Broken rocks and scroungers like ants afar off were all Spyglass saw. Were the other scavengers farther out? Was he wasting his time looking this close to the market? If he went farther, would he lose track of the market?
He began to jog with the market to his back. Every few minutes, he’d stop and find a dusty rock and draw an arrow back to the market, in the fine, gray powder. The glow of the market stubbornly persisted on the horizon, and Spyglass let the distance between the arrows grow larger.
How long had it been?
Spyglass jogged a little faster. The horizon split into peaks and valleys. The twilight deepened and darkened without a sign of sun, moon, or stars. Large boulders and low hills broke the flatness of the plain, mixed with dry ditches and shallow ravines. Some mounds and ditches spewed black pillars of smoke that merged with the darkening clouds above.
In the dim, obstacled roll of the broken, smoking rocks, Spyglass had to begin to search in earnest. He jogged around hillocks and peered into crevices. He stilled the crush of his feet against pebbles to listen for other scroungers that might be obscured by mound or esker. With each empty hole and barren ridge, Spyglass jogged faster to the next landmark.
How long until he began to fade?
If Spyglass did start to fade, there was little chance of finding someone to watch him in time to stop it. Or reverse it, if that were possible. While contemplating how quickly he could run back to the market, he realized he hadn’t drawn an arrow in quite some time, nor was the glow of the market anywhere on the horizon. Spyglass had to find something, and soon, or it would all be for nothing anyway.
Spyglass stopped breathlessly at a fuming depression. There, at the edge of the smoke, half covered in soot, lay a small, brass, extendable telescope. A spyglass.
Spyglass scurried into the ditch. The smoke from the nadir of the ditch shifted as if there were wind. It hissed and smelled of sulfur. The boy flattened himself and snatched the close end of the telescope. As he almost brushed the smoke, he could feel its furious heat. A low, echoing rumble, almost like the laugh of a slow, inhuman voice rang out. Looking up, the boy saw the relief of a leering face rise from the ditch into the sky.
“—SSSHHH” the smoke hissed, and faded into the distance.
Spyglass scooted backward out of the ditch, watching the smoke as he retreated. He grabbed the itchy burlap bag from his waistband and felt a moment of relief. His right hand began to feed the telescope to the bag on its own, but Spyglass stopped just in the mouth of the bag.
Was this a coincidence? There was a weight to the Spyglass, but a different weight than his music box, dog tags, and crayon had. A significance, an omen. He did not whether it was good or ill. Should he put it in the bag, so he could return to Edmund as soon as possible?
No, came a voice in his head. I can use this. This will help me scrounge much faster. I was meant to find this.
Spyglass scrambled up the side of a tall boulder. He scanned the area for other scavengers and found none. Putting the spyglass to his eyes, his vision swept rocks, holes, ravines, and hills in a blink. He saw a glint from the shadow of a pile of rocks. In a moment, he hopped down from his perch and ran to the rock.
He pulled a pair of rusty steel scissors out of the dust. He shoved the scissors into his bag and began to roll it up… when he began to feel weight drop out of the bag. He unrolled it, and it hung limply. No steel scissors in the bottom. He stuck his hand in the bag and felt nothing but the itchy burlap sides. He reached his whole arm in without feeling the bottom. He rolled the top and pulled it up to his shoulder… and the bag hung limply down. His right arm was nowhere to be seen.
Just then Spyglass felt an icy, smooth hand close on his. Instinctively, he jerked his hand back. Or tried to. The icy hand held him like iron. When his arm relaxed again, the grip of the icy hand loosened. It spider crawled along his own until its fingertips were on his palm. The icy fingertips tickled his palm with a brushing motion… or the motion one might use to wave someone over.
The bag was Edmunds… perhaps the hand was, too? Edmund must have gotten the scissors. Spyglass slowly clasped the hand in acknowledgment and withdrew his hand. He rolled the bag back up, half expecting the hand from inside to grab him. The bag was empty again, and fit snugly and prickly against his hip.
How to get home? Well, that was easy now.
Spyglass climbed back onto his boulder and pulled the telescope from his pocket, extending it full length. He swept the horizon for where the rock and ditches were smaller, the horizon flatter. There was a clear depression in one direction. The landmarks in that direction looked forward.
Spyglass climbed down with the telescope again building in his pocket. He could return to the market like that. Someone would see that the boy had something in his pockets and he’d lose it in a flash.
The boy took off his shoes, then his pants. He tore the waistband from his boxers, tearing his shorts to rags in the process. He tied the slim telescope to the inside of his thigh. He put his pants and shoe bag on, shoving the remains of his boxers in his pockets.
Waste not, want not.
The jog back to the market would not be pleasant, but if the telescope did not disappear, his scrounging trips would be much faster.