The Survival Game (21 page)

“Hee-haw. What's this?”

Burl turned. His father had laid aside the briefcase. He was feeling the edge of the writing table with his hand. On one knee he bent down and looked under it. Burl watched with fascination. Cal pulled and a drawer opened. A very thin drawer Burl had not known was there, had not noticed in a month of being alone in the cabin. From out of the drawer Cal drew some stationery, envelopes. He dug deep into the corners still hoping for valuables. His hand came upon nothing more than an expensive-looking fountain pen, which he pocketed. He looked disinterestedly at the stationery and threw it on top of the table as he stood up again, bumping the secret drawer closed with his hip. He glared as he passed Burl on his way to the door. He stood on the edge of the deck and had a piss.

Burl dug out a can of Irish stew from his backpack and opened it.

Cal sauntered back in doing up his fly, closing the door behind him. He picked up the can and poked the top off, took a sniff.

“You call this food?” he said.

“I wasn't expecting company,” said Burl. He put the can on the burner while Cal stalked around the cabin like a caged animal. He fingered the piano again, the same note he'd played before.
Ding, ding, ding.

Burl would not have thought it possible that anyone could touch that instrument and make it sound so unmusical. The note stopped abruptly. Cal closed the lid.

“So this is it where it ended up, eh?”

He looked at Burl. He must have finally recalled that day down by the Skat, last spring. It was strange for Burl to realize he had shared that moment with anyone else. He could see his father's face growing dark, as if the one memory had led to another. Burl wondered if it would occur to Cal that he still owed Burl a beating. Instead, he grabbed up his jacket.

“I'm goin' out,” he said. He grabbed his rifle as he left. He came back a moment later and took the .22 as well. Burl wondered why he'd done that. Did he think Burl might shoot him? As his stew began to bubble in the can, Burl wondered for a moment whether he could do a thing like that.

But as soon as his father's footsteps carried him off the deck, his mind returned to the secret drawer. He raced to the table. The stationery was creamy coloured and thick. It was embossed with the Maestro's initials. He had started writing a letter. The date was late in August.

Dearest Regina;

Yes, your real name, despicable as you may find it. It's a good name. Strong and regal. And nicely formal, which seems appropriate since it's been so long since we last saw each other. Too long.

I've run off into the woods, Regina. I've found a sanctuary. No, I'm not becoming a nun, just writing. At last. I'm writing something quite grand. Don't worry, your lovely eyes shall be the first to see the fruits of my labours. It is near done.

But a remarkable thing has happened just this afternoon. A boy has stumbled out of the woods. I call him a wild child, but, in truth, he's an imaginative thing despite a harsh life full of beatings, unless my eyes deceive me. He is sleeping as I write this, lying on the floor under my piano. I feel very fatherly towards this urchin. And I feel, at the same time, completely

The letter went no further. Burl searched through the remaining pages. There was nothing. What had happened? A bear had scratched on the door. That's what.

Burl folded up the letter and put it in his pocket.

He sat cross-legged on the rug near the one unblinded window, eating his stew. The sun was giving up early, heading home. Through the scudding clouds he caught a glimpse now and then of a half-hearted moon.

Without his father in the room it was almost possible to recall the peace of mind he had known there. But he didn't dawdle. As soon as he had finished his meal, he went about the business he was there for. Burl was packing the Revelation into the bottom of his backpack when he heard the gunshot. He ran over to the window. Nothing. He opened the door. His father was returning from way down the beach.

Cal didn't come into the cabin. Instead he cleared a place on the beach. He had found the ring of stones where Burl had made bonfires in the summer. Now Cal built his own fire. He came in finally, whistling to himself, and poked around until he found some salt and pepper.

“Enjoy your baby food?” he said as he closed the door behind him.

Burl watched him from the door, even though it meant letting cold air into the cabin. The hunter rigged up a spit supported by crossed sticks. There looked to be a bird on it, though Burl had not seen him pluck and clean it. There was no denying the man was remarkable.

Cal showed no indication of coming indoors. Just as Burl was about to shut the door, he watched his father dig into an inner pocket of his coat and come out with his flask. He took a long pull at its neck.

Around eight, Burl made a nest for himself on the mattress. He sat the kerosene lamp on the floor safely out of reach of the bedclothes. He wasn't sure if his father was coming in or not. He could hear him sometimes, snatches of whistling at his fire by the lake.

He wasn't sure what to expect. Cal seemed happier outside than inside, which was fine with Burl. He had no sleeping bag, as far as Burl could tell. He had only been carrying a small pack. But then his father was a man of many resources, and out in the woods he was in his element. If Cal did come into the cabin, he would expect the bed, in which case Burl would sleep on the floor, under the piano. It was only one night.

He got up again to pee. When he had finished he went to the door and opened it just a crack. The wind was high, buffeting the cabin. It met him at the door hard in the face.

Cal's fire was now only glowing embers. He had stopped whistling. He was leaning against a boulder down low out of the wind's path, gazing into the low flames. He twitched and moved something from behind him, a stick, which he threw into the pit. He settled in again. If he had seen or heard the door open he did not look Burl's way.

Burl closed the door and raced back to his blankets and sleeping bag, stopping only to turn up the kerosene lamp. He kept the can of kerosene and a flashlight nearby so that he could fill the lamp in the night if he woke up cold.

He had buried his pack with the Revelation in it under his mattress. He had stuffed the briefcase with scrap paper, hoping that his father would not bother to check it again or too closely.

He was beginning to nod off when he heard footsteps on the deck and then the door opened. Cal strode into the cabin, closing the door behind him.

“You awake, boy?”

“What is it?”

Cal crossed the cabin in long weaving strides and bent down by the lamp to warm his hands over the glass chimney. He turned up the wick until the brightness hurt Burl's eyes.

“I just had me one damn clever idea,” he said.

Burl felt cold air snake into the bed with him. It was coming off Cal, long snaky tendrils of draught. Cal sat himself down at the foot of the mattress. He chuckled drunkenly. He looked at Burl.

“You gonna be glad to see the last of me, ain't you.”

It did not seem like bait meant to trap Burl, but the boy kept his face absolutely neutral, just in case. Cal, however, didn't seem to be looking for an answer. He rubbed his hands together. His face was glowing, heated by lamplight and by whatever he'd been drinking. His hair stood up in ragged spikes.

“I'm prepared to cut you a deal, boy. I'm gonna give you your freedom from me and all it'll cost is that –”

He pointed at the piano.

Burl sat upright. “What would you do with it?” he asked.

Cal rolled onto his knees and crawled over to the piano. He flipped up the cover. Still kneeling, looking back over his shoulder at Burl, his hands came down mightily on the keyboard, producing a horrible noise. Burl winced.

“Didn't know I could play, eh, Burl?” he yelled. “You any idea what this piece of furniture is worth in cold hard cash?”

“No,” he said, though Bea had given him a fair idea.

“I'd guess quite a few thousand. Quite a goodly few.”

This was crazy talk. Best to ignore it.

“Eh, Burl? Whadya think?”

Burl shrugged. He wanted to stay out of this, but Cal wasn't going to let him. He crawled back to the bedside on all fours and slammed his hand down on the floor. “I ast ya a question!”

Burl drew his knees up to his chest. “How could you get it out of here?” he said, as if his only concern was a practical one.

“The same way it came in,” said Cal. He waved his arm around over his head in a drunken imitation of a helicopter.

“The helicopter cost a fortune,” said Burl, unable to stop himself. “Anyway, how are you going to explain to them what you're doing taking it out?”

Cal's eyes narrowed. He poked his face towards the boy until Burl's head was up against the sloping wall. Burl turned away from the stink of the man's breath.

“You seem to know one helluva lot about it,” he said.

Burl clammed up.

Cal began tugging off his boots. He stared at the piano. “I could drag it out of here,” he said.

Burl lay down, rolled away, pulled the covers up under his chin.

“I could get a couple of pals with snowmobiles. Flip that sucker on its back like a dead moose and drag 'er out.” He started laughing. He laughed hard, slapping the mattress, leaning over to slap at the covers, where Burl lay curled up in a tight ball.

“Three of us oughta be able to do it. Flip that sucker over and just haul her outa here. No problemo. Hey, whadya think of that?”

Burl fought off his growing sense of alarm. There was no reason to take Cal seriously. It was just drunken talk. The idea was ridiculous.

Cal let out a great big roar of laughter, which ended in a coughing fit.

“Can you just imagine the boys down at the Budd when we show up with that piece of furniture – hey, fellahs, can you give me a hand. All aboard!”

Cal yucked it up a few more minutes, then he grew quiet. Burl listened closely. Quiet could be deadly. He dared to turn his head just enough to see what his father was up to now. Cal was between him and the lamp, and his shadow fell across Burl. Out of the shadow, Cal's eyes burned with their own bloodshot light.

“You don't seem to like my little brainwave?”

Burl cleared his throat. It was dry with fear.

“I thought you were serious,” he said.

Suddenly, Cal was on him, his arms pressing down on either side of his head, his face pressing up close. “And what makes you think I ain't serious!” he said. He sat up again, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off his other boot.

“You think I don't know who they are?” he growled. “That Agnew bitch, that nosy teacher and her long-hair husband. Maybe these folks need a lesson, eh?”

“No.”

“No? Did you say no?”

“I mean, it isn't their piano,” said Burl. “This isn't their cabin.”

Cal didn't say anything right away. He leaned back on his elbows on the mattress, looking around. He turned to Burl and gave him a dirty grin.

“So who else you been hittin' on, eh?”

Burl turned away again.

“Who else you tell your sob story to? Roll those big peepers. ‘Please, I'm a poor lost boy.' You know what you are, Burl Crow? You're a slut, just like your mother.”

Burl balled himself up in the foetal position. He lay like that, taut as a spring.

“Y' hear me?” said Cal. “A slut.”

That's when the spring bust. Burl's foot lashed out, and even though it was swaddled in blankets and a sleeping bag, it made good contact. It caught Cal in the ribs just under his arm, heaving him off the edge of the mattress onto the floor.

For a moment Cal was too stunned to react. Burl landed another weak kick and a third, before Cal fended him off and managed to throw his body across the flailing legs.

“Little bastard,” he roared, a big grin on his face, and he lunged at Burl's head. Burl slithered out of reach and fought his way out of the bedclothes. He tried to escape but Cal tackled him, laughing now, as if it were just horseplay. With a snarl Burl pulled himself free of his father's grasp and Cal was left holding only the sleeping bag.

“Why do you hate everyone!” Burl yelled.

Cal lunged again; his feet flew out and hit the kerosene lamp. It teetered and fell and rolled towards where the roof met the floor. Burl danced out of Cal's way, the broken lamp tugging at his attention.

“Look!” Burl cried, but Cal didn't turn to look.

“You think I was born yesterday?” he said.

Burl dashed towards it. He could smell burning carpet. He could see smoke rising from the floor. Cal grabbed him in a bear hold.

“The lamp,” Burl screamed, feeling his feet leave the floor. He kicked, and Cal growled in his ear. He wrestled Burl down on the bed.

“You crazy idiot!” Burl screamed.

There was a pause the length of a heartbeat, and then Cal's big fists rained down on Burl's hide like a rock slide.

“The lamp, the lamp,” said Burl between blows. But Cal was lost in his rage. Burl couldn't see. There was blood in his eyes. “The lamp,” he said, surprised at how far away his voice sounded. He struggled to get free.

Cal, oblivious to the danger, held him down. Suddenly Burl's arm was free from Cal's grip, and with all the power he could summon, he punched Cal, catching him hard on the ear. Roaring, Cal dragged himself up and Burl with him, lifting him off the floor, no longer hearing or seeing anything. He turned him around and around and with a roar he hurled the boy as far as he could. He hurled him right off the end of the earth, past the moon, out of the galaxy, where Burl finally crashed into the Maestro's desk, which crumpled under him. Through the blur of his bloodied eye and the snowfall of swirling notepaper, Burl could see that the cabin was on fire.