From somewhere deep inside her, a most violent creature that Wren doesn’t even recognize emerges and it is enraged. She is disgusted at having to handle this worthless piece of skin and feels compelled to kick Myron in the head. She puts her boot to his temple, not once or twice, but five times. Myron’s nose begins to bleed, and she kicks him again, even harder along his torso. Wren hears his ribs breaking under the coat he’s wearing. She is sickened by the sight of his stinking, bleeding body splayed out on the ground, drunk and unconscious.
Whatever force has overtaken her is still strong and in control. There are still a couple of vials of insulin hidden in her art supplies, but this time she elects not to make the trip to get them. Instead, she stops in the bathroom and grabs a full bottle of household bleach and a new syringe. She cannot lose the image of that young girl terrorized and slashed before being shoved under a bale of hay. Wren decides she will inflict the same level of anguish upon Myron. She decides he needs to feel pain and suffering for what he’s done. He deserves to shudder in agony as the bleach burns his veins and breaks arteries.
“No forensic evidence,” she mutters.
Wren’s hand is steady as she fills the syringe with the potent liquid. She heads back outdoors where she hears only the sound of wind. Wren knows that Myron’s body is likely to convulse as she slowly injects the bleach into his neck, the same part of Mavis’s body that he slashed. In her frenzied anger, Wren decides she’d also like this fucker to know what not being able to breathe feels like.
She returns to her car and reaches into her glove box where she keeps a can of pepper spray. Wren sometimes carries it with her when walking by herself, something Lord insists on even though coyotes have never come close enough to her to cause concern. Wren sprays the noxious mist directly up Myron’s nostrils and is startled when he opens his bloodshot eyes. He claws at his nose, gasping and scratching.
“You will harm no more,” Wren says aloud before injecting him again with a second dose of bleach. He flops on the ground for about a minute and then his body goes limp.
Once more, she remembers the butcher knife that she saw in her vision. The one he used to slash the girl’s throat. Wren goes back into the farmhouse to retrieve her sharpest knife, the one she’s used so many times to prepare a family meal. By the time she returns, Myron is dead. He has no pulse and there is a white froth coming from his nose and mouth. Wren pulls off the Nike running shoes from his feet.
“Stupid ass, don’t even dress properly for the cold,” she hisses.
Another trophy. She cuts off the blue jeans he’s wearing, not caring if the cutting means slashing his foul legs.
Wren had fed kindling and several small logs of wood into the outdoor kiln before she went stalking. Now, standing here under the bright light of a full moon, she says a prayer—not for Myron, but to Grandmother Moon. She asks her to care for the soul of the young girl who was murdered, just as Wren will take care of Myron, ridding him from the Earth so he can never cause harm again.
Wren throws more logs into the kiln before shoving Myron’s body in. In this moment, something snaps within her again. She looks at the snow. Red with hate. She urgently wants to drain more of his blood. Wren finds herself going for the axe leaning against the side of the farmhouse. She will dismember this foul body and feed it to the fire. Allowing rigor mortis to set in this time seems too kind for what he’s done, for how he has violated and sinned.
As she hacks, hearing bones split, she wonders if burning the remains of this poisoned soul might have the same effect as burning poison ivy. Plant experts advise never to do it. The toxic spores of the weed are just as dangerous if they become airborne, as they would be with direct contact on the skin. And, Wren wonders, can a poison be planted within a person’s mind? Again, she prays to Grandmother Moon that Myron’s kind of poison will be eliminated here and now, once and for all, airborne or otherwise.
Wren angrily tosses the piss-stained blanket from her passenger seat into the kiln. Next, she hurls leg parts, arms and a head into the hearth. Looking into the darkness of night, she notices the coyote. He is witness again to things unspoken. He keeps his distance, but she can see his luminous eyes reflect the moonlight. And those eyes are hungry.
“I will create some more pottery,” she says. “More gargoyles, with a prayer to ward off the evil that is you. Invasive and poisonous species, you shall cause harm no more.”
The fouled snow will have to be disposed. Wren’s first thought is to go to her studio and grab a couple of gunny sacks and a shovel. The forensic evidence can be dumped in the gully. It will be further covered by flurries, which are sure to fall as the winter progresses. It will disappear, seeping into the ground come springtime.
But her tirade has left Wren exhausted. She figures she can wait until morning to take care of this cumbersome detail. She lights the flame and waits for a spark before picking up her Ginsu and slowly heading back toward the farmhouse. As she walks, she can hear the wood spit and crackle.
Assurance
By the next morning, not even small whiffs of smoke drift anymore from the small chimney of the outdoor kiln. She’ll have to go out and stoke the fire repeatedly over the next forty-eight hours, but in these silent moments of early morning, that detail can wait a little bit longer.
Over the past several hours, Wren has been laying on the couch, bundled up in the colourful, woollen afghan that covered her and her husband the night they danced and slept in front of the fireplace in the living room. She has been drifting in and out of restless sleep. Along with Myron, she also burned the pink wig, skirt and sequined, butterfly-adorned top that she wore to Scoundrels. An exhausting ordeal. Wren’s been waiting for the fire to take him, wanting to be sure it all happens over the next couple of days before her husband returns.
During the moments when her conscious mind travelled elsewhere, Wren saw the “jumpers” coming, a term she always used to describe the mythical creatures her kohkum would sometimes talk about. They are nocturnal, about the size of a fox, and they stand upright with strong legs that resemble those of a grasshopper. Their bulging eyes are keener than a cat’s, and maybe like a cat, they can look directly into a person’s soul.
According to Kohkum’s story, the jumpers live underground and prefer a den that’s close to water. Wild cucumbers are their main source of food. They will also eat flesh, though, with their razor-sharp fangs that come out when they sense impure thoughts. Jumpers are like janitors, scrubbing the land of waste and ruin. Their bodies are sleek and opaque like the underbelly of a white fish. The jumpers are covered with scales and have small-but-deadly arms that look like those of a giant praying mantis.
Wren recalls a story about what jumpers will do if they sense danger is present. Kohkum talked about an evil drifter, a Young Dog or Young Dog offspring. His mind was filthy and his hands were dirty. He was hiding in the dark waiting for parents to go to sleep before dousing a ragged cloth with chloroform. His heart raced as he sat waiting, waiting, waiting for his chance to turn back the canvas flap of a tent where two young girls slept in the backyard.
He’d be quiet and those girls would end up raped and dead, except that the jumpers caught wind of him. They knew what was in his heart and in his troubled mind. They knew and they acted. As the drifter slowly approached the tent, the jumpers followed, watching him from their perch atop nearby trees. Three jumpers came that night, silently as they always do, and surrounded that evil man.
He became paralyzed with fear when he saw them. They slashed his wretched body, tearing away limbs, dismembering his guts, all without making a sound, without leaving a trace, and with the precision of skilled hunters. They took the body parts and planted them near their den—food for the roots of the bulrushes as well as for the fish and frogs.
But those jumpers are not to be feared. They don’t harm unless there is need to do so. Wren’s mental wandering takes her back to her o
wn childhood, her own memory. She and Raven had a couple of friends stay for a sleepover. They’d had a big bonfire for a marshmallow and wiener roast. There was no curfew, but Kohkum told them to go to sleep in the big canvas tent when they got tired. They stayed up late, long enough to see the total darkness of the night sky, but not before finishing a whole bag of marshmallows, some of the soft, sweet bits falling to the ground in their gleeful haste.
Sometime before daybreak, Wren had to go to the bathroom, so she quietly crept out from under her sleeping bag, careful not to disturb her sleeping mates. The bonfire had simmered to embers, although still offered a soft light. When Wren opened the tent flap, she saw a jumper sitting near the firepit, eating the marshmallows bits that were left on the ground.
At first she was frightened upon seeing this mysterious creature with shiny white skin, but it looked over at her with big, round eyes and without speaking, told her not to be afraid. He conveyed that he was staying the night to keep watch over the girls, to be sure they were all safe. Then in a flash, the thing vanished into the treetops, leaving the young Wren with a sense of safety, a knowing that she is never alone. She’s sure now that she’s felt that jumper’s energy around her many times since.
In her visions tonight as she lays on the couch, she can see jumpers circling the kiln and dancing, just as she did the last time she turned someone to bone-black ash. The image startles Wren awake, and she goes to the kitchen to splash some cold water on her face. Wren decides to make herself a tea and wait for first light before finishing the job and cleaning up. There was so much blood when she chopped Myron to pieces; forensic evidence all over the place was something she never intended.
Redemption
As she stares at her latest work of pottery, Wren wonders if she will eventually find her way out of this quagmire in her life. The pottery stares back at her: the fool with a gargoyle’s face. The sculpture shows similar facial features to that of a Neanderthal man, with a sloped chin and forehead. She’s carved Medusa-like snakes in place of hair because the myth surrounding this guardian warns that anyone who might gaze into her eyes will turn to stone.
Myron Salt has turned to stone. Medusa’s hair will keep him in check, even in death, ensuring that he no longer brings harm to women. Once this piece is fired in the kiln, Wren will use Myron’s bone ash to glaze the piece with a black finish. She runs a cutting wire under the wet clay to loosen it from the round piece of wood it’s sitting on. As she carefully lifts it, Wren notices the piece is heavier than she expected, much the same as the night she dragged Myron’s body from the passenger seat of her car.
Wren’s movements are precise and meticulous as she gently lowers the gargoyle into her studio kiln. She’ll fire it to 1800 degrees. Because of its height, twenty inches, it will have to bake for eight hours. It’ll take another day after that to let the kiln cool down enough for her to remove the piece. Not a fast process. Once she glazes it, she’ll need to fire it for another ten hours, then let it cool for two days. She’ll sand the bottom after that.
After setting the kiln’s temperature, Wren shakes her head. She had left Myron’s blood in the snow. She didn’t clean up the blood directly in front of the outdoor kiln either, because she had been too tired, too overwhelmed. The area must have resembled the floor of a slaughterhouse.
Early the following morning though, when she went out to clean the mess at daybreak, everything looked serene. There were no splatter marks or pools of blood, just the pristine white of freshly fallen snow. It was as if by magic. As though someone had been enlisted to come in and take care of the mess. Jumpers?
Wren’s not completely sure. She wonders if she cleaned up herself and simply forgot she’d done it. She’s been tired and disoriented lately, so it’s possible. Her mind has been at war with Kohkum’s teachings, notions of good grace, kindness and forgiveness. She now smudges each day, asking for redemption, clarity and some sort of sign that what she’s been doing is more of a service than a sin.
At this moment, an image of her sister’s pretty face comes to mind. Wren decides to turn on the radio and listen to some morning talk. The breaking story all over the news is that of a young man missing in Regina’s North Central. His family is offering a generous reward for any information that might lead to his whereabouts. Wren scoffs. “There is no evidence and no eyewitnesses,” she mutters.
While her kiln hums away hardening the clay, there is other work to do. Wren has received a custom order from the province’s Office of Protocol. Since her exhibit, word has spread about the uniqueness of her designs. The Office likes to promote its own Saskatchewan artists, so an order was placed for one of her clay cooking pots as a gift for a visiting dignitary. The design Wren has chosen shows a lake scene surrounded by the Qu’Appelle Valley’s rolling hills. It has been glazed in a bone black finish.
She needs to get it wrapped and boxed up as she promised them delivery yesterday. As she reaches for the clay pot, it makes her think about cooking, and that she will have to get to that chore this morning as well. Wren’s got all the ingredients in her fridge to make another quiche. She’ll caramelize some onions, ham and cheese, and add a sprinkling of saffron. It’s become Lord’s favourite dish and he is coming home today: Valentine’s Day.
Wren is proud of her husband’s accomplishments. His architectural design for renovating the heritage building in Winnipeg was accepted. Everything is in place and the job is underway. Wren wants to celebrate, which is why she went to the grocery store yesterday to pick up every type of fruit they had in stock. Lord loves fruit salad, especially with strawberries. She’ll serve it with fresh whipped cream. It thrills Wren to plan out the time she spends with her husband.
After packaging the Office of Protocol’s clay pot, Wren feels nauseated. The feeling strikes her quickly. There is no time to run back into the farmhouse and to the upstairs bathroom, so Wren yanks open the front door of her studio and hangs her head outside. Pain. Vomit. She wipes the remnants of spittle from her mouth using the apron she’s wearing. Wren hasn’t felt any onset of illness even though it is flu season. She hasn’t had sniffles, congestion or fever. She realizes then that just thinking about the smell of preparing a quiche—cutting onions and whisking eggs—triggered her nausea. She pukes one more time.
No More Secrets
It is early afternoon when Wren sees a black Ford Bronco slow down on the highway, readying to turn down the long driveway toward the farmhouse. The vehicle is unfamiliar to her and for a second it causes Wren to worry. She wonders if someone, somewhere has figured out what she’s been up to. She’s been watching out the window for her husband’s car, glancing toward the roadway every few minutes. Wren doesn’t want any strangers dropping in unexpectedly on her special day. She’s already prepared a meal, showered and freshened up. She even dabbed some perfume on each side of her neck.
She watches as the unknown vehicle pulls closer toward the farmhouse, then come to a stop, parking just beside the cobblestone walkway. Any feelings of dread are immediately erased as Lord steps out of the Bronco holding a bouquet of flowers, the same type of mixed bouquet he gave Wren on their first date. Wren quickly opens the door and runs in for a bear hug. It’s cold out and she isn’t wearing a winter jacket but that doesn’t bother her.
“Oh my god! I’m so glad you’re home,” she says, burying her face in his chest. “What’s with the new vehicle?”
“Oh, my love. Always with the questions.” Lord kisses his wife on the forehead. “Let’s go inside. You’re going to freeze out here with no coat.” Once indoors, he hands over the flowers. “I know they say that roses are the perfect gift for Valentine’s, but I think this bouquet is better. Always reminds me of our first date.”
Wren smiles from ear to ear and begins looking through the cupboards for a suitable vase.
“One of the sponsors for the renovation is from a bigger car dealership in the ’Peg, so I traded in my car
and drove home in style. I think I got the family discount,” Lord says and laughs. “And you? What have you been up to while I’ve been away?”
Wren tells him she’s been spending a lot of time in her studio working on new pieces.
“With your encouragement, I made another one of those gargoyles and a few other new pieces. I’m happy with the outcome. Now sit, you must be hungry,” she says, pulling out a chair.
She serves him a piece of quiche, but before taking a bite, Lord has another surprise for Wren. He reaches into the chest pocket of his dress shirt and produces the most exquisite pair of amethyst earrings. Studs that sparkle.
“I know how much you loved that necklace I brought home last time I went away. Thought these would pair with it nicely.”
“I love them,” Wren squeals, holding the purple, polished stones in her palm. “I love you.”
As always, Lord’s kindness reminds Wren that there’s so much goodness in the world. Her husband is generous, loving and kind. She begins to sob. Lord wraps her in his arms.
“What’s wrong, my love?”
“I can’t keep secrets from you anymore,” she responds.
Lord’s muscles become rigid, as does his expression. This is the type of statement that usually means bad news. He always carries a photo of Wren when he travels and without fail, work colleagues comment that he should be spending more time at home. Lord wipes away a tear that is slowly rolling down Wren’s cheek and waits for her to explain.
“It’s nothing bad,” she begins. “It’s just that last time this happened I didn’t tell you and that’s something I regret. I should have told you.”
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