Fowler Nelson, that's a name I've held sacred and inviolable for as long as I can remember.
To me, he is a leader, a wise man, and a loving father. He embodies the bloodline of an ancient family with a noble character and wisdom to match. My grandfather was a hero who led people to a peaceful and prosperous life. I am incredibly proud to be born into this honorable family.
When we returned to camp that night, something felt strange. It was supposed to be a resting time, but there were very few people in the camp. The few children sitting around the campfire looked at Will and me with strange eyes, and the air was filled with a deathly silence.
There was a faint flickering light in the direction of the bridge, and it seemed that all the adults had gone there. Was the situation so urgent that construction work had to be done at night? My father seemed to have an indescribable obsession with hurrying on, and it had been like this since we left the small town. But I didn't want to care about these things anymore. Running wildly through the forest with Will had exhausted all my energy. The tape was pressed against my chest, constantly emitting a drum-like echo, as if a meteor from the distant starry sky had fallen to the ground, and waves of scorching flames were burning my soul. Will was very dissatisfied with the results of the tracking. He walked around the camp anxiously for several times and finally returned to his own tent.
I lay in bed, examining the tape again and again. My father's name was written in black marker on the plastic casing, but I couldn't tell whose handwriting it was. The only way to know what was inside was to listen to the tape. I remembered the sound of the tape recorder I'd heard when I passed "Headquarters." My father often played tapes on it at home, and when I was little, he used them to teach me to speak. I longed to get up and run to Headquarters to play the tape, but my body wouldn't budge. Not only was my body exhausted, but my spirit was also stretched to its limit. I didn't want to take any more risks. I turned off the lights and pondered in the silent darkness. Why had a tape with my father's name on it ended up in the hermit's home deep in the forest? That girl—I think her name was Dolly Eugene—I didn't remember any connection between our family and anyone with the last name Eugene. The history my grandfather and father had kept never recorded such a connection.
She had been to the market during the day, without the bag. Yet, she had indeed carried the tape home in the bag. Perhaps she had used the bag after making her purchases, at a time and place beyond our comprehension. It was during this time, for some reason, that the tape was placed inside.
This line of reasoning makes the tape's origin uncertain. Will saw Dolly at the edge of the camp in the evening, and her shopping was still with her. She hadn't returned to the forest all day, likely remaining in the village. Besides buying supplies, what other purpose did she have?
And her guardian, the old man sitting motionless by the window, Owen Courtman. That, too, was a strange name. Judging by his age, he must have been a contemporary of my grandfather. I repeatedly reviewed my grandfather's records, that thick black notebook that contained his life story, which I had memorized by heart. But there was no trace of a man named Owen Courtman. These two strangers, cloistered in the depths of the forest, were like discordant notes in a musical score, impossible to place.
I don't know when I fell asleep, but when I awoke it was already daybreak. I was startled awake by a piercing wail. When I opened my eyes, the cabinets beside my bed seemed to vibrate. Outside the tent, a clamor of voices filled the air, but it couldn't drown out the deafening wails. The shrill cries gripped my head like scaly claws, tightening relentlessly. A huge bubble of crisis welled up from a hidden cavern deep within my heart, gurgling and rising. I rolled out of bed, not even bothering to wash my face, and approached the door curtain, filled with confusion. My fingers grasped the army-green curtain, a gentle lift to let me out. The moment I touched it, I hesitated. The curtain was thin, and the sounds from outside didn't fade through the flimsy fabric, piercing me like a barrage of crossbow bolts.
I shook my head, dipped my palms in the cool water from the wooden basin, and patted my cheeks. I took deep, long breaths, waking my lungs and squeezing out the stagnant air. The unease gave way briefly to a sense of clarity and alertness, a feeling of resigned compulsion. Hiding in the tent wasn't an option. Stepping out to learn more was the wisest option. I opened the curtains. The sunlight was slightly blinding, distorting the silhouettes in the middle of the camp into a blur. I blinked several times before the scene finally cleared.
People formed a circle around the campfire, densely packed in layers. I'd barely taken ten steps from my tent when I was blocked by the crowd. This open space had previously been quite spacious, and I'd only ever seen it this crowded on the day of camp, when my father gathered everyone to assign tasks. I struggled to squeeze through the crowd, but fortunately someone saw me and warned the people ahead to move aside. The center of the circle was suddenly revealed to me, like a mysterious revelation, and a bubble of crisis suddenly burst.
The bonfire had long since died, leaving behind a vast pile of charred wood cooling in the lonely sun. Mrs. Walker knelt beside the woodpile, her body dramatically bent low. It looked as if her entire body, not just her mouth, was wailing horribly. Her former, succinct, capable demeanor had vanished without a trace. Before her lay a stretcher, covered with a white sheet. She was weeping for death. I took two steps back, but my feet felt like they were treading on soft mud, and part of my soul, along with the sound of my footsteps, was being pulled toward an unknown, foreign land.
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