And when nightfal arrives, they come again, even more in number, ravenous and fi l ed with a hatred I didn't know was possible. With hordes of them crowding the bank, the river is transformed into a hideous half- tunnel of torment. We are up all night, watchful and afraid. I worry about the river, that it will narrow or even end. But it never does, not this night, anyway. And when the moon dips and the skies begin to lighten, their shrieks come to an end. One by one, then in a col ective cry, they turn and leave.
The sun arises, and the landscape has changed overnight.
Instead of the dour brown silt of the desert, green patches of grass steal into the scenery. By noon, the landscape has evolved into a lush green pasture, daffodils and rhododendrons scattered here and there.
Large trees clump together, and a prairie dog or two is sighted. We dock the boat. The horse is the most grateful for the change, bounding so fast into the green pastures that we think it's gone for good.
But it's only hungry; it stays close to us the whole time, chomping away at the grass. When we leave an hour later, all of us eager to put distance between us and them, no matter how inviting the land here might be, it whinnies and trots back to the boat.
They arrive that night many hours after dusk. It is taking them that much longer to reach us now. And the group is reduced in number, only the youn gest and fi ttest among them, no more than a few dozen. They stay for only a couple of hours before they are forced to leave in the dark, hours before dawn, the moon and stars still shining.
I'm on watch duty when the sun rises. A subdued orange, stil dim enough to stare at directly, peeking just over the eastern mountains.
“Is that it?” Ben, groggy- eyed, walks up to me. “Wil they come back? Have we seen the last of them?”
Yes, we've seen the last of them, I am about to tel him. But I have not forgotten, even now, that below this green earth, beyond the reach of this sun, and away from the gentle brooking of water, waits a girl in cold and darkness who once took my hand into hers.
“Have we?” he asks again.
I fl ick my eyes away, unable to answer.
That afternoon, we dock again. David has seen a rabbit; sure enough, within ten minutes of hunting, he spears one, a fat, gray-and- white hare. He sprints back to us, his smile wide, holding up the bunny like a trophy. Sissy glances at the sun. There's still time, she says. Let's build a fi re and have a feast today. Ben jumps up and down with joy, his voice barking out across the meadows.
Everyone sets to work. Sissy and David start skinning the rabbit. Ben and Jacob set off looking for fi rewood, but there is little to fi nd. Just some dead grass, a few branches. Epap is furiously rubbing two branches together, trying to get a spark. I stand about, trying to look busy. There is some talk of breaking off parts of the boat, but that is quickly shot down.
“My sketchbook,” Epap suggests. “We can burn that. One page at a time.”
“Are you sure?” David asks.
“It's fine,” Epap answers, and gets up.
“I'l get it,” I say, trying to be useful. “In your bag, right?” I run off before he can respond.
His tassel bag is in the corner of the cabin. I undo the strap and flip open the fl ap. The sketchbook, its leather cover pockmarked with age, is large; I have to twist it out of the bag. A gust of wind sifts through the pages of the sketchbook, opening to a page with a drawing of the Dome. I pick up the sketchbook. He's a fi ne artist, I'l give him that much, his lines clean and his strokes restrained but expressive. I turn the page, then a few more. Almost all are portraits of the hepers, one on each page, their names written at the top. David.
Jacob. Ben. Sissy. Most of them Sissy. As she cooks, reads a book, runs with a spear, washes clothes at the pond. Asleep in bed, her eyes closed, her face soft and peaceful. I start fl ipping toward the front, going back in time. The hepers, in their portraits, get more youthful.
“C'mon, Gene, what's taking you so long?” Epap shouts, his voice afar.
“Be right there.” I turn over the page, am about to slam the sketchbook shut, when something catches my eye.
A different name at the top of the page. This one reads: “The Scientist.”
I look down at the portrait . . .
And the journal fal s from my hands.
It's my father.
Ac know ledg ments I WOULD LIKE to offer thanks to certain individuals who have supported and encouraged me over the years: My teachers: Mr. Pope of King George V School, and Professor Dan McCal of Cornel University. Their love for stories was in-toxicating and infectious.
Early supporters of my writing career: Terry Goodman, Peter Gordon, and Many Ly.
Col eagues and friends from the Nassau County District At- torney's Offi ce, especial y: Tammy Smiley, Robert Schwartz, Douglas Nol , Jason Richards, and Mehmet Gokce.
Catherine Drayton, who is amazing, and who has been everything I ever hoped for in an agent, and more; the Inkwel Manage-ment team, in par tic u lar: Lyndsey Blessing, Charlie Olsen, and Kristan Palmer.
My wonderful editor, Rose Hil iard, whose keen eye, sage advice, and warm support make me want to high- fi ve myself every day; my publisher, Matthew Shear, for making me feel not only welcomed but special at St. Martin's Press.
