Sourmouth (11 page)

From then on the drive was as easy as reversing their
course, passing Snug Cove and taking a few turns along the main road ironically
past the information booth they had been looking to avoid. Sitting across the
street from a bank and a convenience store was a small square building with
wooden shutters and a stone walkway paved before it. To Violet the museum
looked like a miniature southern plantation.

             
The couple parked their car out front of the building and met by the hood of
the car to grab each other by the hand.

             
“Here goes nothing,” Riley said as he licked his lips in anticipation.

             
Violet wore the most minuscule smile as she echoed him in her reply of “Here
goes everything”.

             
And with that they entered the museum like they were heading to the gallows,
prepared to die but not anymore pleased about the future that may come.

             
The inside of the museum was charmingly quaint. Based on the interiors of what
few buildings the
Tylers
had seen so far on the
island they had both been expecting the worst. It might have been cheating in
the book of decorating but having a building dedicated to the old and often
ugly pieces of history made it difficult to find fault in its aesthetics. The
ground was mostly made up of longstanding, worn brown wood with salt stains and
scrapes from exhibits that had been dragged across the floor. The building was
a single level divided by the atrium into two main rooms and a few smaller
offshoots. Each room had a rough theme, from native history to the colonization
of the island to the local arts. The style in which the pieces were displayed
varied, from cases that stood chest high to statues that sat in the middle of
the floor to paintings that hung on the walls.

             
Attending a few visitors in one of the main quarters was an old Asian man. He
stood to about Violet’s shoulders and was hunched over as if his back was
continuously hurting him. He had pure white hair that seemed to frizz off in
every direction. Despite being indoors he wore a puffy, olive
coloured
jacket that was done up nearly to his throat.

             
Just when the
Tylers
were bracing to approach the man
did they spot a woman coming from a closed door to the back of the building
next to an exhibit on famous
writers.
The woman was
white, her complexion placing her in her thirties. She was a little taller than
Violet but smaller than Riley. The woman wore blue jeans that accentuated her
hips and a black U-neck t-shirt decorated with a
colourful
sugar skull design. She had thin red glasses that hung low on the bridge of her
nose and long brown hair that fell to just past her shoulders.

             
Figuring that it was best to ask the personnel that were free, the
Tylers
cornered her as she started to try and wipe down the
glass on an exhibit.

             
“Excuse me?” Riley started as they approached, waving his hand in an oddly
similar motion to the way the woman was cleaning the glass in front of the
window.

             
The woman turned with a slightly irritated expression but didn’t bother
replying.

             
“We were wondering if you could help us. We’re looking to find out some of the
history of a specific house. Or even the family that owned it if it’s
available,” Violet explained, with little reaction back.

             
Riley looked at his wife in a way to communicate that he was getting frustrated
with most of the people they had run into on Bowen thus far. It appeared most
people had a chip on their shoulder, or in the very least had adopted the New
York attitude of dismissing tourists.

             
The woman turned back and started her cleaning again before finally answering
without even bothering to turn in their direction, “This is a museum. If you
want historical records visit the library”.

             
“We thought this was an archive as well. You know, because it’s called Museum
and Archive?” Riley questioned with exasperation balled up in his throat.

             
Still the woman looked away, “Do you see space in here for an entire archive?
We keep a section at the library. If you go talk to the librarian, she’ll help
you out”. 

             
“We were hoping for a more personalized account of local history. From somebody
that actually knows a thing or two. Even anecdotes would do, just not some old
papers we’d have to wade through for days to get anywhere,” Violet tried to
explain.

             
“I’m not interested in being your personal tour guide. If you want to know
about something within this museum then I can assist you. But other than that,
leave me to clean,” she answered defiantly.

             
“We rented this house...” Riley started regardless of the woman’s wishes,
hoping that his perseverance would break down her resistance, “...up at by
Killarney Lake. We got it from an old woman named
Poyam
”.

             
The woman was rubbing the glass so hard that the legs of the case began to
wobble.

             
“Things have been a bit weird,” Riley continued, “We’ve been seeing things that
we really shouldn’t be seeing. We are seeing some sort of creature standing in
our mirror”.

After a slight pause to consider the stranger’s words
the employee answered with aggravation clear in her voice, “Go and see an
optometrist”.

             
“We found a lot of drawings on one of the walls that look like they were drawn
in a madhouse. And we found an old book with strange words and symbols and even
more bloodcurdling drawings”.

             
Finally, they seemed to have garnered the woman’s attention, as she slowed her
cleaning to listen closer.

             
It was Violet who spoke up next, “Does the word ‘
Sourmouth
’
mean anything to you?”

             
The woman stopped her chore completely. She turned around and held out her hand
in front of Violet’s face, pointing her finger from under the cleaning rag
almost in an antagonistic manner.

             
“You better not be
toyingwith
me,” she said bluntly.

             
The
Tylers
shook their heads in unison and didn’t
bother saying anything.

             
“Cheng! I’m going on break!” the employee yelled as she walked off towards the
closed door that she had come out of. The couple remained where they were until
the woman motioned impatiently for them to follow.

             
They all entered a ten-by-ten workroom that had a high wooden worktable and
various tools for fixing odds and ends, a cleaner’s cart filled with various
varnishes and soaps and a sofa next to a dingy microwave and TV that would have
both found a home on a 1980s sitcom. The employee crashed down on the couch and
made room for the couple to sit down next to her.

             
“What the hell are you waiting for? It’s not like I want to sit so close to you
either,” she said peevishly as she saw their
hesitation.             
             

             
With a quick glance to convey to each other the awkwardness that they both
felt, the
Tylers
crammed together onto the tiny piece
of furniture shoulder to shoulder, with Violet taking the middle.

             
“Did you bring the book?” the employee asked with her hand out like a beggar
looking for a piece of silver.

             
Violet shook her head nearly remorsefully.

             
“Damn it,” the woman snapped.

             
“Do you need it to tell us anything?” she asked.

             
The employee shook her head, “No. But I would have loved to have seen it. I do
work in a museum after all, so this is kind of how I get my jollies. A classic
piece of history like that would be a fine collectible”.

             
“Can I ask what your name is?” Violet said.

             
Her mouth puckered, “You can call me Anna”.

             
“It’s nice to meet you, Anna. I’m Violet and this is my husband, Riley”.

             
Violet extended her hand to shake the other woman’s, only for no reaction to
come from Anna. The woman looked at Violet’s hand like a confused animal trying
to figure out some sort of human custom that wasn’t intended for her.

             
“You said what I think you said, correct? I didn’t mishear you or you didn’t
misread it?” Anna questioned as she watched Violet’s hand retract
gracelessly.             

             
“Yes, for sure it was ‘
Sourmouth
’. It was written as
the only piece of English in the book we found,” Riley answered.

             
Anna stroked the side of her hair as she thought, pinning it behind her ear.

             
“That’s a name I’m familiar with from when I was a young girl. In school I was
fascinated by the legends of the local people, being a bit of an outsider here.
So to learn about the culture I talked to everyone I could, even when they
wanted nothing to do with me. From what I can remember, that word is tied to
one of their most revered legends about creation. Of course, it’s all myth. Or
at least that’s what I think about it, one person’s Jesus is another person’s
Flying Spaghetti Monster. But I’m a bit of a sceptic when it comes to these things.
But on this island, the beliefs of the Squamish people have deep roots that
sometimes outweigh common sense”.

             
“So you believe that the book is somehow related to the natives? Without even
seeing it?”

             
Anna shrugged, “It’s not that I believe the book is specifically on its own.
But the word definitely is. It’s a word that I remember kids whispering when I
was a child as we played near the waters. I remember one native woman speaking
of it by the campfire when I was a tad older. The word is one that many of the
Squamish people know but don’t dare speak”.

             
“What do you mean they don’t speak it? It’s just a word,” Riley asked.

             
“In some cultures words are not just sounds,” Anna started. “Words have power
behind them. Words have an almost magic to them in which you can call things
into existence if you believe in them enough. Calling them into being, so to
speak. In the times before, when the world was still primitive, when man
couldn’t even talk, human beings were powerless. We were these things that
crawled out of the primordial ooze and just flopped onto land like we owned it.
It wasn’t until man learned to communicate with each other and with the spirits
were we blessed with everything that we take for granted now. And that word
that you spoke is one that wields great strength among the spirits”.

             
“I thought you didn’t believe in this religious mumbo jumbo?” Violet probed.

             
“It’s one thing not to believe that there’s some sort of gigantic-headed being
looking down on you from above. But it’s another thing entirely to not
understand that there has to be more out in the world than just this. This
world is filled with so much magic, so much improbability that it’s nearly
impossible to pretend that there isn’t more to it than we can put into
textbooks”.

             
Riley inched forward in his seat, accidentally elbowing his wife in the
process, “Alright. Now, let’s say words have power. What does that have to do
with
Sourmouth
?”

             
Anna seemed to cringe at the name, as if she had begun to realize what she was
telling them, and that the more they said it the more damage could be done.

             
“As far as I am aware, that word is a name. It’s the English translation for an
old Squamish designation or phrase that’s long been lost to their people. At
least that was the tale told when I was younger. Likely, the book you found is
the genuine article, some sort of old journal of whoever lived there. But the
fact that there was written English suggests that it was someone recently who
thought it would be a good practical joke to write it in based on the old tales
and freak out the rubes, like yourselves, who came across it,” said Anna.

             
Violet sat back a bit deflated, her head trying to process the idea that they
might have been getting all excited for nothing. And that what they had thought
they had seen had been nothing more than their minds playing tricks on them
just like some moron wanted. She didn’t like that what she saw might have just
been influenced by the creepy house she was staying in and the nightmare that
she had right before it. It was almost absurd to think that what her husband
had seen too was merely the power of suggestion and influence. Despite the
unlikelihood of what they encountered, she was still sure she had seen
something and that it was as real as the book that sat in the attic.

             
“What if it wasn’t written by somebody with too much time on their hands? What
if it was some sort of warning? Someone who came across it and needed to
communicate what it was? You say that the word itself has some sort of power,
right? The power to do what?” she asked impatiently, sure that her insistence
would get her solid answers.