Dancing In The Wind

Three Noah

Three

NoahNoah had saved us. Without his drone we would still be on the trails, walking endless circles. He had saved me. Without him, I would have lost my mind.

Seated on my bed, I stared at the black leather cover of Jasper's journal resting in my lap. Inside it, he had penned his experiences at C.E.C.I.L., how he'd come to learn of the plan, and what he personally suffered. On his deathbed, Jasper told me where I would find it and that it held answers to my questions. Apart from my memories, the journal was all there was left of Jasper's existence. His employer, the man whose name I wouldn't say or think upon, had destroyed any other personal belongings he'd had at the compound. But there was more than just Jasper's words written inside, I had added my own thoughts. The idea seemed absurd now. My brain was my personal journal, and I could flip back to any moment and recall the events. Yet I contemplated reading my scribbles as I thought of that particular day.

When my parents had announced the plans to spend the colder months at the compound, I lost control. I was like an inconsolable two-year-old throwing a tantrum. No one else reacted the same way. Then again, no one had my memories—real, imagined, or altered. My arguments claiming the building was uninhabitable were futile as the structure underwent weeks of renovations. C.E.C.I.L.'s reunited inhabitants boarded over broken windows, washed walls, and cleaned out debris. They'd fixed what was necessary to make it safe for the winter, and they collected supplies and furnishings from homes and shops in Kearney. A few rooms suffered minimal damage, and their restoration was quick. Like a phoenix, C.E.C.I.L. rose from the ashes, repaired, sustainable, self-sufficient, and inhabitable. I refused to believe and refused to go.

For two days, I stayed in the purple bedroom of the house we inhabited in Kearney and wouldn't speak to anyone, leaving my room only to use the bathroom. Confinement would be on my terms. For two days, Noah brought food and spoke through the closed door even though I wouldn't respond. And on the third day he sat outside my room, played his guitar and sang.

I opened the journal and flipped to the last quarter where I had scrawled my thoughts on the blank pages.

Noah has a beautiful voice. I didn't know he could sing or play the guitar. He sang a song called Butterfly by an artist I'd never heard of before but it was beautiful. It made me wish I was a real butterfly.

Inside my head I heard Noah's voice singing, and I closed my eyes.

“Is that yours?” The bedroom door squeaks as I open it.

Noah stops playing and looks at me. For the first time, I notice the depth of his brown eyes. “The guitar?” He holds it up and nods.

“And the song?”

“No.”

“Who sings it? Sang,” I correct, not knowing if the artist is from years ago or more recent and whether they had survived given the world's latest history.

“Lisa Loeb,” he says.

“Never heard of her.” I confess.

“Lisa was one of my mother's favourites, and she loved that song.”

“The lyrics, tune, are pretty.” I sit on the floor, and he starts again. I touch the back of my neck, imagining a butterfly flying away. At that moment, it's what I want.

I closed the journal and stuffed it between the mattress and box spring, too tired to read anymore, too unfocused to write. A jumble of memories, imaginings, and lies played in my mind. I needed air and an escape from the constant racing thoughts. The door slid open, and I took a deep breath before stepping into the corridor. My footsteps echoed in the hallway. A weak smile crossed my face as I greeted others.

Noah's room was halfway up the long hall. He stayed in one of the windowless accommodations, the same kind Beth and I shared when we'd lived here under the control of the hypno-drug. A muffled reply answered my knock, and I stepped closer, activating the door.

Once inside, I focused on the far corner of the room. The bracket was all that remained of the surveillance system. Below the bracket, and above the head of the bed, was a poster of a lynx taped to the white wall. Noah lay curled on his side on top of his poorly made bed with his head propped on his hand. A tuft of synthetic filler stuck out from a slight tear in the rumpled blue comforter beneath him. A wayward piece of brown hair hung in his eyes, and he swept it aside as he turned the page of an old book.

“Can we go for a walk?”

Noah looked up from the novel and smiled; his cheek dimpled. “Sure.” He closed the book with a slap and tossed it on a small table beside his bed. He pointed at me. “Maybe it's warmer than this morning, but not warm enough for short sleeves.”

I thought of our visit to the courtyard earlier that day and glanced at my purple tee. “Yes, I guess you're right.” The weather had been so erratic, one day called for a sweater and the next a t-shirt.

“Here, put this on.” Noah tossed me the red hoodie lying on the end of his bed.

The sleeves were soft and warm as I stuck my arms through them. “What about you?” The hoodie smelled of a blend of sweet and spice, and I breathed in the light and fresh scent.

“No worries.” He smiled and took a black sweatshirt from a dresser across from the foot of his bed. A framed picture of his parents sat on the top. He rolled down his blue shirtsleeves, covering his toned biceps and the compass tattoo on his right arm, and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. “Anyway, you look good in red.”

My cheeks flushed like they always did when he paid me a compliment.

“Let's go then.” Noah led the way out of his room and down the hall toward the front entrance.

Inside the compound's vestibule, hidden from peering eyes, Noah grabbed my hand and led me out the door and along the side of the building. We crossed the lawn and stepped into the woods.

“Same?” Noah said.

Tears threatened to escape if I opened my mouth, so I nodded instead and squeezed Noah's hand.

We walked in silence on a trail we had carved out over the past few weeks. Leaves fluttered to the ground from the fiery canopy overhead like the snowflakes had earlier that day. When we reached the wall, we followed its length until we arrived at a ladder. Noah had constructed it on our second outing to the wall using two small trees he'd cut as the rails and scrap wood for the rungs. Although we were free to roam, it was only within the ground's boundaries. We were not to venture outside of the enclosure. The ladder was my salvation from the trapped sensation that accompanied me everywhere. Once over the cement fence, I collected colourful leaves as early fall flowers were much harder to find.

Tucked in among the trees, a small shed came into view. Caleb had hidden inside the rickety building for twenty-four hours when he first escaped the old house. My grip tightened on Noah as we neared. The house had not only been Caleb's prison, but served as one for Beth and me. Jasper had thought we would be safe, bringing us to shelter there the night of the fire. But he was wrong, and our haven turned into a house of horrors.

We stopped by the weathered tool shed for a moment. A fly buzzed, caught in a web woven inside a hole in the wood cladding. The insect struggled. I poked my finger through the silk trap, freeing it.

“Ready?” Noah said.

I nodded. My focus trained on a window at the rear of the house across the overgrown lawn. It looked ominous, and I almost expected to see Jasper's ghost waiting for us to emerge from the bush. I squeezed my eyelids and replaced my imaginings with the memory of sticking my head out that window. Sunshine warmed the top of my head as I inhaled my first breath of outside air in a long time. The orange and yellow scrap of cloth used to cover my nose from the putrid odour of death hung from my neck.

As we stepped out from the woods and into the neglected yard, I shifted my gaze to the clearing among the stand of pines.

Goosebumps covered my arms as we approached; wooden crosses grew larger the closer we got. I shuddered, and Noah clutched my hand. No matter how many times I walked the same path, I would never get over imagining Cecil's white-haired phantom watching me from the kitchen door with dead grey eyes. A sneer pasted to his face.

We stopped at the edge of the small cemetery. “Okay?” Noah said.

“Ahem, yes.” My voice cracked, but I stayed strong.

At each wooden cross I placed a colourful bunch of leaves and a few wilted blooms, saying a prayer as I did. When I reached the last one, I allowed my tears to fall. The grave was Jasper's resting place. I set the remaining bundle of autumn foliage next to an older bouquet of dead and faded flowers and whispered one last prayer.

“Are you ready?”

I wiped my tear-stained cheek and smiled. “Yes.”

“So, where to now?”

A sudden breeze fluttered my hair. “You know where.”

Noah draped an arm over my shoulder and we walked through the pines to our special place. The late afternoon sun stretched its rays through the trees like long golden fingers. Leaves crunched, and twigs snapped beneath our steps. The slow climb was easy until we reached an outcropping of large rocks. Here, we had to be careful as we hiked to the top.

The view was spectacular. The sunlight bathed us in its warmth as we rested on a flattened rocky area and stared out at the landscape.

Noah gathered me into his arms, and we sat still and quiet. I leaned into him, enjoying his body heat. “I wish we could stay here,” I whispered.

“You say that every time.”

I straightened and turned to him. “But it's true. I don't want to go back.” My vision blurred, and my throat ached. The thought of returning to the compound caused my anxiety to heighten.

Noah held my face between his warm hands, and he rested his forehead against mine. “Av, it's only temporary,” he said. He had taken to calling me by the nickname only my family used.

“But I…” Noah's lips cut off the rest of my words. My body melted into him, and he held me close.

He eased me down onto the rock, keeping one hand behind my head and protecting it from the hard surface. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him to me. In his arms I was safe, I was happy—I was free.