Bright Eyes

23. The Old Man and the Lake

The rain fell relentlessly. The skies outside had turned a deep dark gray, painting the woods a soft stygian shade.

    Damien drummed his fingers on the small dining table, looking out the window, watching the rain. He glanced at the large plate before him, grabbed a cookie, took a huge bite of it. Then he looked out again, with the same bored, absentminded expression on his face.

    Jack, Max, and Lyn were with him in the kitchen-slash-dining space, munching on cookies, sipping on homemade iced tea, stranded in Mr. Brighteyes' cabin as he was. Mr. Bato had gone to Mr. Brighteyes' room to lay the teacher on his bed to rest. After his turn in the bathroom, Sander had volunteered to help.

    They'd been gone for a while now, Lyn observed, looking up from the novel she was reading. And when the door didn't move to open, she looked back down again, her eyes falling upon the words etched on the pages.

    Max had his earbuds plugged into his ears, humming vaguely to whatever song was playing that moment, playing an imaginary guitar beneath the table on occasion, trying to distract himself from the trepidation he felt. He would get a cookie from the plate every now and then, drink from his glass of iced tea, glance over at the words of the novel Lyn was reading. She had been staring at the same page for the past twenty minutes now, he noticed.

    Jack held his phone, spinning it around in his hand, several rotations as the minutes ticked by. His phone worked now, to his relief—all their phones did, to everyone's relief—but he didn't feel like using it. He didn't feel like doing anything.

    Jack found this weird. Hella weird, he would say. And he found it weird how he seemed to actually care, seemed to feel this nagging concern, for this strange man he'd come to know for only a month. Yet something else bugged him as well: there had been a sort of thumping sound for almost half an hour now, and Jack was sure it wasn't from the pelting rain. He glanced over to Damien seated beside him, catching sight of his friend's left knee jerking up and down.

    "He's gonna be okay," said Jack, breaking the silence. "Just need to sleep it off, is all."

    "Yeah," muttered Damien. "He just got emotional."

    Unable to concentrate on what she was reading, Lyn slid her bookmark between the pages, closed her book, and let out a quiet sigh.

    That's the thing—emotional. But the intensity of his sorrow, she thought, was a bit too extreme over something historical. Unless he witnessed it himself . . .

    Unless he witnessed it himself.

    Maybe, Lyn thought. If she can't ask Mr. Brighteyes today, she decided, she might have to ask Mr. Bato.

    There was a possibility, she thought to herself. His eyes, man, Lyn recalled Max saying. Mister Bato's eyes have got this red tinge to it. And it was true, as she observed for the past weeks—a dark red iris, almost brown in low levels of light, with bright red flecks scattered about. He always had this strange air to him, this lingering feeling about him that he never belonged here, even making his ignorance obvious at times.

    Sander had to teach him how to use the electric kettle. Mr. Bato had asked Max how a wardrobe could possess such a sharp chill, how it emanated a bright white light when opened:

    "Because it's a fridge?" Max had said, pulling the door open, showing him an array of food stocked up inside. "The cold makes the food last longer."

    And when Max had gone, and when he had thought no one was watching, Mr. Bato pulled open the fridge door and pushed it closed noiselessly. Open, close, open, close, open, close, again and again. He watched excitedly as the light within turned on when opened, and shut off when closed.