Young Writers Society

Petro knows he should eat. His stomach churns, eating at its own walls and gurgling with frustration. His limbs feel sluggish. His eyelids keep dropping, heavy as rocks. His legs will be sore tomorrow, and his feet will sting as they hit the ground.

He can’t stop, is the problem. His heart pounds too fast, and he feels sweaty all over, despite how the evening wind brushes past him in cold, tingling wisps. He has walked all day, not even stopping to eat, though he did remember to gnaw on a bit of jerky around noon. He thinks he remembered to drink water, but unclasps his water-skin and sips again just to be sure.

The forest still stretches out around him, but the path is wider now, and the trees by consequence loom farther away instead of right overhead. Petro can’t figure out why the path is so large so far from the village, but he’s grateful for the wide, black swathe of perfectly flat rock that cuts into the growing hillsides and forces away the canopy of the trees.

He walks in the middle of the wide path, occasionally scuffing up yellow bits that have worn away from the rock. From there he can see the forest below and the hills beyond. Sometimes, he catches the glitter of the ocean miles away. The red, setting sun drifts above the horizon, casting long shadows away from the path and washing the forest with deep orange light.

Petro walks a few more steps, then grits his teeth and forces himself to stop. Ming’s right. He knows how to do this.

He stares out over the forest below and takes stock of his limbs. His shins ache. His shoulders are so tight they might shatter the moment he sets down his pack. Absently, he roots around his pant pockets to pull out a handful of dried berries, then crams them into his mouth, still staring at the scenery. As he chews, he tries to remember the steps for setting up camp.

They come in Ming’s voice.

He must light his lantern before the sun sets, so he unhooks the tiny metal cage from his belt, looks at the liquid fat inside, and then pulls a small folder of matches from a pocket on his shirt. His hands shake, but he strikes the match on the strip of black sand in the folder and lights the lamp.

Next, says Ming’s cheery voice, he must set up his camp. This one is harder. It takes so many little steps to set up a camp. Blinking, Petro tears his gaze away from the setting sun and looks to the trees. He has an oiled tarp to hang and a sleeping bag to roll out. He must secure his food.

Suddenly, his legs refuse to work. Less than a minute ago, they had refused to stop, and now Petro must drag himself to the trees on slow, wooden limbs. When he makes it, he swears the sun is far lower than it had been before.

He drops his pack to the ground, and his shoulders expand in ragged, burning shudders. When he drops to his knees to dig through the bag, his thighs protest. But he must set up camp, and so he does. His tired muscles, at least, remember what to do from here.

When he has a camp, he collapses. Ming’s grandmother says it’s bad to sleep on an empty stomach and worse to eat lying down, but Petro isn’t sure he cares. He stuffs a few more handfuls of berries and jerky down his throat as the sun finally sets and sips more water in the dark. A few droplets dribble down his chin and leave cold, slimy streaks.

He looks at his tiny lantern and gulps.

He knows he should sleep. Ming’s voice in his head tells him he must sleep. But now that the last tendrils of light have disappeared behind the horizon, Petro’s heart rate picks back up. In the lonely darkness, the forest bursts with noise. The tree branches rustle, and a rain of pine needles drums on his tarp, starting and stopping with such sudden force that Petro feels his spirit rip from his heart. His chest freezes, full of cold, terrified air.

Pushing himself up on one forearm, he peers out into the dark. On the tree side, the forest sinks into the black night. There is no light below the canopy, and Petro’s little lantern keeps his eyes from adjusting. With a nervous gulp, Petro wriggles around to look out to the edge of the path.

Under the light of a half moon, the landscape turns an eerie lavender. The black hills loom against a sky of purple dust, and bright, white stars pierce the night like millions of glowing eyes. A few tall trees stick up like stakes, ready to be fitted with severed heads. Beyond all that, the ocean oozes with light.

Petro thinks for a moment that he shouldn’t be able to see the stars’ reflection on an ocean over a mile away, but he’s glad for every spot of light he can see. With a shuddering breath, he places one hand over his heart and feels it beat. As he watches the stars turn and the sky grow ever more violet, his heart slows. Petro’s clenched jaw loosens, and his eyelids grow heavy.

He thinks, with some satisfaction, that Ming can see the same starry sky, and falls asleep.