November, 1999. Nowhere.
With his eyes closed, the first thing he noticed was the sounds. The breeze touched the tall dry grass, making it hiss across the field in great measured sighs like the ocean waves lapping against the sand not a mile away. Closer than that was the dirt road, barely a road, more the most logical path beaten by rusty, creaking, sun bleached cars from the village to the beach- maybe one every hour, maybe less, all of them throwing up stones to clink against their failing undersides and dust to coat the car and its load and the field. When the dust settled the animals would begin to chirp and whine and sing again, all together in an exquisitely blended symphony in which a single voice could barely be distinguished.
Closer still was curious sniffling of a white rat and a fat ferret, and the soft breathing and slow shifting of Theo and Rudy. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from their sun soaked bodies, hotter than the sun against Edric’s face. It was a dry heat, not an oppressive one, and even then with the sun at its highest Edric only felt the rarest bead of sweat make its determined descent down his back. Rudy’s fingers eased into his palm, pressing the wild flowers which he had picked before they sat to eat, petals soft and easy to bruise, stems waxy and sticky his hand. Rudy’s fingers were much rougher than they had once been. His cheeks, too, were reddened with the continuing wind that didn’t often let up on the sea.
The flowers were heavy with scent that mingled with the dust and the sharp cheese and sweet wine they had brought with them. All of these heady aromas only temporarily masked the more familiar and permanent smell of the salty air and Edric’s constant companions’ skin-different now than before they left home, Edric realized. Like hard hotel soaps, the varnished wood of the boat, salt and oil and sun. Only when Edric opened his eyes did he notice that the flowers had stained his fingers green and yellow. Two years ago, wiping his hands on his shirt was something that wouldn’t have even occurred to him. That shirt would have been finely cut, perfectly pressed, exquisitely expensive. But this one was loosely woven, overstretched and faded into more of a grey than a blue. The stains were stubborn, which didn’t particularly worry Edric.
He leaned over to first touch Theo’s hand so that he was not startled when he touched his face and placed the newly completed flower chain on his head, loose petals falling to his shoulders and lap, like Laura had done to him so many times when he was so much younger. Edric leaned back on his elbows, watching Theo’s dead eyes which no longer disturbed him, wondering how much more Theo heard in the wind’s whisper and felt in Edric’s touch, and how many times he must replay all of his precious few sites.
“How much do you remember about your mother?” Edric asked, something he’d asked before, he knew, but long ago, before Theo had the proper words to tell him.