How Not To Find

Nose steeped in the loam, unsmelt. Fingers deep down in the dirt, but unfelt. Eyes open, but unseeing, as dark blinds all creatures. Only ears open to the sounds around, sensing and feeling. Only the faint hints of others in the dark. They are searching, I know: they are searching for me.

The pine needles cause no discomfort, even though they grasp my face like tiny claws, nor does the mud I slipped in matter, even though my leg is immersed and my pants sodden.

With the barest movement, I shift my head a single degree and stare at the unmoving blackness. No leave falls within my sight. No animal crawls upon rock or root. I stare still, waiting and watching for they who seek. They must not find.

At one moment I am running, running and sliding in more dirt, more branches, more dew covered ferns. It doesn't matter. I ran because I knew they were near. I wasn't panicked. But I ran and I must stay hidden.

Running is ok, crawling is better. At first I believe they are coming for me. I ran, and they heard. But they've discovered someone else. Someone else, alone, hidden in the night. I didn't see them as I fled. But now I've misled, any sound they heard attributed to another. I smile.

Rest can be found in a moment as opponents regroup. But instead of remaining, I slip away. I slink and I creep, down slopes and over boulders rough and smooth. Backtracking, I remain where I began and look for an opportunity.

But now they've swelled, their numbers multiply. No opportunity, no further movement to hazard. Sinking down, nearby a dry hollow between root and limb and rock, though wetness would not incline me to seek another spot.

“Only two left,” I hear an eager voice cry. The others take it up, and it passes through the wood like the wind, searching. Tendrils permeate turning over every leaf.

Eyes function now, but serve no purpose. Beams of light slice the blanket of night, pinning shadows upon the dead plant matter of the forest floor. Sources obvious, but faces remain unseen, and knowledge serves no respite. Just a bit longer.

Then without any warning, light pressure on the arm. Covered in leaves, face melding into the dead detritus, no movement, no sign of life. Go away, can't be discovered.

“Joshua,” says a quiet voice with another insistent squeeze of the shoulder, I can't lose, “I can tell it's you.”

Turning he clears his throat, to bring opponents, to end my run. He finds himself flat on his stomach, myself on top.

Now his nose drinks the sweet smelling blood of crushed plants, I can't and his mouth chews dirt that tastes like sour coffee. But he cares as little as I did. I can't Something else concerns him, until it doesn't. He offers up what he's swallowed and I manhandle I can't his form to a nearby boulder. Would a split skull appear convincing, or better, abandoned, as is, in a pile of leaves and mud?

The expansive sound of cheering forty feet away distracts and distances. They are not nearby, and will not approach. I have time. Gently the body is placed against the boulder, head lolling at the base, and feet lightly covered in leaves. A plausible accident, with no culprit. Their cries continue and they signal victory. Mine, and I smile.

“Come out,” I hear, “You're the only one left, Joshua.” Unseen I creep toward the small clearing where we began.

“Out, out,” they repeat, “You haven't fallen and hurt yourself?” And finally I stand in the middle of the tents, announcing my victory, “Here I am!”

They gather round, my fellow campers.

“That was a great game of manhunt,” says Tracy.

“Can we begin another? Joshua has won all three so far. I want to see if we can beat him.”

“Sorry guys, but it's time to sleep,” says our leader Alison. “We've got a real hike tomorrow.”

I climb into the tent I share with three guys, while the others; leaders, guys, and girls prepare for bed. Sitting in the dark of the synthetic shade, events of the past press upon me, like leaves across the face. One can sit and wait, one can think and plan. But there's nothing to plan for, and nowhere to sit comfortably.

The new cry, more question than statement takes longer to form than expected. A passage of time unmeasurable as I experience, not in dollops but distinct portions of eternity, zepto-seconds.

'Where is Nicholas?'

It retains the qualities of a calm, reasonable question until the fourth search commences. Out of the tent, guarding the retreat, time changes. Instead it skips like a rock on a body of water.

We're there. Not immediately, not circuitously, but somehow.

“Oh, geez,” says someone, and another retches on their own sneaker.

Panic in the wild, and the sobbing of animals. Deteriorating nerves and uncertainty all around. With reasonable argument and calming determination one person sets the others aright. Only the culprit can see clearly, only I understand how to act.

….

Conclusion for the others is simple and complete, later. They consider their loss and pass on, forgetting only a finding, nothing did or to be done. If one listens, they make extravagant claims of remembrance, but I don't. Victory smiles, but it also can't bury memory. And so I recall sensations I could not feel then, and every one slices like the beams in the night, or prick like the needles on the ground. Relentless they inhabit the brain each second, each eternity, and will until this body lies again unfeeling upon the ground.