He said again, 'Thank you.' She nodded. She did not speak.
He laid the squirrel carcasses on the exposed reactor. He did it gently, as if they could feel pain. They made a soft sizzling sound on contact. They would not be cooked in the technical sense, but they would not be raw, either.
He stood over the carcasses as they slowly darkened. They put out a smell that was wild and sharp. Luke stood close by, watching. Catareen stood farther off. Simon had seen a vid once, ancient footage of a family engaged like this. The father was cooking meat on a fire as his wife and child waited for it to be done.
They ate the squirrels, which were stringy and bitter, with a strong chemical undertaste. Still, it was food. After they'd eaten, they slept in the back of the Winnebago. Catareen and the boy fit nicely on the two orange- cushioned benches bracketing the woodlike table-shelf. Simon, being larger, slept on the bedshelf that protruded over the Winnebago's cab.
He dreamed about flying women wearing dresses of light.
They drove again at dawn. The land rolled on, high grasses and immensities of sky. The Winnebago cut a swath through the grass, which closed up immediately after. They left no trace behind. White fists of cloud roiled overhead, massing and dissolving.
'It all looks pretty normal,' Luke said.
'Hard to know, isn't it?' Simon gazed out the windshield. 'I mean, did clouds look like this before? Was the sky this shade of blue?'
'I've heard that the meltdown was in North Dakota. There was a secret underground facility there.'
'I've heard Nebraska. Near Omaha.'
'A guy I knew told me it was the coup de grace of the Children's Crusade. Crazy kids with a really big bomb.'
'No, that was over by then. It was separatists from California.'
'That's not what I heard. The California separatists turned out to be, like, seven or eight people in Berkeley, with no funds or anything. I have that on good authority.'
'They were bigger than that. They definitely did the thing with the drinking water in Texas.'
'Whatever. You know, some people think the evacuations weren't necessary. Other people think it's still not safe.'
'There's no denying that the birds are gone.'
'Yeah, but I heard they're reintroducing them on a trial basis. The tougher ones. Pigeons, sparrows, gulls.'
'Maybe they should think a little harder about reintroducing some of the people first.'
'Do you think there's been an election?' Luke said.
'I've been wondering. Yeah, I think so. The laws seem to have changed.'
'I heard one of the presidents has been put in jail.' 'I heard the other president converted.' 'Well, there you go.'
They drove on, into the day, across the vast platter of the earth. They were able to go west in a straight line, relatively speaking. The directional kept them informed about what was ahead. They skirted the towns and settlements. They had to curve around the occasional stand of trees, but for mile upon mile there was nothing but fields that had once been grazing land or cropland and were now gone to grass. They saw deer. They saw coyotes. Always at a distance, tawny spots in the green immensity, watching them from afar. The larger animals were coming back, then.
They stopped periodically so that Catareen could hunt. She was usually successful. She would vanish for half an hour or longer and return with a rabbit or a squirrel. In her work of food procurement, Catareen was always the same. She slipped silently away, returned just as silently, and skinned and gutted her catch on the far side of the Winnebago, where Simon and the boy couldn't see her. She presented the gleaming carcasses wordlessly. They never spoke, any of them, about what they ate. They simply ate, and Catareen buried the heads, bones, and whatever else was left. She always buried the remains. It was apparently necessary for her to do that. After the bits of the dead animals had been interred, they drove on.
On the second night, they stopped the Winnebago atop a modest rise overlooking a pond that was as bright as a circle of mirror in the fading light. It gave back the brilliant lavender of the evening sky, a rippled and deepened version, as if the water wore a skin of pale purple light.
Simon said, 'I could use a bath.' 'We all could,' said Luke.
They went to the edge of the pond. Gnats and flies hovered over the water's surface. It had a smell iron and something else, an odor Simon could identify only as wetness. He said, 'Hard to say whether it's toxic or not.'
By way of an answer, Catareen slipped off her cape, strode into the water, and dove, with the same alarming quickness that enabled her to stalk and kill small animals. She simply stood at one moment on the bank and at the next was only a discarded cape stained by animal blood. The black dot of her head surfaced twenty yards out.
'She's not worried,' Simon said.
'Me, neither,' Luke said, though there was no conviction in his tone.
Simon and Luke got out of their clothes. Luke lifted the fetish necklace over his head, shrugged off the bathrobe. He paused naked at the water's edge. Simon noticed Luke's pink smallness, the twists and concavities of his body. Unclothed, he resembled the skinned carcasses of the animals Catareen hunted.
He said to Simon, 'I guess it's clean enough.' 'Yeah. I'm sure it is.'
Luke seemed to take comfort in Simon's assurance, though of course they both knew Simon had no way of knowing anything at all about the pond's level of contamination. Still, Luke seemed to derive a sense of permission. He went with a whoop into the water, throwing up droplets of spray.
Simon stood ankle-deep in the bright water. He thought for a moment that his circuits were seizing up again he felt the first intimations of chill and languor. But this, it seemed, was something else. This was a new sensation. It seemed to arise from the pure strangeness of finding himself at the edge of a circle of water (quite possibly polluted) with a lizard woman and a deformed boy. It was something that moved through his circuits, like shutdown but not quite; a floatier sensation, vaguely ticklish; an inner unmooring, like what preceded sleep.
'Come on,' Luke called.
Simon dove in. The water was warm on its surface, cold below. He swam out to Catareen and Luke.
Luke said, 'This feels so good. I don't care if it's toxic.'
Catareen floated on her back, so effortlessly that it seemed she did not swim at all but was simply held by the water, propelled by it, as an otter or muskrat would be. They were swimmers, then, the Nadians. In the water she looked wilder than she ordinarily did. She looked wilder and more true. She had a creaturely inevitability. Simon understood; he thought he understood. She would be feeling the layer of warm water floating on the cold, the sensation of skimming across a shallow bowl of purple light surrounded by a darkening world as the first of the stars came out. She would be disappearing into this just as she disappeared into her dream states, her lizard song.
Simon was the first to get out of the water. He stood naked on the bank, letting the air dry him, and watched as Catareen and the boy emerged. Catareen naked was all sinew, with thin, strong arms and legs, tiny breast-buds, and a small, compact rise of bony, squarish pelvis. Who was the sculptor? Giacometti. She looked like a sculpture by Giacometti.
She stood a moment in the shallows as the boy scrambled up the bank and got back into his robe. She turned and looked out at the water. Simon understood that she took intense pleasure in this: the water and the darkening land. He knew she was reluctant to leave it. He watched her. She was a thin black shape against the pond and the sky. She was, he thought, happy. She was suddenly and unexpectedly happy, or whatever she would call it if Nadians had a term for happiness.
'Beautiful,' he said. He was not entirely sure what he meant by the word at that particular moment. It seemed almost like a new greeting he and Catareen had agreed to exchange a variation of common language, newly encoded.
She turned back at the sound of his voice. She was startled and shy. There was something about her at that moment. He could not describe it. There was perhaps no term for it in human language. He could not give it a name.
He said instead, 'How beautiful and perfect are the animals! How perfect is my soul! How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!'
