Strange Seed (31 page)
“No,” Rachel said steadily.
“It can’t be.”
And they both saw the band of flickering yellow light beneath the door.
Paul ran to the window, unlocked it, pushed up.
The window wouldn’t budge.
He glanced around.
“Rachel,” he shouted, “the washbasin!
On the dresser!
Give it to me!”
Rachel grabbed the washbasin.
“I don’t understand, Paul,” she said as she crossed the room.
“We put the fire out.
Why do you want this?”
She gave him the washbasin.
“I don’t understand.
Please, Paul…”
She turned.
“I don’t understand.”
She crossed to the door, put her hand on the doorknob.
“Why don’t we just—“
“Rachel, no!” Paul shouted.
She let go of the doorknob, stepped back.
Her body was shaking.
“Don’t open that door, Rachel!”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
Paul brought his arm back, washbasin in hand.
Rachel turned, faced him.
“They did this, Paul.
They want us to stay.”
Paul brought his arm forward.
“No,” he murmured, and stopped his arm halfway to the window.
“No!” he screamed.
“No, you won’t, you can’t.
I won’t let you, she’s not yours!”
He crossed the room.
He threw the door open.
And in the instant before the flames swept over her, Rachel saw the three dark, perfect faces beyond the window.
And she understood.
A smile started on her lips.
The words
Thank you, Paul
came to her.
THE MORNING
The child, a boy, is intrigued by the gleaming, bulbous thing in the ashes.
He reaches for it.
A girl nearby reaches at the same time.
“I don’t understand,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
The boy screeches and lashes out at her.
She grunts and moves off.
The boy picks up the bulbous thing and turns it around and around, studying it.
He puts it into his mouth, tests it with his tongue, bites it, throws it to the ground, and continues searching.
One of the girls lifts a soot-blackened jar from the ashes and studies it hopefully.
At last, she tosses it down and it shatters against the dark bulk of the stove.
Soon, a pungent odor wafts over to her and she turns quickly and moves over to the remains of the jar.
Then the other children are upon her, variously tearing at her, trying to push her away, and tearing at the stuff from within the jar.
Soon, there is no trace of it, and the children continue searching.
No longer are their bellies constantly full.
Or their skins warm.
No longer have they time for desire.
And so they poke through the ashes.
And tear fitfully at the one to find the bones.
While, around them, the frigid morning collects itself.
A December morning.
Quiet, but with promise.
In time, there will be no more bones.
And winter is upon them.
THE END
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