Ghost Lights - Lydia Millet (ereader with dictionary TXT) 📗

He felt lost.

“Mr. Lindley?” called one of the young cadets. He had a scar from a harelip. “Right here, sir. Just a moment, then we’re going.”

The cadet had an accent, but what kind Hal couldn’t say. Maybe he was a native Garifuna. Light-brown skin, dark hair, like all of them. Hal didn’t feel like getting to know anyone. Small talk, names and places, details. He wanted to trudge in peace, passively. Just let them do their duty. Whatever the hell that might be.

He found a low flat rock in the shade and sat down. It was all shade, just a few feet from the riverbank it was all trees, tall and thin-trunked, most of them. Underfoot was mud and tree roots, a few dead leaves. Young backs were turned to him, blue and beige and camouflage shoulder blades. He let his head flop back and stared into the green overhead, barely moving except for his toes in the clammy, wet shoes.

No sky through the treetops to speak of, only leaves. Strange how the green of these tropical places seemed so unvarying—as though every tree had the same color leaves. Was it the brilliance of the sun, washing out their difference? The quality of the light as it beat down on them? But in the shade they were all the same too, the same bright yet curiously flat green.

Then the men broke their huddle and were jogging past him down the path, a group cutting off along a trail to the right, another group getting into a boat again and gunning the engine upstream. The lieutenant was in charge of the cadets, apparently—the once-harelip motioned to Hal and they were striding after him up the trail.

Hal hoisted himself off the rock and followed.

“We got monkeys,” said the once-harelip kid, turning back to him and grinning. “You might see some of the howlers. Way up. Black things. They’re not so cute monkeys. They got big teeth. Kinda ugly.”

Hal nodded and smiled.

•

It was a long march, a long, hot, wet, relentless, rapid march, it seemed to him, and three hours in he was bleary with exhaustion. He couldn’t believe he was there, couldn’t believe that no one had warned him. Hard to keep up—more than hard, actually painful: a form of torture. Long time since he’d had this much exercise and it was practically killing him. It was all he could do to stay in earshot behind them. He was far past embarrassment; he was past even humiliation. He had no pride left at all, nothing left but the strain. He had to struggle just to put one foot in front of the other. Every now and then, from in front, came the sound of voices or a branch snapping. Sweat had wet his shirt through and through, and it was making him cold in the shade of the trees; his water bottles were almost empty.

Take pity on me, he thought, and shortly afterward they stopped for lunch.

They had reached a rough campsite, he saw, coming up behind them, a small muddy clearing. The lieutenant kneeled at a fire pit ringed with rocks, touching the ashes or some shit. Sniffing them? Hal wiped his dripping brow with the back of his hand and sat down heavily on a log. Not watching. All he wanted was rest. He had no interest in them or what they were doing, except insofar as it caused him direct physical distress.

Maybe if he asked they would just let him rest here, let him lie down in the mud and sleep, sleep, sleep while they kept on marching.

He put his head on his arms.

“A watch,” said someone.

Hal raised his head. It was the lieutenant, holding out a wristwatch.

“Do you recognize this?”

Hal took it, flipped it over. It was a cheap, bulky digital with a plastic band—no brand name, even. Dried mud between the black plastic links.

“No,” he said. “He wouldn’t wear one like this. He’s more of a Rolex type.”

“Could belong to the guide,” said the lieutenant, and turned back to the others.

They were passing around sandwiches, eating them standing up. Hal’s damp log was the only seat in the house. Someone offered him a sandwich, the cadet with the harelip scar, and he took it gratefully. Maybe after he ate he would be stronger, maybe it would invigorate him. He wolfed it down inside a minute, barely registering the contents. He drank the rest of his water and someone gave him a can of juice. It was quiet for a while as they all ate, hardly any birdsong, until a radio squawked and a low murmur of conversation started.

He got up to pee in the woods, picked his way over tree roots and ferns for privacy. Staring at a thin, light tree trunk with thorns up and down the trunk, ants traveling up and down between the thorns, he noticed movement far off, in the shadows—what? A dark shape—a long, low animal, roughly the size of a dog. Were there dogs in the jungle? It moved more like a cat, though. Jumped from a stand of bamboo to some trees and was gone. He wiped his eyes, which ached from tiredness or dryness or something. Hallucinations, now. He should go back to the boat. He was sick, possibly. In the tropics, viruses thrived.

He was no better than the neurotic bohemians.

•

The trail continued on the other side of the campsite but it was more overgrown. There were vines, and now and then a cadet took out a machete and hacked at one.

Hal dragged after the column, defeated. Sometimes he had to climb over a down log, encrusted with fungus, and pieces of rotting bark got into his shoes and irritated his ankles and heels. He had to stop to pull them out and then catch up to the others, who waited for him. There were biting insects, so he slathered on some bug juice a cadet handed back. He did not bother trying