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"No. I'll sew that one back together. We can't afford to waste any single piece of clothing." As the words roll off my lips I realize… there is one piece we can afford to waste. One that will never be anything but impractical to wear out here.
My wedding dress.
With small steps, I head toward the back of the plane where I put the dress. With trembling hands, I unzip the protection bag and suck in my breath.
Strange.
The sight of my dress doesn't unleash the torrent of emotions I experienced when I put my dress away, weeks ago. But the tumult of despair that wrecked me that day rears its head anew as my fingers curl around the knife.
"Don't, Aimee. I know what that dress means to you."
The weakness in his voice snaps me from my moment of weakness like a lightning bolt. I don't hesitate and drive the knife into the fabric, cutting away a strip.
"I'll be back as soon as I can." I hold the white fabric in my hand. "I'll find the tree, I promise."
It's dark outside when I step out of the plane. Very dark. I stumble in the general direction of the wood shelter. I find a branch to make a decent torch and wrap the fabric around it. The makeshift metal container of animal fat is on the floor of the shelter. Tristan stored the fat of a sloth we found dead last week, saying it would be handy in case we need torches. We were supposed to need torches in emergency cases—this counts as one. I put the metal container on the smouldering signal fire, melting the fat, and dip the fabric in it. Then I put the torch over the fire, and it starts burning.
As the flame grows, my breathing slows down, my heart stops racing. This is good. Light is good. Fire is good. Beasts are afraid of fire, aren't they? Nothing will attack me while I have this. Holding the torch up, I enter the forest, clinging to this idea. I take small steps deeper in, and I feel a dreadful tingle on my feet; something is trying to crawl up my running shoes. The creatures slithering on the forest floor don’t care about my torch. Trying not to concentrate on them, I keep my eyes on the flame, watching it burn the white fabric. I once read white is the color of hope, so I chose white instead of ivory for my wedding dress, because I found hope fitting for a wedding. Hope for happiness. A bright future.
How bittersweet to watch that hope burn away shred by shred. I tighten my grip on the branch, hearing howling sounds around me. My heart rate picks up; sweat breaks out on my forehead. What's making the sounds? Some sort of owls? Monkeys? Or something worse? I wish I couldn’t hear them, but if there is something inescapable here, it’s the sounds. The jungle never sleeps.
It feels like I've walked forever when I reach the place where we saw the andiroba tree. I try to remember what its leaves looked like. Long and oval, perhaps. I spin around, looking for one with oval leaves. I see trees with round leaves, star-shaped leaves, spines, and no leaves at all. But no oval ones. I go in circles until I notice one with leaves that come closer to oval than anything else. I cut a few handfuls of leaves then realize I didn't bring anything to carry them in. Brilliant, Aimee. Just brilliant. I pull at the hem of my T-shirt and put the leaves in it. Keeping my eyes firmly on the leaves, trying not to drop any, I walk back to the plane. I'm halfway to the plane when I hear a growl. Animals are afraid of fire, I remind myself. I'll be all r
ight. But the light from my torch is significantly weaker. I raise my gaze from the leaves to the torch and stumble in my steps.
The flame.
It's almost gone. I remember Tristan telling me such a torch would last ten or fifteen minutes. I've been gone longer than that. My feet shoot forward at the same time panic sets in. I run, faster than I ever have, terrified I will lose the leaves, but more terrified that the flame will vanish, and I won't find my way back. Pain slices my calves from the effort, branches scratch my cheeks, as I move faster. The light goes out before the plane comes into view, but I'm almost there, so I keep running, tripping, falling, rising, and then running again, until I find the entrance in our makeshift fence. I don't stop until I reach the airstairs. I drop the useless torch, grabbing the airstairs to steady myself. I'm shaking like a leaf, fighting hard the urge to collapse. I don't look at the T-shirt I'm clutching, for fear I might have indeed lost all the leaves. When I can't postpone the truth any longer, I look down and breathe with relief. I've lost a lot of the leaves, but there are enough left to hopefully help. I grab one of the water baskets. If his fever doesn't subside, he'll need to keep hydrated.
Tristan is worse. Much worse. He's pale and soaked in sweat. Despite that, he smiles when he sees me. "I was worried something happened to you."
"How did you find any energy to worry about me?" I say, filling our soda can with water and helping him drink. My fingers touch his cheek. He's burning up.
After drinking the entire cup he says, "You're not the only one who isn't overjoyed with the idea of being alone in this place." I flush, remembering my insensitive comment from earlier, dread overwhelming me as he grins again. The fact that he forces humor in his voice means he's not just looking, but also feeling, worse. I show him the leaves. "These are the ones I meant, yeah," he says.
"Let me put them on the stings."
It's all I can do not to vomit as I take off his shirt, apply more of the insect cream, and then cover his back with leaves. I'm not very optimistic, but I try not to show it.
Tristan keeps talking while I sink one of my T-shirts in water and put it on his forehead as a compress. Since the water is not cold, it doesn't help bring the fever down, but it seems to make it more bearable for him. His words come out weaker, until they are almost whispers, and I have to strain my ears to understand him.
"Help me back to the cockpit," he whispers.
"Are you insane? I'm not moving you anywhere. You're staying right here. I'll keep putting water on your forehead."
"No… I"
"Shh. Don't argue. You'll sleep here."
I soak the T-shirt in water and also run it on his arms and chest this time, because his whole body is burning. He insists on returning to the cockpit, but the fever takes the better of him and he falls asleep, with his head in my lap. A terrible thought wedges its way into my mind. What if he won't wake up? What then? I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought. I look around, searching for something else to think about. My calves provide a welcome, if superficial distraction. Since our daily tasks are a constant workout, my body has changed a bit. The fact that our food is very protein-heavy also contributes. My calves and arms are stronger than they used to be, though I can't say I like them. They look bulky. Tristan's body has also undergone similar changes, but the muscles look good on him. They make him look strong, unbeatable. Yet as he lies here with his eyes closed, all his energy stripped away, he looks defeated. His body succumbed so easily to illness. When I see him like this, it's hard to believe he's the same man who ventures in the forest every day with nothing but a knife—who doesn't seem to know fear. Now he’s weak. Vulnerable.
It feels weird—almost like an intrusion—having him in the cabin with me. I was used to it being my place. Unfairly so, since the cockpit is so small.
I shift in my seat, dipping the cloth in water, when Tristan starts mumbling. I think he's trying to tell me something at first, but then I realize he's still asleep. His mumbling gets louder, and he begins to twist around, his fingers groping and scratching at the seat. Out of his incoherent gasps, I make out the words run, and I'm sorry. I try to shake him awake from his nightmare, and when my hand touches his chest his eyes flutter open. They are unfocused, but deep behind their confusion lies something that bewilders me. Terror. Like the gaze of a hunted animal. I want to comfort him somehow, to tell him it's just a nightmare; he's all right and I'll take care of him. I wish I could find a way to make him feel safe, like he does when we're out in the wild. But before I can do anything, he grabs my hand.
"Don't let go," he mumbles, his eyes closed again.
"I won't," I answer, petrified. He relaxes, still mumbling gibberish. At least he doesn't twist anymore. Every time I try to move my hand to shake the numbness away, spasm wrack him, and his mumbling intensifies, so I try not to take it away. Even though it feels SO numb, I'm afraid it might fall off. Doesn’t matter. I’d do anything to ease his despair. Realizing how important his well-being and happiness is to me stuns me. I have never felt so desperately needed, or seen anyone so terrorized by a nightmare.
