l a p s e

the silverfish

The floor of the forest was teeming with life. It was fascinating, the amount of minuscule activity contained in it. Occasionally, I'd stop and kneel to study the soil. It almost seemed to breathe, and little insects would worm their way out of the scattered pine needles and scuttle onto my one bare foot. Somewhere along the way I had lost one shoe. I imagined it tipped over on some part of the trail, the sole hanging off, ants and spiders scouting its innards.

We hadn't found anything for breakfast. The botanist left us on the trail (they stood, I squatted to study the soil again) and came back twenty minutes later, empty-handed. We were aware of the time because you had a watch, one of those shiny silver behemoths that probably cost you a fortune.

To sate our snarling stomachs we boiled some wild mint with some pine needles from the low-hanging boughs. It was, again, not the best thing I'd ever tasted, but it kept us full till noon.

Around three o'clock, we stopped to rest. The stream was starting to widen at this point, and the river rocks became smaller and harder to see. A fine layer of silt coated the bed.

I sat close by the edge, on a little mound of dead pine needles, and made sure I wasn't touching the water. There were little silver fish fluttering under the surface. I wasn't sure if they were really there or if I was just watching the sunlight play on the ripples.

The professor was closest to me. I turned to him. "Are those fish?"

"I believe so," he said, after peering closely, and indicated them to the botanist, who was delighted.

I stood back while you and he sifted through the water with their hands. They caught three of the little fish – each no bigger than my thumb – before the professor suggested that they use a cloth. There were some pantyhose in the blue suitcase, so you went to spread them out like nets just under the surface.

In twenty minutes we had a good catch. We fried them on a flat rock over a fire, which we had to use up eight matches for. It was a windy day and our tinder pile kept blowing in different directions.

The last thing I'd expected to miss was salt. I thought I would miss more essential things, like clean clothes and toilet paper, but the only thing that I really wanted was salt. Our meals, when we did have them, were bland and tasted like sand in my mouth. But I was thankful for them.

After our lunch we resumed our single file promenade. This time I stood near the front with the lawyer.

"Something's wrong with the botanist, I think," she said. "He seems rather off to me." I decided not to give my opinion on this subject, and politely nodded my head as she continued whispering conspiratorially. I think that by then the rest of them had established that I was not one to talk.

In the evening the order changed and I was pushed to the back with the professor.

"Don't you think that the lawyer is a bit odd?" I almost laughed at this. A chain of suspicion! It would tear us apart. Again, I said nothing.

I'd lost track of how many days we'd been stranded for. Two? Five? A week? Your watch said it was Monday, three days after we'd crashed. It was hard to trust my judgement after that. I decided not to.

We came to another crossing at the stream. This one was easier, since there was a fallen log that formed a bridge. Like before, the rest of them walked across with no trouble whatsoever. It was getting darker, and I was not sure of my footing, so I sat on the log and moved myself along. You walked patiently behind me. My wound throbbed suddenly, as if remembering the previous crossing.

When we reached the opposite bank I noticed the botanist frantically looking about him.

"What is it? I asked.

"He's lost the compass. Must have dropped it in the river," said the lawyer, disdainfully. I imagined the compass nestled in the river bed, a lone bronze shimmer in a sea of dull brown, and shuddered.

"I can dive down and get it," you said, starting to take off your jacket.

"No, it's alright. You might catch a cold." The botanist looked disappointed, but smiled anyway. "We can follow the river itself. It'll lead us to civilization eventually."

Following the river was not something I wanted to do. The soil on the banks was damp and mucky, and I winced every time my bare foot squished into the wetter areas. The edges sometimes became precarious, and I had to press myself into the brush and hold your hand to keep from losing my footing.

You stayed behind me in line, and your presence was warm, comforting, like a steady glow at my back. I turned around to look at you. You'd lost both your shoes in the crash itself, but didn't seem to mind getting your feet muddy. You were watching the sky. We were approaching an area of the forest in which the trees were not so dense, and I could see that the sky was laced with orange from the setting sun behind us.

The stars were coming out. This far from a city, there was no light pollution, and I could easily make out several constellations, not that I could identify any. The moon hovered low over the treeline.

My feet weren't yet sore, which was surprising – we'd been walking for almost three days. The toes of my left foot, however, the one with the shoe, were starting to hurt. I paused to slide it off and left it at the base of the tallest spruce I could see, like another tribute to the forest.