Sacrifice THE SECOND OF A TWO-PART FICTION SERIES by Dave Sherwin graphic by Dave Sherwin [continued from Part One] By now, you might wonder who I am. If you haven't, I suggest you do. Imagine a crossword where the clues are wrong, she said, wiping her sweaty brow. She tapped his hairy back, arched her neck, stared into the moon. Her nose a small splotched button. The answers seem evident, but they never fit. I never had a clue, Richard said. Sarah tapped her fingers against his bearded cheek. Then maybe we should wait. But all those villagers had to leave. We can't just walk away, saying, "Oh, we found a site underneath your town, and even though the existing artifacts baffle us, we're going to go home and find other plots to dig up because we can date those better. Sorry for the inconvenience. Hope we didn't ruin your lives." That does sound stupid. You said it. She slapped his inner thigh. He feigned pain as she thrust her arms back into her tank top. Hands shifting like birds. I often find myself frightened late at night. I imagine Sarah with her eyes closed, back barely arched, two drops of sweat glimmering along her smooth neck. But the image has no weight. Her touch is insubstantial. I see Richard pouring a pitcher of water into a shimmering brass basin, lathering his hands with harsh brown soap. When he turns his back becomes a network of pain. Those are the only two faces I still remember. I leave myself nameless. Not to shunt any blame. It's not my fault, after all we had been through. I should redescribe the scene. From my eyes. In brief. You know these things already. The three of us were on an archeological survey. The government of this country gave us special dispensation. So special that they moved an entire town so we could scope one specific site. Room to breathe, they said. None of us were happy about the arrangement. All of our jobs were at stake. Sounds like par, Richard said about the arrangement. He pretended his cane was a golf club, narrowly missing my head. I kept digging. These elements of the plot are easy to grasp. What keeps me awake at night, faint chills lingering on my cheeks. What might turn you against me. I use the word "plot" for the lack of a better word. There was no "plot" against us. The villagers were not "plotting" to kill us because of our academic pursuits. Where I fit into the plot. I will be the first one to tell you. Clouds shredded by light. The sand rippling like ocean. Our cheeks glowered red. Wide-brimmed hats were necessary. Sarah opened the safe and found the gun missing. Or, I should say, I had the gun. I am ahead of myself. I wanted the gun because it was the same as the gun I brought from home for protection. Shielded in a lead-lined case. Where I kept rock tools. Strange as it seems, I wanted to be sure. I had no intention of coming between Richard and Sarah. So what if we had already loved each other. In her tent. Quietly. Then drifted apart. As if nothing had happened. Would you rather that I said Sarah leaned her swaying body over the small safe, jiggling the tumblers home. There is plenty of time, but very little paper. I won't waste these moments because of my natural tendency towards jealousy. The geologist unlocked the safe, gathered the cloth-wrapped weapon, stuffed it into his bag, tiptoed from the room. Took a jeep. Drove back to the site. Sat with his feet dangling into excavated space. Examining the two lumps of steel. The same, except for age. No use masking myself with fictional names. Sarah's headlights scattering the night. Now I am here. Where am I? Where is a relative term. A pun: the relatives of where are when, why, and how. Of course, the key word is when. But I can't tell you that yet. You have to see it from my perspective. I have no choice. My lantern spitting shadows. The scene illuminating by degrees: Sarah's jeep rooting across the road, plowing to rest beside makeshift rope-tangled tents. Their boots munching sand. Why are you here, Jonathan. Not a question. Sarah's hand clutching my shoulder. Her nails reflect the dark. This is mine, I said, pointing my gun at her, the other gun cradled in my lap. The safety was on. Richard stood behind Sarah. Face half-obscured. Rugged. On an expedition. What are you doing? he said. What he should have said is What are you saying? Then I would have told him. Instead of him lunging for the gun. Sarah grabbing Richard's arm. My body twisting from the precipice. Richard falling forward. Sarah swinging around, out, and down. I would have told him. I knew less than him. It all happened too fast for me to think. Idiot! I snarled. I wasn't going to shoot you. The gun isn't even loaded. It was too late. Sarah vanished into the pit. A pale white flutter. Noise caught in Richard's throat. Like he swallowed his tongue. He called into the space. Sarah groaned. We clambered around to the nearest ladder. Richard went first. My lantern burning a bright sphere around his body. Here is where it gets tricky. Words choose us. Not the other way around. It doesn't matter what I write. While I wait. I want to say Sarah broke through an exposed wall, revealing a small old machine. First impulse. What is the machine for? What is it doing there? How did it get there? Why did I use the word old. How does the machine look. Futile. I remember the moment like this. A string of details. Sarah's broken neck. I will never forgive myself for that. On the grid. Where we found the gleaming, rusty contraption. Richard's dry, clinical stare. What was never his-- what he wanted to love-- was gone. The decadent smell of flowers. Inexplicable in the desert. He could blame me forever. His eyes slid over my body like it didn't exist. Yet. An interjection from nowhere. Our curiosity was peaked. What do you think this does? Richard said. He fingered the rough, shiny surface. Flecks of chunked mud tumbled to the ground. Fell against a small pot packed with crumbled paper. In the space we just discovered. It doesn't look like it belongs here, I said. Exactly, he said, and pressed one of the buttons. Past that. Now. If I could theorize clearly, free of circumstances. If I could go back and say, I pointed the time-travel device at Richard and he vanished in a blaze of dust. Then I took myself back here. Because I like it in the past. We have a tendency to forget how simple things used to be. And I can return whenever I want. Whenever I want a hamburger. I have made history. No one knows it except Richard. If he figures it out. If he follows me here. I hate science fiction. My brothers used to banter about this shit. Then they grew up, got married, had more children than there were stars in the sky. Light pollution, you know. I can barely sleep at night. Nebulas shining through the atmosphere. They remind me of pupils growing, enlarging, reflecting light. The shine. Too much time to think about the people I left behind. None of them really matter. I can afford selfishness. I am the only one here. I use I too much. I hate people who say a paradox can not exist. That is saying how can you be here, talking to me? Richard still has the machine. I have both guns. My brand-name jeans. The lantern, too. (The fuel ran out weeks ago.) Two pencils. I am using the last one to write these words on whatever scraps I have left in my notebook. Then I stuff them into a pot I stole from the locals when they were out hunting. I would like to kiss Sarah's lips again. Possibilities. Richard wanted me gone? He knew what he was doing? Blind chance? Sudden thought. He can go back and save her life. How anti-climactic. The words will fade. No one can read me. This language hasn't been born. Yet. About time. As if I could freeze myself here. So you could live through me. The vase! I forgot about it until now. The vase I examined along with the graduate students. The Japanese markings I spotted on the base. Just a slight squiggle. Dating the porcelain 1994 A.D. I hope you are reading this. The never-present, ever-satisfied reader. You can save me. I promise I will stay here. Such poor writing. What never made sense. I want to save us all. The sun rages. Less ozone, I suspect. If I tear my shirt into strips, I can use them to tie together branches and make a small shelter from the wind. Wait. The whole earth goes still. The sky splits itself open. I think I can hear you listening.

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