The Cloud Atlas

or two, but all we had) buried in the grass beneath the spot where Gurley would have to stand, but only God could see to it that Gurley did what he did. That is, if Gurley chose to kill the boy, he would kill himself. If he spared the boy, he would spare himself.

But Lily did not fall into my arms, sad and relieved. Instead, she cried: “What have you done?”

“Protected you,” I said, quiet with shock. “Both of you.”

“Didn't you see him?” she said. I nodded. “He was going out there to get the boy.”

“He was going out there to kill him,” I said. “He was going to-he talked about-he was going to kill you. He said, ‘Change of…’- he-I thought he had.”

“Louis!” she cried, and began to run.

During the past hours, we'd worn a path from our landing spot to the balloon, and for a while, Lily stayed on it. But as we grew closer, she left the path for the most direct route, sloshing through the water and brush straight to Gurley.

I stayed on the path. It would be faster.

I saw Gurley stoop and pick up the hell box. Even before crying a warning to Lily, I wanted to yell to her, See what he's doing? He was going to kill the boy!

The morning was just breaking, and we were close enough now to see everything-the balloon resting lightly on the soggy tundra, as though it might inflate and fly once more; Gurley, hell box in hand, surveying the scene.

“Stop! Stop!” Lily screamed.

I kept along the path, not saying a word, calculating how large the blast zone would be and when I would enter it.

Stop, stop!

She loved him.

The boy: she needed the boy.

But Gurley: she loved him.

And when Gurley looked back and saw her, I had to hope he saw this. I couldn't see, I couldn't see his eyes, I could only see him turn to face her as she staggered out of the last stretch of water. I wish I had been closer! To see Gurley, to see if he was angry, or bemused, if his cheeks were flushed or if he rolled his eyes. To see if when their eyes finally met, he realized that he had been in love, had been loved.

Or to see whether, in that moment before Gurley pressed the plunger, they touched, whether their hands met, or their lips, whether it was their lives, whole and complete, that flashed before their eyes, or whether it was merely the flash of the blast itself.

But I wasn't closer. If I had been, I might have been killed instead of merely deafened. Thrown by the blast, I was flat on my back in an inch-deep puddle that had already been there or that I had created. I may have blacked out; I'm not sure. I could feel my fingers tangled in the ayuq, I could feel the tundra ooze pulling at my boots, my shoulders, my scalp. I could smell and taste the salt of the far-off ocean, and for some moments, I thought the water was high enough that it had entered my ears-all I could hear was a dull, muffled rustling somewhere inside my head. But when I finally stood, my ears didn't clear.

I stared at the blast site waiting for my hearing to return. It never has completely, but in a minute or two, some sounds returned. The rush of wind, a mosquito that sounded miles distant but appeared on my palm after I'd absently slapped at my ear, and after that slap, a high wail, also distant. I'd forgotten about the boy: even though I'd made sure that his spot in the balloon wreckage would be well clear of the explosion, the blast must have frightened him, and now he was crying.

But he was closer, too.

A few yards up the path, in fact, in a patch of salmonberries that were growing beneath a stunted cottonwood, where he was keening, choking, screaming, not having moved an inch from the spot where Gurley had safely placed him.

CHAPTER 20

THE SMOKE AND NOISE OF THE BLAST HAD ALREADY DISSIPATED. The sky, incredibly, was just as it had been before. The birds that must have shrieked into flight were long gone or had already returned.

And now, this boy, wailing.

This partial deafness has been a curse all my life, but I was grateful for it then. Because if I had heard Lily screaming in pain, or Gurley moaning, I know I would have gone to them. And because they would have been too wounded for me to help in any way, I would have had to simply crouch by them, endure their screams-and eyes! Eyes! How they would have looked at me!-until they finally fell silent. Who first? Gurley? Lily? Or would they fall suddenly silent together?

And if I had heard the boy screaming, full volume, I don't think I would have stooped and tended to him. I would have been too angry. Two people dead; an officer, his lover, the man I served and the woman I loved, and this boy screaming as though his were the only real pain? I wouldn't have gone near him.

But I did go to him. I didn't go to Gurley and Lily. Because I heard Lily tell me to go to the boy. It wasn't her voice, just Lily, herself, there, inside me. Perhaps hear isn't the right word, then-but I knew that she wanted me to take the boy to the boat, to a doctor. You could argue that I knew she wanted that before she died, before I “heard” her within me. Fair enough. But as I pushed off from shore, the boy, barely alive, in the bow, she was there, too. And after the motor had hiccuped to life and we began picking our way down through the delta to the ocean, she was still there, marking sandbars and pointing out which turns to take when. She told us where to stop the first night, and again the second.

You still don't believe me.

Then what of this:

The morning of the third day, the boy was weak, close to death. Once we were in the boat, I gave him water, broke up some of our rations into tiny bites, some of which he spat out, some of which he ate. After the food, but especially the water, he seemed to recover some of his strength, but spent almost all that strength on moaning with new fervor. I waited until we reached a wide, almost currentless stretch of water, and then throttled back, letting the boat drift while I rummaged in the medical kit for the vial of morphine. I had wanted to wait for as long as possible before administering any, to stretch out its use for as long as possible. But now I found the needle, pierced the seal, drew a small amount, and carefully moved toward him.

I thought his eyes would be fixed on the needle, but they weren't; he stared straight at me. And the closer I got, the less he moaned, the more open his face became. When I was close enough, I put a hand out to touch his good arm, and stopped. The rapid breaths that had come after the crying were slowing, and through that touch alone, I could feel the whole of him relaxing, degree by degree. This wasn't me. This couldn't have been only me.

He laid his head back and stared at the sky a moment, then at me, and then closed his eyes. I started; I thought this was the moment. I reflexively raised the needle until I realized he wouldn't need the morphine now, not if he had reached the moment of death. I eased back and watched.

But one minute passed and then another with the boat still drifting, its progress no longer measurable. He didn't die. He kept breathing, ragged breath after ragged breath, and I couldn't break away. Who was he? How had he gotten here? I should have been able to tell with that touch. Even if we couldn't speak, I could learn, as Lily could, through touch alone, through the power of a hand, what secrets lay within.

So I closed my eyes, too, and concentrated, but all I could think of was Lily, and