Morgan Rice
Arena Two
“ Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.”
O N E
There are some days in the world that just seem perfect. Some days when a certain stillness covers the world, when a calm blankets you so thoroughly that you feel as if you could just disappear, when you feel such a sense of peace, immune from all the worries of the world. Immune from fear. From tomorrow. I can count moments like these on a single hand.
And one of them is right now.
I am thirteen years old, Bree is six, and we stand on a beach of fine, soft sand. dad holds my hand, and mom holds Bree’s, and the four of us step across the hot sand, on our way into the ocean. The cool spray of the waves feels so good on my face, tapering off the heat of this August day. Waves crash all around us, and dad and mom are laughing, carefree. I have never seen them so relaxed. I catch them looking at each other with such love, and I implant the image in my mind. It is one of the few times I’ve seen them so happy with each other, and I don’t want to forget it. Bree yells in ecstasy, thrilled at the crash of the waves, which are at her chest, at the tug of the undertow, up to her thighs. Mom holds her tight and dad squeezes my hand, holding us back from the pull of the ocean.
“ ONE! TWO! THREE!” dad yells.
I am lifted high into the air as dad pulls my hand and mom pulls Bree’s. I go up high, over a wave, and scream as I clear it and it crashes behind me. I am amazed that dad can stand there like that, so strong, like a rock, seemingly oblivious to the force of nature.
As I sink down into the ocean I enter it with shock, the cold water at my chest. I squeeze dad’s hand harder, as the undertow returns, and again he holds me firmly in place. I feel, in that moment, that he will protect me from everything, forever.
Wave after wave crashes down, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, mom and dad are in no rush. They hoist us again and again, Bree shouting with ever more delight. I don’t know how much time passes on this magnificent summer day, on this peaceful beach, under a cloudless sky, the spray hitting my face. I never want the sun to set, never want any of this to change. I want to be here, like this, forever. And in this moment, I feel like I might be.
I open my eyes slowly, disoriented by what I see before me. I’m not at the ocean, but sitting in the passenger seat of a motor boat, racing its way up a river. It is not summer, but winter, and the banks are lined with snow. Occasional chunks of ice float past us. My face is sprayed with water, but it is not the cool mist of the ocean waves in summer but rather the freezing spray of the icy Hudson in winter. I blink several times until I realize it is not a cloudless summer morning, but a cloudy winter afternoon. I try to figure out what happened, how everything changed.
I sit up with a chill and look around, immediately on guard. I haven’t fallen asleep in daylight in as long as I can remember, and it surprises me. I quickly get my bearings and see Logan, standing stoically behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the river, navigating the Hudson. I turn and see Ben, head in his hands, staring out at the river, lost in his own world. On the other side of the boat sit Bree, eyes closed, leaning back in her seat, and her new friend Rose cuddled up with her, asleep on her shoulder. Sitting in her lap is our new pet, the one-eyed Chihuahua, asleep.
I’m amazed I allowed myself to sleep, too, but as I look down and notice the half-drunk bottle of champagne in my hand, I realize the alcohol, which I haven’t had in years, must have knocked me out-that, combined with so many sleepless nights, and so many days of adrenaline rush. My body is so banged up, so sore and bruised, it must’ve just fallen asleep by itself. I feel guilty: I never let Bree out of my sight before. But as I look over at Logan, his presence so strong, I realize I must’ve felt safe enough around him to do that. In some ways, it’s like having my dad back. Is that why I dreamed of him?
“ Nice to have you back,” comes Logan’s deep voice. He glances my way, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
I lean forward, surveying the river before us as we cut through it like butter. The roar of the engine is deafening, and the boat rides the current, moving up and down in subtle motions, rocking just a tiny bit. The freezing spray hits my face directly, and I look down and see I’m still dressed in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for days. The clothes practically cling to my skin, caked with sweat and blood and dirt-and now moist from the spray. I am damp, and cold, and hungry. I would do anything for a hot shower, a hot chocolate, a roaring fire, and a change of clothes.
I scan the horizon: the Hudson is like a vast and wide sea. We stick to the middle, far from either shore, Logan wisely keeping us away from any potential predators. Remembering, I immediately turn back, checking for any sign of slaverunners. I see none.
I turn back and look for any signs of any boats on the horizon before us. Nothing. I scan the shorelines, looking for any sign of activity. Nothing. It is as if we have the world to ourselves. It is comforting and desolate at the same time.
Slowly, I relax my guard. It feels like I’ve been asleep forever, but from the sun’s position in the sky, it’s only mid-afternoon. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour, at most. I look around for any familiar landmark. After all, we are nearly back near home. But I see none.
“ How long was I out?” I ask Logan.
He shrugs. “Maybe an hour.”
An hour, I think. It feels like an eternity.
I check the gas gauge, and it reads half empty. That doesn’t bode well.
“ Any sign of fuel anywhere?” I ask.
The moment I ask, I realize it is a stupid question.
Logan looks over at me, as if to say really? Of course, if he had seen a fuel depot, he would have hit it.
“ Where are we?” I ask.
“ These are your parts,” he says. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
I scan the river again, but still can’t recognize anything. That’s the thing about the Hudson-it’s so wide, and it stretches forever, and it’s so easy to lose one’s bearings.
“ Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask.
“ Why should I? You needed the sleep.”
I don’t quite know what else to say to him. That’s the thing about Logan: I like him, and I feel he likes me, but I don’t know if we have all that much to say to each other. It doesn’t help that he’s guarded, and that I am, too.
We continue in silence, the white water churning beneath us, and I wonder how much longer we can go on. What will we do when our fuel runs out?
