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of her finger perfectly matches the width of the furrow. Longevity. I think, she says out loud. Smell that, he says. It is the unmistakable scent of burning flesh. Get out, this is crazy, these are the bandits they're all afraid of, she thinks, but the saliva floods her mouth, the stimulus cannot be resisted, her stomach fluttering at the thought of food, and she presses on. The lake is completely enclosed by the forest, gently rising hills and woods on all sides. Crescent-shaped, it winds off to the left (south, she guesses), and the opposite shore is about half a mile away, where there are more crags. It must be man-made, she thinks; such a formation  |
wouldn't occur in this setting. Just ahead is a compact beach of firm sand and rocks on the near shore where one can sit, and if one squints enough, one can imagine that there might have been a platform there, perhaps a viewing spot for the time this area was populated. Everywhere there are shreds of debris, dollops of wood and unidentified metals. This is like an archeolo- gical find, she thinks. On the far end of the shore is a weathered canvas boat, a sailboat judging by the emaciated pole that juts up from the center of it, just large enough to accommodate one. For some reason the thought enters her head that this boat sailed in from far away, that it somehow maneuvered its way to this lake up a tributary that no longer exists, that it awaits the next shift of geography and history, when a waterway opens up again and it can put out to sea.  |
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