This River Awakens (13 page)

A small miracle, Fisk smiled to himself as he dried his face with a towel.
You sit there in your own blood, watching the flies and the maggots and the rats eating your friends, and it comes to you that you don’t really give a damn. Because they’re dead, and you’re alive. And you’ve got a choice. You can live – for years,
for ever –
or you can join your buddies.

So I left them there, and they’re still there, waiting for me. Waiting for the mouse to crawl out of my mouth.
Fisk spat into the sink.

He left the bathroom and made his way down the hall towards the back door. He could hear a wind outside, rattling the cages, moaning against the sides of the house, joining the chattering chorus. He walked out on to the porch.

The moon cast a pallid glow on the earth and a glimmer on the pools of water in the field, throwing shadows against him as he strode to the steps. The cold wind shifted and he could hear the bare branches of the trees at the far edge of the field crackling and rattling. Beside the maypole the mound of mink remains was a smeared, faintly luminescent pile of white ash. Three days of rain in the last week had diminished it.

Although it was late, Saturday’s dawn was still hours away.
How long will I have to wait?
Fisk frowned at the maypole. Sometimes, especially after all these years, it was easy to lose sight of the purpose, of the goal.
Dying should be easy, shouldn’t it?
He shook his head –
look at that man, Louper – he’s dying. Makes it look simple, effortless.

Fisk couldn’t drink alcohol – the bullet in his gut had taken care of that. He’d bring up anything he swallowed. But he knew that, even if he could drink, dying that way would be wrong; it would be a coward’s act. ‘It’s gotta be natural,’ he said aloud.
I’ve given up a long time ago – I’m ready for the flies and the maggots. So why is it taking so long?

The wind shifted, came swirling around the house, carrying with it the stench of the mink in their cages. Fisk smiled.
It doesn’t smell so bad, does it? Just half-eaten meat, shit and piss.
He laughed as a thought came to him. ‘We’re all waiting to die here, aren’t we?’

He turned to re-enter the house. ‘All waiting for the hand of God, eh? His, and mine – makes no difference to you, makes all the difference to me.’ He opened the door and strode into the darkness.

II

There would be no sleep for him this night, Sten realised. Grimacing, he sat up on the couch. The wind outside was howling, and so were his dogs. But neither was so unusual. The old season was reluctant to yield its grip on the earth, and the dogs had howled every night since Max’s death.

I need a beer, Sten told himself. He climbed to his feet, tottered a moment before regaining his balance, then shambled into the kitchen. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, so the moon’s light was sufficient for Sten to find the refrigerator. Taking a bottle from the case inside, he turned and walked into the dining room. At its edge he stopped.

The far end of the dining room had been the only place to put the piano, since anywhere else would block a window. Jennifer was now sitting on the bench. Sten was certain that she hadn’t heard him.

She’s just sitting there.
Sten frowned at the realisation.
She’s not moving.
He took a soft step forward, wondering what to do. Jennifer was dressed in a pale pink nightgown, her hair tied up behind her head. Both of her hands lay on the covered keyboard, unmoving.

Sten hesitated, then whispered, ‘Shouldn’t you be asleep?’

Jennifer’s head snapped around. ‘What do you want?’ she hissed.

He shrugged. ‘I was just looking for the bottle opener.’

She gazed at him for a moment, most of her face hidden by shadows, then she said, ‘You disgust me.’

Sten winced, stepped back. He looked down at the bottle in his hands. ‘I know,’ he mumbled.

Jennifer rose and stepped around the bench. ‘Oh, you know, do you? And that makes it all right, does it?’

He shook his head, watched his hands trying to hide the bottle.

‘Nothing to say?’ Jennifer sneered. ‘Nothing to say for the fucking mess you’ve made – the fucking hell you’ve dragged us all into? Oh yes, I forgot: you know. Well, now we’re all saved, aren’t we?’

Sten gazed at her. She stood in front of the piano, her small hands balled into fists at her sides, her face twisted with hatred – it had to be hatred. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth. She glared at him, then, with something like a snarl, she whirled away and hurried from the room. He heard a torn gasp come from the stairs, and then nothing until the slam of the door to her room.

Sten stood rooted for a moment longer, then his eyes caught the glint of the bottle opener lying on the table. He walked towards it, then stopped.

‘Yes, I know,’ he whispered.

Outside the dogs continued howling. Sten set the bottle down. It was hopeless, he knew. He would have to return to it sooner or later; it was all that lay between him and madness.
All around me is hatred. My daughter. My wife. And that leaves only one place of escape.
He listened to the plaintive moaning outside.

The wind hissed through the torn screen of the back door. Sten opened it and stepped on to the porch, the wood creaking beneath him. The dogs fell silent, and he watched their black shapes pad up to the front wall of the kennel. Descending the steps, he strode towards them. He heard a soft whine.

‘Cut it out, Caesar,’ he muttered, unlatching the gate. ‘Get back, damn you,’ he snarled, pushing the dogs back as he entered the kennel and closed the gate behind him. ‘Get back. Don’t crowd me, and stop your bloody whining, you bastards.’

Tail wagging, Kaja pushed against him, and he staggered back. ‘Fuckin’ bitch!’ he shouted, raising his fist. Kaja cowered at his feet. He struck her across the shoulders and she yelped, sinking lower.

Sten heard a low growl behind him and he turned to see Caesar moving forward, ears back and teeth bared. Their eyes locked. Sten stepped backward and tripped over the still-prostrate Kaja. Falling heavily, he had the breath knocked from his lungs, leaving him lying helpless, unable to move, unable to scream. Through the stunned rush of blood in his ears he heard snapping and growling. A body slammed sideways against him and he felt claws gouge into his thigh. The body moved away.

And then sweet, cold air filled Sten’s lungs. Gasping, he rolled over on to his hands and knees. It was an effort to lift his head and look around. His three dogs stood off to one side. Shane was between Kaja and Caesar, his black tail lowered and waving fitfully and his head turning from mother to brother and back again. Kaja watched Sten. Caesar watched Kaja. Only the wind made any noise at all apart from Sten’s ragged breath.

He climbed to his feet. ‘Bastards,’ he hissed, wiping the muddy sweat from his face. Suddenly racked with chills, he staggered over to the gate. The dogs backed away, all three watching him now. He ignored them, fumbling with the latch. Moments later he was outside, locking the gate with shaking hands.

Back inside the house, Sten hurried to the dining room. He leaned against the edge of the table, opened the bottle of beer and quickly brought it to his lips. He let the beer pour down through his mouth and throat and into his stomach without pause. In seconds the bottle was empty, and the bitter burning along his throat fell away to numbness.

Suddenly dizzy, he pulled out the chair and sat down. Elbows on the table, he held his head in his hands.

‘The bastards,’ he whispered. ‘They wanted to—’ He shook his head. No, it was just an accident – it was dark. Caesar got spooked. Frightened. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he mumbled. ‘My dogs—’ They were terrified of him. Somewhere inside his head he heard the chuckling of monsters. ‘Their master, all right. Master, yeah, right! Tyrant.’
Oh, God. It’s hopeless.
‘No fuckin’ point to anything.’ The monsters concurred, applauded. ‘It’s you and me, Dad,’ he mumbled. ‘Claw your way back up, Dad. Come on, come out of the grave. It’s only a garbage bag and some dirt. It’s you and me, now.’
And us,
chittered the monsters. ‘And them.’
And the booze, too,
they added.

Sten slowly pushed himself to his feet. He reeled, then made his way into the kitchen. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, sure.’

Outside, the wind and the dogs howled.

III

Elouise pulled the sheets up against her chin as the slamming back door indicated Sten’s return to the house. She heard him moving around in the rooms below. Heart hammering, she stared up into the darkness, certain that in moments she would hear his footfalls on the stairs.

The wind in the branches outside the window cast a keening dance of shadows across the far wall, like cavorting figures. Elouise sucked air in through the wreckage of her mouth, the cool, dry breath soothing the throb of pain. It had become impossible to move her jaw at all now. Any question of choice had disappeared – she knew she would have to visit a doctor in the morning

And without a driver’s licence, her only means of making the trip to the clinic in Riverview was the bus. Sten might drive her, but the thought of that turned her stomach to ice. She knew that, should she ask him, he might hit her again. He might kill her. Even if, by some bizarre twist of his mind, he agreed to take her, there was still the highway drive – Sten hadn’t been sober in weeks: he wouldn’t be sober tomorrow. And if they somehow managed to arrive, there awaited the questions, the looks, the whispers and the suspicions. No, it would be better all around if she went alone; if Sten didn’t know anything about it.

With a big enough bandage, the nature of her injury wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone on the bus, or in the clinic’s hallways and waiting room. And that just left the doctor, and maybe a nurse or two. She would have to think of a story to tell them, even though she knew that they’d be unconvinced.
So long as they don’t cause trouble. Then I don’t care what they think.

The house had fallen silent.
Maybe he’s fallen asleep.
She hoped he had. There was a patter of rain against the window. The dogs had stopped their moaning – the shriek of the wind seemed to fill the world. Its cry echoed in her skull. The shadows no longer danced – she stared at them – they writhed against the wall as if nailed there. Unable to escape – voiceless, they couldn’t even plead.

Pulling the sheets closer, Elouise closed her eyes. Silence was a good thing. Above the howl of the wind there was no way to hear her own inner screams, and it was this, more than anything else, that made her feel safe, insulated.

So long as he slept.

Like a faint whisper from beyond the walls came music – from Jennifer’s room. Holding her breath, Elouise listened. Brahms. Piano concerto No. 2. She remembered buying that record for Jennifer’s tenth birthday, along with a half-dozen others.

The music was cut off abruptly. Elouise began to wonder if she’d imagined it. Like an old echo lost in the house for years, only now reaching her. She became aware of all the silent rooms surrounding her, of the silent chambers familiar with darkness and regret. It had become, she realised, a house whose rooms sighed the breath of memories, and all the memories were painful ones. The house bled silence – but no, she could hear a voice, and it was Sten’s, coming up from below as if from a pit.

‘Master, yeah, right!’ Muttering followed the exclamation, and then she heard: ‘It’s you and me, Dad. Claw your way back up…’ The words dropped off again.

Elouise moaned. Dad. The old man’s face took on blurry definition in her mind’s eyes. She saw, once again, the snarl twisting his lips, the feral rage flaring in his red-shot eyes. She watched his battered fists bludgeoning his son, Sten, rocking the young man’s head – the son, whose ears bled and whose eyes were glazed with dull incomprehension, whose cut and split mouth hung open, a red rose glossed with saliva. The son, who had made no attempt to defend himself, who had said nothing, not once crying out – who had just stood there, taking it.

And now …
It’s you and me, Dad.

So simple, after all. So logical.

Another moan escaped her bruised lips. Elouise rolled over and gently rested her aching head on the pillow. He wouldn’t be coming up. She was safe; there was no more need to fight off her exhaustion. She would let her room join the others. Bleeding silence, breathing memories.

IV

Outside, the morning air was crisp and bright. I stood on the steps and watched my father working on the machine. It was half disassembled; rusted parts lay everywhere. Its inner workings, now revealed, reminded me of Fisk’s mound – a massive jumble of intestines draped around a crumbling skeleton. I had hoped that seeing its insides would have given me some idea of the machine’s function, but, if anything, they had made me even more confused. Countless gears of all sizes crowded the works; oil-blackened, oddly shaped parts filled the spaces; in all, the exposing of the machine’s internal organs left me with the vague sense that with it I was witness to the workings of another world; a world of shadowed mystery frozen by the sun’s light.

Father disappeared into the garage. I walked out into the yard. Beneath the trees the air was cooler, smelling of dead grass and mud. From somewhere in the branches high overhead came the chatter of a squirrel, and the answering cry of a robin. I wandered through the shadows, imagining myself a lone sentinel on patrol. There were secrets to protect – the work on
Mistress Flight,
the room in the attic, and a thousand hidden hatreds and desires.

Standing in the shadows, I was a soldier, guarding shadows of my own. There was the darkness inside me, and all the secret gears and silent pistons and blackened thoughts worked motives even I could not comprehend. Still, I stood guard, protecting an unknown purpose with fanatic heat.

Today, there would be explorations – I would discover the hidden room in the attic. And work on
Mistress Flight
would continue. And tomorrow, there would be the forests and the river and the beaver lodge.