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by Matthew Wilson The fire keeps them away - these things without a face
but as the last of the group, I have to stay alive. I have to believe that help
will come. We crashed
three days ago, I think. It could have been years since I was thrown clear of
the explosion and awoke still fastened into my chair. Jacob helped me, hand
signing that there were three of us and the air was filled with strange music. I had
never enjoyed nature programs as a child. I’d never wanted to explore great
jungle moons filled with blinking yellow eyes. I had taken the off world job to
escape my mother. That shrieking harpy who wished to keep me
under her thumb. Thank God
I was born deaf or else I might have killed myself long ago under her shrewing. Instead,
it was captain Miller who died first. We don’t
know how it happened - we were sharing out supplies when they heard it. When
Jacob signaled to me that strange music was back, confused and alarmed, my free
friends scanned the trees, seeking the source. And then
our captain turned to sand. I didn’t
hear my friends' screams when they came out of the trees - the things without a
face but we picked up any scrap metal that could make a decent projectile from
the wreck and put our backs to each other like cowboys in a deadly duel. The locals
were of a humanoid appearance with a sickly yellow hue but it was the absence
of a face that made my stomach growl painfully. When their number increased,
they waved their thin arms above their heads like an orchestra conductor
guiding the brass section. The trees
seemed to bend to their sweet music, bugs stopped in
the air and seemed entranced toward them as if hypnotized by a flame. Then Jacob
and Henry dropped to their knees, clutching their bleeding ears and I squatted
next to them, asking what was wrong. I could have screamed and they wouldn’t
have heard me. Then they
turned to sand in my arms. Now the
locals treat me like an attraction. They bring their children to dare near the
edge of the trees and point bony fingers at me. I don’t think they’ve met a
deaf person before, someone immune to their music. Now the
purple sun has set and my fire keeps the evil things away. Since their music
cannot kill me, I shiver as I catch the glint of my fire catching on a
spear-tip. I wish my
mom was here though sometimes their shadows seem to have her face, those
singing things who turn their heads towards the moon
and again mom is laughing at me. Again calling me a fool for
running from my problems. God, I wish my friends were still alive,
even if I couldn’t hear their voices, their tight
smiles would warm my heart. Now I must
hold on. I know that help will come. They must
save me from the things with my mother's face! |
