Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 38
He remained standing. Downstairs, his father and mother
spoke together quietly; he couldn't hear what they were saying.
Jordan fell back on the bed, his heart pounding. The
murmured conversation continued. Why weren't they
following her? He listened, a tightness building in his chest as
his parents' inaction continued. After a few minutes he realized
they were praying.
There were morphs in the forest, and maybe worse
things. Jordan felt a sudden certainty that Emmy was going to
stumble into its arms. She must be trying to get to the church,
but the path was difficult even in daylight. At night, the forest
was so dark you couldn't see a tree trunk centimeters from your
face, and, he knew, every sound was magnified so the approach
of a field mouse sounded like a bear was coming.
Emmy had never feared the woods. He should have told
her what had happened to him today. Jordan put his hands to
his eyes and squinted back tears. At that moment, he felt
terribly, awfully helpless, and abandoned because she was
abandoned. Their parents were doing nothing!
And neither was he. He went to the window again.
"Jordan." His father's voice filled him with sudden
loathing. His father was afraid of the forest. He wouldn't
follow Emmy because he was scared of the dark, and he was
sure inaction would cure whatever was wrong.
Jordan sat on the bed, seething with hatred for his
parents. The tightness in his chest was growing, though. Do
something, he commanded them silently. Sitting in the dark
with his fists clenched, he tried to move his parents with sheer
will power.
The tightness had him gasping. Finally, he admitted to
himself that they would do nothing--not tonight, not tomorrow,
or ever. Their desperate fear of any disturbance in their