REN

* * * * * *

2005

 

 

FOR THREE MONTHS, we lived like feral royalty.

Washing in rivers, playing in forests, eating whatever we could hunt and gather.

It was just as perfect as the first few months I’d run from Mclary’s—actually, it was better because Della had a personality now, voiced opinions regularly, and had an over inquisitive mind that learned fast and excelled at making fires, gutting game, and even cleaning a few rabbit skins to save for something useful later.

She said she remembered our life before Polcart Farm. She said she remembered the many nights we slept tentless and covered in stars and how much she’d hated roasted meat to begin with.

I didn’t disillusion her and argue. I doubted she remembered any of it. Her daily awe and fascination of every little thing said this was her very first time.

But sometimes, she would surprise me and quip about hiding in that guy’s shed with its piles of junk or hiding behind cardboard boxes in some family’s basement.

I couldn’t tell if she parroted the stories I’d told her or if she truly did remember. In which case, I made sure to teach her everything she wanted so if, heaven forbid, we were ever separated, she could fend for herself, light a fire, javelin a fish, and create a snare for smaller prey.

She even knew how to wield a knife without cutting off a finger and understood how to sharpen the point of a stick for cooking and other chores around the camp.

Overall, we excelled.

I’d always been strong thanks to the many hours of labour I’d been born into, but now, my muscles grew and height spurted and hair grew untamed or shorn.

Della often tugged on the slight patchy beard I couldn’t trim without a mirror, calling me a hairy monkey. I’d try to bite her fingers until she’d squeal and run away, playing hide and seek in the trees.

The clothes I’d stolen before leaving grew tighter as yet another growth spurt found both of us and almost overnight Della lost the chubbiness of her baby cheeks, slimming, sharpening, showing glimpses of the young girl she’d become.

On those rare moments, when she sat like an adult or strung a complicated sentence together like any well-read philosopher, I’d freeze and stare.

I’d flash-forward to a future where she’d be a beautiful woman, strong and brave and based in reality, where hard work layered beneath her quaint fingernails and outdoor living whitened blonde hair and browned pink cheeks.

I was proud of her.

So damn proud.

And to be honest, proud of myself that I hadn’t killed her yet through neglect or sheer incompetence.

Despite all odds, she’d flourished, and I only had myself to clap on the back and say good job.

Along with the many miles we travelled, we continued to supplement our rural lifestyle with quick forages where people massed and congregated.

Occasionally, we’d come across a small township where I’d leave Della on the outskirts while I slinked through oblivious city folk and help myself to toothpaste, packaged veggies, and canned fruit.

Della asked more than once if we could have lunch at a diner again.

It killed me to refuse, but I couldn’t risk it.

We were still too close to our previous town, and I’d hate to put her at risk all over again.

I was older now.

Old enough to know I’d technically kidnapped her, and if Social Services ever found out her real name, my future would be worse than just living without her. I’d be living in prison without her.

At night, I battled with wondering if that was why I kept her hidden—for my own stupid sake. But when she bounced from the tent in the mornings, bright and happy and excelling at everything she did, I allowed myself to hope that my selfishness was really about her.

I loved that she loved the life I could give her.

I worried she’d hate the life someone else would force upon her.

So, even though I refused diner and city visits, I did my best to cave to her every other whim. I came up with crazy hair styles with her ribbon threaded as artfully as I could. I indulged her whenever she asked for stories, even if it was on a hike to our next camp and not just as a tool to make her drowsy. I let her wear my clothes and stuff one of my socks with soft moss to make an ugly toy snake.

Some days, when summer made a reappearance and chased off the autumn chill, we’d forget about travelling or hunting and spend the day sunbaking by the river and jumping into the cooling depths.

Those days were my favourite.

The ones when no responsibilities could find us and the world where men branded kids as property and women permitted their sons to be sold no longer existed.

At first, I’d worried about the new needs running in my blood and the pleasure my body insisted on finding sometimes in my sleep. I’d refused to skinny-dip and didn’t let Della cuddle too close when we slept.

But gradually, the wariness I wore whenever we were around people fissured and shed, leaving me a boy once again.

A boy who might be turning into a man against his wishes, but out here…with nothing but trees for company and woodland creatures to judge, I could act stupid and make Della laugh. I could cannonball into the river butt naked and not feel as if I’d done something wrong.

I could be happy with my tiny stolen friend.

Nothing could make our life any better, or at least that was what I’d thought until Della rolled on her belly and poked my cheek as we lay side by side with our tent flap open and the sounds of night blanketing us.

“Hey, Ren?”

My eyes cracked open. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I faked it.”

“But I told you two stories, Della Ribbon. The deal is I talk, you sleep.”

“I never sleep when you talk.” She yawned. “I like your voice too much.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You like my voice, huh?”

“Um-hum.” She rubbed her chin where an indent of the sleeping bag zipper had pressed into her. “I like all of you.”

The starburst of affection she caused made me choke. I cleared my throat, turning to stare at the tent ceiling and focus on the lining and seams. “I like all of you, too.”

“No, you don’t.”

I scowled, risking another look at the blonde tussled kid who had every power to suffocate me beneath happiness and rip me to pieces in despair. “I don’t?”

She giggled. “Nope. You love me.” She blew kisses, then flopped onto her back and placed her forefingers and thumbs together to form a crude looking heart. “You heart me like this.”

I chuckled at her impersonation of a cartoon skit she’d seen. I wasn’t the best one to teach her what love meant. To be fair, I wasn’t sure how to describe it apart from I felt for her the exact opposite of what I’d felt toward the Mclarys.

The cartoon explained love was when you wanted to do everything for the other person without needing anything in return. Love was simple with one rule: if you hurt the person you love, it would be as bad as hurting yourself.

I sighed heavily. “You’re right. I do love you.”

She wriggled under the unzipped sleeping bag, her little legs kicking mine. “Yay!”

A smile quirked my lips even while, for some inexplicable reason, I’d gone sad. Sad because I loved something? Sad that loving someone terrified me? Or sad because she was the first, and I’d missed out on loving the people who created me?

Either way, she didn’t let me wallow, poking me in the cheek again. “I love you too, Ren Wild.”

And that, right there, that made those few months back in the wilderness the best months of my life.

Nothing came close after that.

Nothing was ever that simple.

Nothing.