper.

“Back there.” I pointed south, behind us. “She was lying on the ground. Half buried in mud.”

Brigitta's lip quivered. “She was my favorite teacher.”

“Mine, too.”

“She let me help her in the herb garden. Those were my favorite days.” Her voice turned wistful.

We sat in the bright silence. No birds chirping. No frogs croaking. No insects buzzing. The remaining leaves didn't even rustle.

Brigitta took in my swollen, crusted feet and the handkerchief tied around my big toe. “Perhaps you should wear my shoes today,” she suggested.

I shook my head. “No. I can't take your shoes. I'll find some somewhere. Besides”—I scratched my arm—“I think they're too swollen for your shoes.” My normally long toes resembled rookworst sausages. The skin stretched tight and shiny as if it were too small. My toes only moved the tiniest bit when I wiggled them.

“Can you even walk?” Her expression was filled with concern and worry.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “I . . . don't know.”

“Should you even try?” she wondered.

“We can't stay here,” I said, wishing I could hide my feet under a blanket. “We have to get to Anjer. Why don't we split the last orange, and we'll see if I can walk then.”

We finished our meager breakfast, and Brigitta helped me stand.

“Oooh.” My feet screamed, like a thousand pins were plunged into the soles at one time.

“Do you want to sit back down? Do you want to rest some more?”

I shook my head, my voice tight with pain. “More rest won't help until we've gotten food and water. But I will have glorious scars when this is over. As Mr. Charles Darwin says,
‘Male stag-beetles sometimes bear wounds from the huge mandibles of other males.' ”

“You want to look like a beetle?” Brigitta scolded. “Oh, I wish I had some
sangitan
. Lean on me.” She offered her shoulder, and I didn't protest, grateful for the help.

“Why? What's
sangitan
?”

“It can be used to relieve pain.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Although it does need to be boiled with water.”

“I suppose it's just as well you don't have any, then.”

“Banana could be used to treat the wounds.”

“Stop telling me these things. It doesn't matter now.”

The oranges, despite their awful taste, had helped. My mouth wasn't as dry as yesterday. My thirst was not as urgent.

We were weak, but the sun warmed our skin, giving us energy. “I never thought I would miss sunlight so much,” Brigitta said.

“How could you not miss it?”

“I try to stay out of the midday sun. So I don't turn brown like the natives.”

“I suppose I'm not in the sun much either. I'm usually in the jungle at midday. Or I was until . . . well, lately I've been at home.”

She gazed at me questioningly.

“Anyway, the light in the forest is dim. Not much sunlight gets through. It's dappled and lovely.” The sight of all the downed trees stabbed me through the heart. “I suppose that won't be true now.” My voice broke.

“It will grow back,” she said, reassuring me with a gentle squeeze. “No matter how many times my father cuts down plants, they always return.” A bitter note filled her voice.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Plants. They grow back.”

“No.” I struggled to ask my question. “What did you mean about your father?”

“Oh.” She sighed. “He thinks—thought—my interests in plants were unladylike.”

“What? Tante Greet has a flower garden, and she is forever trying to get me to help her in it. I thought flower gardens were a woman's domain.”

She adjusted my arms around her. “Gardening can be something for women to occupy their time. But I don't want to merely garden.”

“What do you want?”

“To know plants' medicinal qualities. To help people. Kuwat assisted me. His mother practiced
jamu
—native medicine. I needed Kuwat's help with the plants and he taught me what he remembered about his mother's knowledge. But after Father caught us with the hibiscus cuttings from the Ousterhoudts, he threatened to fire Kuwat and ripped all the cuttings out of the soil.”

Her words astonished me. “You do have an interest in botany.” Even though I knew she was clever, I never thought of Brigitta as someone with a scientific mind.

“It's not botany. It's native remedies.” A pink tint colored her cheeks. “But please don't tell anyone.”

I arched my eyebrows. “Who would I tell?”

“I don't know, but I would prefer—”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Dank u.”
She smiled. “And don't worry about the jungle. It will grow back.”

“I suppose.” It would take years for the forest to return. “After all,
‘Every one has heard that when an American forest is cut down, a very different vegetation springs up.'
”

“Why do you do that?” she asked, shifting me in her arms.

“Do what?”

“Say such odd things.” Her face rumpled in confusion. “Are you quoting Darwin again?”

“Why wouldn't I quote him? Who else should I quote?”

“I don't know. The Bible?”

“Mr. Charles Darwin makes more sense to me.”

She stumbled a bit, and I slipped along with her. “
Darwin
makes more sense than the word of the
Lord
?” She shifted me back into a firmer grip.

“Brigitta, if you think the word of the Lord makes such sense, why don't you quote Him?”

Shrugging, she said, “I don't know. I suppose I don't feel a need to. I don't need to quote the Bible to prove how well I know the book.”

“To prove . . . ?”

“You don't think you do that?” Her round eyes were wide with the question.

I pushed away from her and sank to the ground. Did I do that?

No. That was not what I did. I refused to believe that was what I did.

After Vader, Mr. Charles Darwin was the greatest man I knew. His words helped me make sense of the world.

Brigitta sat beside me. “Katrien, I would much rather hear what
you
have to say than what Charles Darwin does.”

I blinked. “You would?”

She nodded.

“You?”

“Ja,”
she said firmly. “In your own words.”

I turned away from her, unsure what to think of this kinder, more interesting Brigitta. The only other person who ever wanted me to think and speak my own mind was Vader. I pushed Sister Hilde's spectacles up and forced myself off the ground. Brigitta grasped me under my arm and helped me to stand once more. “In my own words,” I said, “I think we should keep going. Despite my swollen feet.”