Free Gone to the Forest: A Novel by Katie Kitamura Page A

direction.
    “Here! Here!”
    He tried to lift him up. He hoisted him up in his
     arms. The body bucked with a cough and slid out of his arms. He flopped back to the
     ground. Tom lifted him again, arms twisting as the old man writhed and slipped downward
     again. Tom had never realized how heavy his father was. His weight was supernatural.
     Like he was made from lead and malicious in unconsciousness.
    Tom’s own body collapsed under its weight. He called out to the men
     again.
    “Here! He is here!”
    They arrived from all sides, like an ambush: men emerging from the swirl
     of ash. They surrounded the father and son. They were grainy silhouettes, dark shapes
     against the white cloud and dim light. They carried the electric torches pointing
     downward and they looked like billy clubs at their thighs. Their heads wrapped in shirts
     and scarves. Tom thought he saw Jose standing at the back of the group. He called out to
     him.
    The call died in his throat. He saw Jose lift his hand as if to stay the
     men. They stood in a circle and did not move. Fear seized across Tom’s throat.
     They would die here—it was the most obvious idea in the world. The natives turning
     on them at last. They would be left to perish in the ash storm. They would suffocate on
     their own land. A stupid death looking more and more likely as the men gathered and did
     nothing.
    The idea of their resentment never occurred to the old man. Even though
     there had been incidents—servants killing their own masters in the night, nannies
     slaughtering theirwards—of which the old man was aware. His
     father’s power was too absolute for imagination. Tom, on the other hand, could
     imagine their resentment with ease. He was aware of how little the natives liked him. In
     an instant he was flooded with fear. It warped his sense of things and in particular
     time. It made a second or two seem much longer and it made him hysterical without
     cause.
    He wondered if it would give the men pleasure to watch the two of them
     die. He thought it would. He couldn’t see how it wouldn’t. That was the last
     thought that crossed his mind. Then his throat closed and his consciousness gagged with
     the strain. He was seized, a cloth pulled across his face to protect his eyes and mouth
     and nose, all of which were burning. Through the cloth he could hear shouts and see the
     whirl of ash moving fast past him.
    They carried Tom and his father back to the veranda. They dropped them on
     the floor, in separate piles of ash—it was everywhere, in giant drifts and piles,
     all across the room—and then set to work pulling the storm doors closed. They
     moved very quickly. Eyes shut, Tom’s fear dissolved and he was once more comforted
     by the presence of the men. He did not see the look that passed between them. He
     recovered his breath, lying still in the bed of ash.
    The men pulled the storm doors into place and the house was plunged into
     darkness. The whisper of ash outside. In places the bobbing of the electric torches, the
     flicker of flame as the lamps and candles were lit. Tom wiped the ash from his face and
     sat up.
    He saw Jose, kneeling beside the old man. He cradled
     the old man’s body in his arms and carefully cleared the ash from his face. The
     other men ran their hands down his limbs, checking for breaks and cuts. The women were
     not far behind, they came with cloths and bowls of water and they began wiping the man
     clean. They were preserving something without even knowing it, not understanding the
     consequences, as they worked over the old man and brought him back to consciousness.
    Tom thought: the old man will live forever because they will it. Only
     because of that. He felt a throb of jealousy. To be cared for in this way. To be
     touched. In between the candlelight they moved. One of the women came to Tom and gently
     pushed him back to the ground. He lay in the bed of ash. She dipped a cloth in water and
     wrung it out