"The Cloud Atlas" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mitchell David)

CHAPTER 12

WHEN GURLEY SAUNTERED INTO THE QUONSET HUT THE morning of June 13, 1945, he was two hours late and missing an eye. Well, missing a normal one. There was an eye peering out of his left socket, but it looked like something he’d stolen off some particularly nasty page in the atlas. He had a shiner, to start with, but the blackened periphery was nothing, a frame, really for the eyeball, which was crazed with red veins and weeping almost constantly. I’d never seen an eye like that, which surprised me until I remembered this was Gurley; any other man who’d gotten his eye in a way like this would have done the decent thing-for himself and others-and slipped on a patch.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Gurley said, bright and loud. He was dying for me to ask, so I did. He held up both hands in weak protest, and tried to do his usual fluttering of eyelids, but the pain of doing so caught him up short. That he wanted me to join him in his office was clear; either the story was long enough that it required seats for both of us, or he was about to collapse. Either way, he needed a chair.

I’d learned over my months with Gurley that he picked fights with whomever he could, just to prove he wasn’t who everybody thought he was-some effete Ivy League snot who’d been sent to the war’s most distant margins because he was hardly worthy of any critical post-though this was all true.

And he was waging war with Alaska, of course. You were either man enough to survive here, or you weren’t. You alone knew, in the end. And Gurley must have found himself wanting, because he entered one scrap after another to prove he could take it, whatever it was.

It didn’t help that his official foe, the Japanese, their balloons, weren’t coming out to fight. March had been busy, true: we’d logged 114 balloons, more than all the previous months combined, and we’d learned of the germ warfare threat. But then, of course, had come the drop-off, the one Gurley and I attributed to their needing time to ready the balloons for the coming bacteriological assault. But the months passed, and the assault wouldn’t come. Forty balloons in April, no sign of germs. Hardly more than a dozen balloons in May, and all of them as conventionally armed as could be.

Since trouble was steadily avoiding us, Gurley went looking for it himself, usually in downtown bars, before or after visiting Lily. He was still seeing her; I was not. I’d been too angry, and then too ashamed after that night she’d confronted me about the atlas. But we were going to patch things up eventually, I was certain. A bit like Gurley’s quest, it was just a matter of me going downtown to prove my courage. Instead of pretending to be “just walking by” her window-which I “just” did a lot-I’d have to walk on up. Knock on the door. Say I’m sorry. Hand over the book. Flowers. Book first? Was she a girl who liked flowers? Well. Maybe Gurley did have it easier when it came to testing his mettle.

But one look at him today reminded me he’d chosen the more physically painful path. He’d picked a fight, again, with someone he shouldn’t have, again. Nevertheless, he seemed satisfied with the result. He held up a fist. The knuckles were scabbed and the back of his hand had a freshly crusted scar.

“I mounted a vigorous defense, Sergeant. You would be proud.”

“I’m not so sure, Captain. You don’t look so good.”

“I took a tooth off the blackguard, Belk,” he said, and extended the fist closer to me. Then he smiled a broad smile. “And retained all of mine.”

“But your eye,” I said, wincing without meaning to.

“A tooth, Belk,” he said, and fished around in his pocket. I had no idea what he was doing until it was sitting there before me, a little ivory chip, the tooth, right there in the middle of the blotter of his desk. “I may have it mounted,” he said. He tried to smile, and then explained that he’d gone another round in what he’d proudly called his “ Franklin bouts.” They were named for the nation’s thirty-second president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, whom Gurley loathed.

I’d heard all about the first bout two months ago, the morning of April 13. The day before, despite the nonstop clamor of church bells, despite the people openly weeping and clutching each other on the sidewalks, Gurley had managed to avoid learning that Roosevelt had died. It wasn’t until he wandered into a bar, ordered a drink, and asked the bartender just what everyone’s problem was that he heard.

“Thank fucking God” Gurley said, a remark that efficiently set him against anyone who admired Roosevelt as well as those who didn’t like their God prefixed so. Gurley used the silence that followed to try to clarify-no, really, he thought Roosevelt a complete ass-and round one began.

A month later, May 12, he was telling me that “just by coincidence,” he’d found himself back in the same bar. Again, the bar was hushed and somber. Again, Gurley asked-an honest question, he assured me, and such tactlessness was certainly not beyond him-what was going on. It had been a month to the day of Roosevelt ’s death, he was told.

“Good God, people!” Gurley shouted. “Even the worms have had their fill of him now!” Round two.

And last night, round three. Delighted to discover that the monthly mourning was occurring as scheduled, Gurley had surreptitiously ordered a drink. Then he smiled a huge smile, raised a glass, and shouted, “The king is dead! Long live the king!” Which no one seemed to quite understand, though their faces all made one thing clear. This would be the third and final round.

A woman began “screeching” at him, Gurley said, about being a “traitor” to his own commander in chief. Gurley took offense and sought to correct her. “I just wanted a word with her,” Gurley said. But he got much more: fists, a stein of beer, part of a chair, and from the woman herself, the heel of a shoe. It was this last blow, he added quietly, that had caused the most damage to the eye. “Ironic,” he said, “but heroic all the same, don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer, distracted by the discovery that the glee had gone out of Gurley’s voice. He was no longer enjoying his story. I assumed that pain had now overtaken him and he was regretting this last fight, and probably the fights before. But that wasn’t it at all.

“Do you know that our current military force in Alaska is less than half what it was a year ago?” he asked. “It’s a month since the Germans surrendered. Almost two months since we landed on Okinawa. We’re running out of time, Sergeant.” He slowly raised a hand to his eye, but he seemed unable to stomach anything more than his fingertips grazing his eyebrow.

“Let’s get that looked at, sir,” I said, sitting forward. I was worried- and it wasn’t as irrational as it sounds-that his eyeball was going to pop out in a spray of blood and land on the desk.

“The war is not over, Belk,” he said. “I doubt this Truman knows that. I wonder if FDR knew that. Europe is won. But the war in the Pacific, Sergeant. The ocean will run red for years to come.” He took a breath and closed his eyes with a wince. “We can only hope,” he said.

MY LAST BAR FIGHT was in Fairbanks, just a few years ago. It was my fault, for the most part. I’d flown into town to do some business with the diocese, and Ronnie had invited himself along, as he’d done before. On such occasions, I referred to Ronnie as a deacon or president of the parish Holy Name Society-certainly not as a shaman. We’d only just started our “alternative health care” visits at the hospice, and word had yet to spread.

On this particular flight, however, Ronnie was not doing well at playing the role of a devout Christian. He kept opening and closing a small pouch that appeared to be full of various talismans and other tiny, carved figures. And he kept talking about murder.

As much as he took responsibility for his own drinking, he also faulted those who’d served alcohol to him. This may sound curious to those who don’t live in our community, but given the rapid, ruthless way alcohol takes hold of Native Alaskans-well, Ronnie had a point.

Ronnie had accompanied me on a previous trip to Fairbanks years before. This was when he was still wrestling with alcoholic demons; this was when I still thought I could help him do so all by myself. I’d asked him along almost as an experiment. I thought he might do better if he were removed from the familiar temptations (and hidden stashes) back home. I had some business at the chancery, so I left him in God’s care before a side altar in the cathedral.

I never got it straight from God what transpired next, nor from Ronnie when I later visited him in the hospital. He’d found a bar, the Bear ’n’ Moose, he’d run up a tab, he hadn’t (probably couldn’t have) paid, he’d hurled some insults, gotten some back-I suppose God might have been involved in the end, because it’s inconceivable otherwise that anyone had enough charity in their heart when it was all done to call an ambulance.

So Ronnie was now going to go back and set things right. He assured me he wouldn’t go into the bar-that he wouldn’t, in fact, even have to go near the place. He patted his pouch and told me he’d simply go into a shamanic trance in the cathedral (while previous bishops spun in their graves in the crypt below), fly over to the bar, invisible, and invoke a curse or two.

My miscalculation was assuming that he would simply fall asleep in the course of his trance-he’d done so more than once before, usually when he was boasting to me of his long-departed powers-and I’d discover him contentedly snoring in a pew near the statue of Joseph. But my meeting ran long, and when I returned, Ronnie was gone.

I went straight over to the Bear ’n’ Moose.

I walked in right after Ronnie had fallen off the bar. He’d apparently been dancing a complicated dance that was intended-or so he’d been shouting-to render everyone within earshot impotent. That made his listeners angry enough, and his falling into their laps and spilling their drinks made them angrier. A stout older fellow who looked a lot like Santa had Ronnie in a choke hold while his companion, also old and fat, but less Santa-like, poured drink after drink from the bar over Ronnie’s head.

Ronnie screamed and kicked. I hollered at the bartender to make them stop, but he only rolled his eyes. I shouted at the two Santas, which distracted them long enough for Ronnie to kick one of them where he shouldn’t have, and then it was all fists and feet. The bartender began to come around the bar-slowly-while I dove into the middle of the fight. I tried to tug Ronnie free, and then somebody-it could even have been Ronnie-clouted me behind the ear. I retreated. We were all much too old.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the Bear ’n’ Moose was decorated as you might expect, giving an angry priest bent on smiting an array of options. I chose an incongruous harpoon. Ronnie, delighted, began ululating wildly (something he’s always been quite good at). But it was a mistake. As I advanced, the Santas dropped Ronnie, knocking him out.

Police, ambulance, hospital, and the next morning, Ronnie awaking with a wide smile. “Bear ’n’ Moose,” he said, uncovering the meal the nurse had brought. He stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth and looked around for a clock. “When does it open?”

IF THE BEAR ‘N’ MOOSE was open back when Gurley and I visited Fairbanks -if the business had even been established-we never got a chance to find out. We only went there once, and only stayed four hours.

Gurley’s lamentation for his war, and his eye, had been interrupted by a phone call. Gurley answered with a “yes,” and then held the phone to his ear, saying nothing else. At first, I thought the line had gone dead, and that he was simply too tired (and too eager to show how tired he was) to hang up. But as his second minute of silence began, I watched his face change, his remaining eye squint and then widen with equal parts glare and alarm. He waved his free arm at me, then started scrabbling for a pen. Finally he shouted, “Yes! Yes, sir! Yes!” and dropped the handset without even hanging it up.

He was around the desk and dragging me out the door before I’d even had time to ask what had happened. “Ladd Field, Sergeant,” he said, as we staggered through the Quonset hut to the exit. He looked at his watch. “If we can make it to the airfield in three minutes, we’ll catch the noon transport, be at Ladd Field in Fairbanks in time for the briefing.”

“What’s happened?” I said. “Balloon?”

Gurley shook his head no, then yes, and then grabbed me by the shoulders. “Belk,” he said. “They’re here.”

“THEY” WERE LAID out on two long metal tables, side by side in a makeshift morgue. I didn’t get a very good view; Gurley and the other officers had closed in a relatively tight cordon around the two bodies, one of which was covered, the other not.

The major who’d been briefing us in an adjoining room resumed his account from behind a surgical mask. “Two males, Japanese, mid-thirties, our best guess. Age isn’t particularly important, except to note that they’re not kids; that is, they’re not cannon fodder, so deduce what you will about the importance or sophistication of their apparent mission. No rank or insignia on their uniforms. And the ship’s report says they weren’t really in uniform anyway perhaps better to carry off the ruse that they were simply fishermen.” He raised his eyebrows behind his mask. “In any case, you’ll have to take my word on their clothing-it’s gone now; we had it burned, of course.” Some of the officers looked at each other and shuffled back from the bodies an inch or two. Gurley remained where he was, riveted. He looked like Frankenstein. He’d acquired an eye patch after his arrival in Fairbanks, but his Franklin Bout wound had wept through the gauze and dried. Plus the straps of his surgical mask had snapped, so he was holding it to his face.

“Men are working on decoding the notebook they had with them. Early report is that it’s not a code they’ve been using; seems altogether unique. Could take a while. But we can tell a lot of the tale just by… reading their bodies, if you will. We’ll start with Subject One, and leave number two covered for a moment, for reasons which will become obvious.”

“Whole damn thing is pretty obvious,” said a red-haired officer whom I’d heard someone call Swift. “I’m no doctor, but look at those hands. Look at those damn fingers. Look like pieces of charcoal. These boys were working on a bomb, went off too soon, boom, fire, burn, ow, ow, dead.”

At the mention of bomb, I moved a little closer. But I couldn’t see those charred fingers. Just the feet, or the toes, really, which were also black. Sergeant Redes had never taught us how to defuse anything with our toes.

“Well,” said the major, scanning the crowd for a sympathetic face, and finding Gurley’s. Only Gurley appreciated the art of performance, and how much the oafish Swift was screwing up this one. We all waited for the major to speak again, but I think Gurley and I were the only ones who saw the major give up: what the hell, out with it, his slumping shoulders said. But Swift interrupted yet again.

“Look, if you don’t know, you don’t know,” said Swift, and while he looked around the room to collect smiles, I watched the major prepare to let him have it. He spun around, and I actually flinched, so familiar was I with Gurley’s theatrical roundhouse punch.

But instead of swinging at Swift, the major swept the sheet off the second subject.

I could see this body much better, which was much worse.

He was lying on his stomach. His fingers and the whole of his toes were a shiny, brittle black. And black, too-unlike a burn, unlike paint, unlike anything human-was the giant lesion that covered much of his back. What wasn’t black was purple.

“I know” the major thundered, and I would have smiled at how the drama had so quickly resumed, with such hysterics, except, like everyone else, I felt nauseous. “I know whatfustinian knew. I know what medieval Europe knew. I know what a dozen spies and intercepted cables know is true.” He turned to the inhuman corpse and then back to Gurley who did something inexcusable: Gurley stole his line, the best line. But he did it with the panache of a fellow professional, and the major could not help but smile.

“The Black Death,” Gurley said softly, “is among us once more.”

As we onlookers slowly recovered, or simply found other places to look, the major found ways to draw our eyes back to the cadavers, pointing out various telltale signs of the disease. It was when he’d got ten to the men’s almost egg-sized lymph nodes that Swift decided to strike again. The major was giving us the Latin etymology behind the technical term for the swollen nodes-buboes, bubo meaning groin, meaning swelling, hence the Black Death’s actual name, bubonic plague

“Squirrels get bubonic plague,” said Swift. “Rats, I think. Maybe deer. Hell, when I hunt, I—”

“And humans,” said the major.

“Maybe civilians,” said Swift, businesslike and dismissive. “But I got vaccinated. We all got a plague vaccine. Standard army issue.” He looked at the major. “Maybe you’re too far back from the front lines, I don’t know—”

“I have been vaccinated,” said the major. “And what’s more, one imagines these men, given the nature of their mission, were vaccinated, too. Which means we may have reason for concern.”

Not a sound in the room. Everyone had stopped talking; most, like me, had stopped breathing as well.

But Swift was undeterred. “Or that you got your diagnosis wrong.”

The major didn’t answer. He looked at Swift, he looked at Gurley and then he looked down, studying with great interest the fingers of his own right hand, which were rosy and pink.

THE TWO “FISHERMEN” had been discovered adrift two hundred miles west-southwest of Nome, Alaska. Their fishing trawler was small, barely big enough for ocean travel. But it was big enough to hold the both of them-one lying on the floor of the bridge, the other slumped over the tiny galley table belowdecks-and their gear, which included almost nothing for fishing.

Instead, there were four wire cages, the size of milk crates-all empty. Two porcelain canisters the size of flour jars; both empty, both broken. Two large cylinders of hydrogen. And a long, bulky roll of material that the sailors who’d first found it mistook for a sail.

It was, rather, a balloon.

After we’d gratefully moved back into the conference room, there was a brief period of debate as to whether the fishermen had launched any other balloons before succumbing. But it was difficult to reach any conclusions; unfortunately, the fishing vessel had sunk not long after the boarding party had retrieved the bodies, books, and a few other items. Already waterlogged when it was discovered, the ship had given little notice before slipping completely beneath the waves.

“There is a possibility,” the major said, “that this was not some dastardly plot, that plague-carrying rats just happened to be aboard their vessel already-this, after all, is how the plague has traveled the world for years-and that they were merely bitten by the infected fleas the rats hosted.” The major shook his head. “We’ll know more once we’ve opened them up; secondary pneumonia is supposedly a sign of… manufactured plague, if you want to call it that.” He drew himself up. “But frankly, gentlemen, with the way the war is going, with the desperate, bizarre reports we are hearing from Okinawa, with the sickening intelligence that continues to come in about this Unit 731’s medical ‘experiments’ in Manchuria—”

“Yeah, sure,” said Swift, undeterred. “Experiments are one thing. Figuring out how to bomb people with it is another. Which, given the experience of those two”-he couldn’t help but pause-“doesn’t look like they’ve figured out yet.”

“Nineteen forty,” said the major crisply. “October. China. Chekiang Province, Jap plane flies over city of Ningpo dropping rice, some paper. Two days later, first plague cases ever to appear in that city.”

“But—” Swift began again, but he was already ceding the point.

“Nineteen forty-one, Hunan province. Plane flies over Changteh—”

“All right,” said Swift.

“Believe what you want,” said the major. “I believe it was Doubting Thomas who needed to probe Christ’s wounds with his own hand before he’d believe. You’re welcome to stick a finger in…”

Swift waved a hand in surrender.

“Gentlemen,” the major said, obviously satisfied he’d managed to salvage some of his theater, “I don’t need much more evidence to know what I believe.”

Neither did Gurley: the cages had been for the rats, the rats had been for the balloons, the balloons had been for Alaska, for America, for him, and he could hardly contain himself. He stole looks at me the entire meeting- Pay attention! How about that? Isn’t this something? Isn’t this wonderful? I was right! I told you so!-looks that I found hard to bear, not because of their content, but because his eye had started bleeding again. I pointed to it, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief, annoyed.

The meeting broke up with plans to reconvene in five days. Gurley was incredulous at the hiatus and said so, but he was brushed aside. It would take at least that long, if not longer, to decode the materials found on board. And as much as the major had enjoyed the little bit of fear-mongering that he’d done, he was clearheaded enough to know that, in the near term, there was relatively little they could do. The Navy ship that had made the discovery had been quarantined and sprayed with insecticide. The crew, all of whom had been vaccinated previously, were being monitored; nothing yet.

Moreover, it had simply been a stroke of luck that the vessel had drifted so far north. There was almost no chance the plague would somehow have found its way from the boat to the mainland, and even if it had, it would have encountered one of America’s most unpopulated regions-the western coast of Alaska. The suspect fishermen presumably had been making for much farther south- Vancouver, or Seattle, possibly San Francisco -when something had gone wrong.

So, then: five days. Authorities across the region would be notified, discreetly, and told to keep watch-for mysterious illnesses or deaths among animals or people, and, of course, for spies. And at the end of those five days, if all agreed it was necessary, a search of the region would be mounted. Though the arrangements for this, too, would take time; the Army had few resources in the area and knowledge of the terrain was scant.

“We do have a base in Nome, and another at Bethel, primarily occupied with lend-lease planes,” the major said in closing. “And ATG- Alaska Territorial Guard-volunteer Eskimo units in a number of remote locations. I suppose we could call on them.” The officers, all white, hardly even registered the comment. “But given the sensitivity of the task and what’s at stake, well-five days, gentlemen?” Heads nodded, save Gurley’s: five days.

The meeting broke up and the men dispersed. I saw Swift look toward Gurley and mutter something to a companion on the way out. But Gurley didn’t catch it. He was busy buttonholing the major, asking for a final favor before heading back to Anchorage. I kept a discreet distance while they spoke. I could see that, while the major was reluctant, Gurley had earned his respect, even gratitude for his performance at the postmortem.

Sure enough, when the room was clear and it was just three of us, the major gave Gurley a quick nod and ducked through the door. Gurley waved me over.

“What time’s the flight back?” he asked.

“Wheels up at 1600,” I said, looking at my watch. “Less than ten minutes.”

Gurley looked at the door the major went through. “Well, I told him we’d only look at it for a minute.”

“At what?” My stomach started to turn; I was sure Gurley had asked to see some even viler piece of evidence, like a flyblown rat.

“Their little book,” Gurley said. “A ‘unique code,’ I’m sure,” he said. “Ninety percent of these Nobel laureates think the Japanese language is a unique code.”

The major reappeared. He gave me a suspicious look, but Gurley reassured him with a quick nod of his head. The major produced the book. He didn’t allow Gurley to touch it, but he flipped through a few pages, slowly. The major was right; Gurley was wrong: even I could tell that it was a strange code, it wasn’t Japanese.

But Gurley was right about something else, something he didn’t tell the major, something he didn’t have to tell me. The little journal, with its distinctive paper and soft, scuffed green leather cover, was a relative-perhaps the twin-of another book, a beautiful book, one we kept in a safe, back in Anchorage.

WE MADE THE 4 P.M. flight, but were diverted to a lonely airstrip down the Kenai Peninsula due to weather. It was hours before we were airborne again, and by the time Gurley and I arrived back in Anchorage, it was close to midnight. He was spent. Adrenaline had powered him through much of the day, I realized, and excited as he was, he’d have to turn in. I was relieved; I’d imagined he’d drag me into the office for an all-night session poring over our little map book with newfound intensity.

I’d been studying his eye as well. There were no new signs of bleeding, but he looked extremely pale, and had difficulty making it off the plane.

Once on the tarmac, he just stood there and looked around. I stood with him and watched the ground crew attend to its duties.

After a minute or two, he looked at me. “Sergeant?” he asked. “Are we to stand here all night?”

“No, sir,” I said. “If you don’t need me, I’ll be heading off to—”

“Of course I need you, Sergeant. Do you think I’m going to drive myself downtown? Find us a damn jeep.”

“It’s close to midnight, sir,” I said. “Standing orders are-unofficial traffic is restricted to—”

“A jeep, Sergeant. That is an order.”

On the pretext of speeding Gurley to medical care, I commandeered a jeep. I actually did drive toward the base hospital, but as soon as Gurley realized what I was doing, he redirected me toward the main gate. He waved off the gate sentry and then we were bouncing along the road downtown, headlights out, with only the stars and half a moon to light the way.

Without my asking or his saying, we drove straight to the Starhope. I pulled up and turned off the engine. I tried not to look up, but couldn’t help it. Lily’s office window was dark; I couldn’t even see a sliver of light that might indicate she merely had the blackout shade pulled.

“Oh my God.” She’d materialized beside Gurley while I’d been staring up at the window. After all this time, it seemed fitting that the first time we’d see each other would be like this: a sudden apparition. I gripped the steering wheel, worried now that I’d be the one to black out, not Gurley. She gave me half a look that wasn’t angry or accusatory or even wistful, just concerned. Then she turned to Gurley, and I saw what I’d missed all these weeks.

They’d fallen in love. Maybe Gurley had cared for her before- cared enough to shop for that ring-maybe she had cared for Gurley. But something had happened. I checked her hand: no ring, but there was a married familiarity to their movements (or so it appeared to this wise teen).

I watched, in awe, aghast, as she put a hand to his cheek, while Gurley feebly attempted to stop her. I watched as he relented, sank back in his seat, and closed his eyes. And then I watched her hands move lightly around his face, his hair, his head, examining, comforting-and maybe, healing. I knew, or remembered, that magic.

I had to look away. But I kept turning back, mystified, horrified. I might as well have been watching them make love. She was too beautiful, her hands too gentle, and Gurley impossibly peaceful.

She helped him from the car. Gurley hadn’t said a word since we’d left the base, and now he only grunted a bit, sucked in a rapid breath or two. It finally occurred to me that it couldn’t just have been his eye; his uniform was likely concealing a dozen more injuries. I sat and watched her walk him to the entrance. Then she stopped, turned around. I looked up: yes, yes? She carefully lowered Gurley until he was seated on the stoop, and then walked back to me.

Later, I let myself think. I tried to send the words to her, invisibly from my forehead to hers: I’ll come back later, okay?

But Lily said, “What happened?”

I sighed and said I didn’t know; Gurley had said something about a fight last night in a bar. “You know, the Franklin bouts,” I said, but she shook her head.

She looked back at Gurley, and then back at me. “Where were you?”

“Today? In Fairbanks,” I said, excited just to be talking to her. And a day like today: this was the kind of day I missed her most, when such strange things had happened, and I had no one to tell them to. Secrets? I just needed another chance.

“No, last night, when he got hurt? Why weren’t you there? You know he’s not-he can’t-you know he needs looking after.”

I was too taken aback to speak.

Then Gurley called for her, quietly, a kind of moan.

Lily glared at me. “Please,” Lily said. “From now on? Louis?”

My mouth was open to say something, but the best I could do was nod.

“Okay, okay,” Lily said, distracted. She walked back to Gurley and helped him inside. I watched and waited. The light in her office came on; I could see now that the window was open. She came to it, looked out, looked down, saw me, looked like she was about to say something, and then pulled the shade.

I sat there, staring up, watching as the thinnest line of light appeared and disappeared whenever the shade fluttered gently. I kept staring, long after the window went dark and remained dark, and the only light there was came from the sky. The moon had set and I had to use the stars to help me home.