Marta was dying.
She could feel it, inside her, all the scattered knots of pain. Individually, barely noticeable; combined, they were almost more than she could bear.
She hadn’t picked up on the early clues. She’d put the fatigue and the headaches down to the thin air of the high desert. Even the blurring vision had been a distraction she could work past. Sifting through the dig, she’d used her sense of touch, the brush carefully teasing away grains of sand. From the ancient, knotted, cloth; from the ceramics, and the goldwork; and from the desiccated thing that had once been a princess.
But now she was back in Santiago, where everything from the dig was being preserved. Everything except her.
There was nothing anyone could do. It was too advanced, the doctors said. It had spread through her body, pervading every part of her. Radiation couldn’t burn it out. Chemo could only slow its progress, nothing more.
She was thirty-one years old, and she was going to die.
***
She walked the museum halls, late at night. She loved the silence; it felt like something sacred. It let the past speak to her, unsullied by modernity.
The exhibition was not yet open. They were still printing labels, assembling cases, recording audioguides. Marta stood, there at the centre of the hall, where the princess lay in her glass case. The dehumidifiers preserved her as the desert had done. Once, water meant life to this woman; now, it was her enemy. Only its absence preserved her.
Marta looked at the mummy’s face. The eyes were gone, the skin drawn back over the skull, but there was still so much detail to be questioned. Was she angry? Resigned? Sad? There had been no sign of injury. Had she, too, succumbed to disease? Had she known what was to come?
***
The farewells were not easy. How could you tell your own mother that you were going to die? How could you tell colleagues you had worked alongside for years?
How could you tell your husband, and your children?
But they had to be told. She had accepted it. They had to know, and accept it, too.
“Chica. There must be something the doctors can do. Maybe not here. Maybe in America…”
She bowed her head, unable to meet Roberto’s eyes.
“The doctors here are just as good as the ones in America. They say it’s too late, so it’s too late.”
Roberto shook his head, like a stubborn bull.
“No. There must be something.”
Time. He would accept it, she told herself, in time. But there was not much time left. Two months; three, perhaps. More, if they put her in a hospice and filled her with drugs until she was a husk, a dry and shriveled thing from which all life had fled.
“It was that dig,” he said, suddenly. “That last dig. It wouldn’t have been too late, if you hadn’t been out there in the desert!”
“Roberto, please. That’s not fair.”
She didn’t tell him it wasn’t true.
“That place has taken you from us! I always had to look after the children. And now… now you’re leaving me. Leaving them…”
His voice cracked. She held him, then, and let him cry, and said nothing, because he was a man, and his tears were a shameful thing to him, that he would never speak of to anyone.
Miguel and Juanita didn’t cry. She suspected that was because they didn’t, truly, understand. After she had told them, she was the one who cried, in the bathroom, with the door locked and the shower running, where no one could hear.
It was the last time she cried.
***
The exhibit had opened. “Mummies Of The Atacama”, the banners read. The halls were crowded with people. Tourists; school parties; students. Marta watched as they pointed and stared at the princess, lying in her personal desert, her public grave. When the museum closed, Marta stayed behind in the hall.
“I think perhaps we have done a terrible thing,” she said, softly. “I think we have stolen your dignity. All my life, I have brought back things from the past. But perhaps… perhaps some things should be left alone.”
***
Her farewells had been made. Whether they had been accepted was beyond her control. They had been made.
All that was left to her, now, was to wither away and die. She did not want Roberto and the children to see that. She did not want them to come to her bedside, day after day, watching the life evaporate from her, until there was nothing of her left.
There was no dignity in that death. Not if it was public.
She still had the strength to catch a train, up to the north, and then one bus, and another. She had the strength to walk. She set off into the desert very early in the morning, hoping that no one would see her. She was not naïve enough to believe that she would not, eventually, be found. But she very much hoped that she would be found too late.
She reached the site of the dig after two days. The tents had gone, but the tracks in the sand remained, and the pits, and the marks where they had laid out the grid. She climbed down into the pit where she had found the princess.
The sun was unbearable. The air sucked water from her skin. The desert was lifeless; it was the antithesis of life.
But there had been water here, thousands of years ago. Once, the desert had bloomed; vicunas had grazed, and people had come, and made it their home. But then the rains had stopped, and the people had left. Left, or died.
I am the water, she told herself. I am the water that abandoned this place, and now I have returned. We took a body away from here. Now, I return one.
She lay down, on the lifeless sand, under the thirsty sun.
Brian Dolton’s fiction has appeared in Abyss & Apex, Flashing Swords, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and Intergalactic Medicine Show, among others. He has been writing for many years, and will continue until they pry the keyboard from his cold, dead hands. PS If any of you know who the “they” in questionare, he’d love to hear from you, so he can make suitable preparations.
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28 Responses to “ATACAMA • by Brian Dolton”
Comments
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April 3rd, 2009 at 1:41 am
very good
April 3rd, 2009 at 3:07 am
This story sang softly and held my interest right up to the poetic end. Thanks Brian!
April 3rd, 2009 at 3:09 am
An engaging, heartfelt read.
April 3rd, 2009 at 4:51 am
Desparately sad. You can really feel her pain. Extremely well written.
April 3rd, 2009 at 5:05 am
Good as far as it went. There was no conclusion, and I still expect a conclusion in a flash. Just her sitting down to die wasn’t it for me.
April 3rd, 2009 at 5:06 am
The first sentence hooked me. From there, I was yours to lose. The entire piece had perfect voice, perfect pace. Beautiful connection between Marta and the princess.
I didn’t like Marta’s solution, but on reflection I realize it fits perfectly with her character; so it’s not the story with which I have an issue, it’s Marta. You were true to her character – well done.
April 3rd, 2009 at 5:55 am
What a fascinating story…great flow, quite poetic at times. I sort of saw the ending coming, but that didn’t matter. As Bob said, it fit perfectly with the character of Marta.
April 3rd, 2009 at 5:55 am
all the scattered knots of pain – so many beautiful lines. Extemely well-written piece. One of the best I’ve read on EDF for quite some time. A BIG five from me.
April 3rd, 2009 at 6:20 am
Lovely, Brian. A quality piece.
April 3rd, 2009 at 6:29 am
I can only add to the chorus. Bravo. Easily in the top 5 stories I have read on EDF so far this year. Thank you for the obvious care you take with the craft.
April 3rd, 2009 at 6:50 am
I clicked that 5 three or four times just to make sure. Brian I absolutely love everything about this story. WOW.
April 3rd, 2009 at 6:54 am
This works as flash for me. There is the decision she makes to remove herself from everyone, to take herself (and the figurative mummy princess with her) back to the desert to die with dignity. For me the scene in the museum where she looks at the princess: “Marta watched as they pointed and stared at the princess, lying in her personal desert, her public grave,” perfectly sets up the ending. The structure is subtle but brilliant.
April 3rd, 2009 at 7:04 am
I enjoyed the story.
One comment–if this is Santiago in Chile, that definitely is in America. South America. No point going out of our way to offend our other American neighbors by ignoring that. And many will find it arrogant and offensive.
April 3rd, 2009 at 7:17 am
Thanks to all for the comments, which are much appreciated.
KM – while I appreciate the point, in my experience the US is still referred to simply as “America” by many people from outside it, as well as inside it. I hope no-one feels offended, or that I am being arrogant (and I should point out that I’m British, not American, though I now live in the US).
April 3rd, 2009 at 7:38 am
The study of an archeologist’s character in life and facing death is written with clarity and good enlivening detail. Yet I could not give myself over to believe in the character’s reality, and this prevented me from immersion in the story. The museum “let the past speak to her, unsullied by modernity.” The purpose of archeology, like the purpose of stories, is to shed light on who we are ourselves, “our modernity” by studying other lives or ways of life, the who’s that we ourselves are in other contexts. The protaganist was a leader in the archeologist expedition, a difficult undertaking, and therefore most likely impelled by more than a search for trinkets. I find it even harder to empathize with her feeling upon dying that “perhaps some things should be left alone” and not brought to the surface;” human minds were created/evolved for inquiry. I DO sympathize with her untimely death which I find hard to believe is a punishment and could happen to anyone.
April 3rd, 2009 at 8:04 am
This is wonderful – beautiful lines, palpable pain, and a riveting protagonist. It’s everything a flash should be and more!
April 3rd, 2009 at 8:40 am
Roberta – I’m sorry it didn’t work for you.
I think different people find different purposes in archaeology. And, for that matter, in stories.
April 3rd, 2009 at 9:59 am
The “America” comment is interesting, but ultimately, it’s one of those battles that isn’t worth fighting. This has become part of a worldwide vocabulary, and most of us are used to it by now. I wouldn’t let it worry me.
The story itself is beautiful.
April 3rd, 2009 at 10:28 am
Having lived in South America, I can attest, at least from my experience, that the colloquial norm would be exactly as written here. The character Roberto was desperate to save his wife. I doubt he would have worried about politically correct nomenclature at that point.
Loved the unspoken tie-in of Marta’s fatal condition and the Egyptian mummy curses.
A very enthusiastic 5 from the “5 Scrooge”.
April 3rd, 2009 at 10:54 am
Sharon, thanks for the 5 – but I cannot tell a lie, I hadn’t even thought of that connection! The trigger for the story (which was written for one of the Liberty Hall challenges) was some line about “water has a memory, and is always trying to return to where it came from”, which made me think about deserts that had once been fertile, which made me think of the Atacama (the driest desert on the planet, apart possibly from an area in Antarctica that people don’t think of as “desert”)… and then I remembered something about mummies having been found in the region, and mummies are basically human beings without the water, and so the chain of thought became this story.
April 3rd, 2009 at 11:26 am
I gave it a 5. well done, evocative, wonderful writing. Thank you Brian, for a great story.
April 3rd, 2009 at 11:31 am
Coming from the point of view of a reader not a writer, this story seemed like an excerpt from a much longer story. I liked it but didn’t like the ending. Seems like there was something rushed from the time she left her family to to when she arrived back in the desert. It left this reader with an unfinished feeling.
April 3rd, 2009 at 11:50 am
Stacie – I’m sorry it felt rushed. The original story was about 1300 words, but the cuts were made throughout (probably more in the middle, with her family and with the museum, than at the end.
I will admit that I am by nature a “verbose” writer and often have trouble reaching the 1000-word limit for EDF (at least half my stories have had to be cut down to squeeze in). I admire those who can tell a good, complete story in less – often much less – than 1000 words.
April 3rd, 2009 at 11:56 am
Great flow and voice, Brian.
–dj
April 4th, 2009 at 3:52 am
Brian Dolton (comment 17) – I am sure you’re right; I had thought of that myself, but I just mentioned my own reaction.
April 4th, 2009 at 3:53 pm
Lovely writing in this story and a very intriguing plot. This story drew me in so much that I would like to know more background on their world.
April 6th, 2009 at 8:37 am
Very cool. Congrats.
January 10th, 2010 at 6:48 am
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