Empire of Wild

by Cherie Dimaline

  She filled a plastic cup with water and drank it all down, then refilled it and brought it to the bedside table. She peeled off her clothes and slipped naked between the rough sheets. She wished more than anything she had quarters for the Magic Fingers. Instead, she found small solace in small words, chanting them like Ajean would.

  “Name of the Fadder, the Son, and that Holy Ghost.”

  Then she uttered a different kind of prayer. “Dear Victor, please, please don’t be gone. Please.”

  VICTOR IN THE WOODS: RUN BOY, RUN

  The pressure in the air made it hard to breathe. He wanted to run, but instead he was rooted, eyes stuck on the figure still seated in the chair, its laughter fading. Then it was quiet and the silence was terrifying. His feet broke free and he ran, arms out in front to avoid collisions with the trees. The thing vaulted from the chair and came after him, its movements fluid with muscle and magic.

  “I am going to wear you,” the thing said. “The tearing will be a horror but the fit will be couture.”

  It sounded gleeful, unbothered by the usual strain of running. In a sing-song voice, the creature called, “Fear just makes the meat tougher and then it will take even longer to remove the outer layer.”

  Jesus Christ, who said such things? Victor flashed on every horror movie he’d ever seen, and none of them had anything reassuring to tell him about the situation. So he kept running. He’d spent enough time in the specificity of this leafy prison to know when to jump, when to duck, and how to find purchase on the steeper bits. But apparently, so did his pursuer.

  And so they ran. Victor felt as though he were being chased by his own shadow. It never got closer, never fell behind, and seemed to know his next move before he made it. But there was nothing familiar about the shape or tone or even the smell behind him, though now he knew what was responsible for the scent of rotting flesh in fresh linen.

  “Joan!” Victor realized he was screaming, spit parachuting out of his mouth. “Joan, come get me!”

  He’d heard her—when was that? He had no idea how to measure time, not here. What was that line? I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. Who said that? Some poet, probably dead—they all are.

  What the fuck was he doing thinking about buried poets and cutlery, while being pursued by something out of a horror show?

  Where was Joan? He’d heard her last year or just a moment ago, saying that she was on the way. She’d better find a quicker route, because Victor wasn’t sure how much longer he could run. The thing behind him wasn’t even panting. It might as well have been twirling a stick and whistling a tune.

  There was nowhere to hide here, not any place that he wouldn’t be caught. He called over his shoulder. “Who are you?”

  The thing laughed. “Just someone.”

  “Who?!”

  “No one you know.”

  Victor tripped over a root and went sprawling on his face. He lay there on his stomach, hearing the figure approach and then come to a stop above him. There was that laugh again, like a growl or an old engine rumbling. But nothing else. No attack.

  Fuck it. Victor flipped over onto his back. Might as well see what the hell was after him. Rather, what he had been caught by.

  The creature was indeed wearing a well-tailored linen suit, brogues, with the chain of a pocket watch tucked into a vest pocket. But its head was in shadow. Victor squinted.

  “What do you want from me?”

  The thing reached down with gloved hands and pinched the fabric of its carefully cut pants above each knee to allow it to bend, and then it lowered itself so Victor had a clear view of its face.

  It rubbed its fingers together like it was asking for money while it regarded him. “Well, hello there, human.”

  Victor screamed into the trees, but there were no birds to take flight. There was nothing but him and the rogarou.

  17

  WOLVES IN THE SOUTH

  The last thing Cecile wanted was to be stuck at some retreat with the Reverend and a collection of idiots. And yet, here they were, pulling up to a cheesy off-the-grid community lodge, even farther off the beaten path than they normally travelled. They were somewhere near the US border in the middle of a national park.

  Cecile slung her weekend bag over her shoulder and rushed through the pouring rain into the lodge. After her moment of communication with the Almighty by Lord’s Lake, she was back in control. No one was going to call dibs on shit until she had picked her own space, especially since Heiser was staying off campus. That obviously meant she was in charge. The Reverend could keep tending to the souls for now, but she was the one who would keep the group in line.

  The lodge had one huge, central room, a kitchen, gendered washrooms, a small office with a computer and a printer, and a closet area with hooks and cubbies, but no bedrooms, no beds. There was no upper floor, either. Instead, the ceiling arched up forty feet to a pointed roof dotted with cloudy skylights.

  Great. No privacy? Surrounded by morons? She’d just have to take over the office.

  “This place is beautiful!”

  “Right?”

  Ivy and one of her ponytailed sidekicks were high-fiving each another, kicking off their sneakers and twirling in their socks on the hardwood floor. A part of Cecile still wanted to feel this joyous over the small crumbs life offered. But that wasn’t her lot anymore.

  “Let’s get the kitchen stocked and the bedding and pillows inside,” Cecile ordered, even though the others were already doing just that. She rounded on Ivy and her friend, who stifled themselves and shuffled off to the vans, though they couldn’t help bursting into laughter just outside the door.

  The Reverend’s vehicle pulled up outside. Garrison was driving him, treating the job like he was a member of the secret service, if that secret service agent drove around a small-town preacher in a Dodge Journey that smelled of joint cream and hand sanitizer and had belonged to his mother.

  Then the front door opened, the rain clapping in the trees, and the Reverend walked in with a smile on his handsome face. Garrison followed, laden with bags.

  “Good, I am so glad we’re all here. Now we have a full set of apostles,” the Reverend said, grinning, his skin glowing, his hair perfect. The others giggled, yet even so, felt important in the light of his attention. He turned and smiled at Cecile, like that night in the woods had never happened. “Cecile, our rock, our strong guiding star,” he said, and he reached out and took her hand in both of his, squeezing it gently.

  She felt a quick beat of hope. Maybe things could go back to the way they were? But it faded fast. She wasn’t the woman who had sought him out so shamelessly. Not anymore. What was his attention in comparison to holding private audience with the Father Himself? Still, she smiled back at him. He was inconsequential. They’d all see it soon enough.

  The Reverend moved on, and Cecile went over to Garrison, who was standing by the kitchen door, a jam sandwich already in his hand. “I need a lift into town please. We’re low on feminine hygiene products.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, dear. We wouldn’t want any of our sisters to go without, would we?” She turned and headed for the door. He was left with no choice but to follow. He couldn’t let a high-ranking member wait for him in the pouring rain while he ate.

  At first they drove in silence, Garrison concentrating on the road through the rain and Cecile composing a message in her head. How much would someone like Joan—a pagan, obviously, drug-addled more than likely—even understand? She’d have to keep it simple.

  When they hit the highway, Garrison relaxed. “Oh, thank Jesus that’s over. Whew!” He shook out one arm at a time, then looked over at his passenger. “You okay there, Cecile?”

  “I am better than fine. I am truly blessed.”

  “I hope Mr. Heiser has the same bright outlook. I’ve heard the weather has made for some traffic delays. He won’t be here until tomorrow, looks like.”

  “I didn’t realize he was coming at all.”
>
  “Well, he is. He wants to make sure we don’t lack for anything.”

  “I can take care of us.” Heiser was their sponsor, their advocate, but not their spiritual leader. This retreat was meant to be a spiritual one, after all.

  “Clearly.” Garrison chose his next words carefully. “I think maybe he just also wants to spend some time with us, Ivy in particular.”

  “Ivy, why Ivy?”

  “Well, because they’ve been spending more time together lately. Personal time.”

  He arched his eyebrows and lifted his shoulders and looked at her knowingly. Garrison loved gossip, the big old gay. When she was leader, she’d get him some conversion help. But for now, she would squeeze him for every drop of juice he had to offer.

  “Really?”

  “I saw her leaving his room myself, just three nights ago.”

  Only the seatbelt was holding her back from literally shaking him. “Did you ask her what was going on?”

  “Not in so many words. But when she saw me in the hall she gave me the shh finger.” He lifted his own fat finger to his lips.

  “Oh my.”

  “Yup. And then she did this little wiggle move to pull her skirt down.” He wiggled in his seat to demonstrate. “Pretty incriminating, if you ask me. Not to mention a sin.” He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “I am asking you. I’m asking if you’re sure about it?” The blood rushing in her ears was making it hard to see straight. She’d thought Ivy was after the Reverend, but it turns out the little tramp had gone straight to the top. Fuck!

  “Uh, yes. I mean, Lord, Cecile, that’s all I know.”

  She tried to calm down—to remember the light and love she’d been so damn full of. She uncurled her fists and put her middle fingers to her thumbs, invoking a small prayer for patience. “I’m sorry, Garrison, dear. It’s just—it’s just that I heard she was aiming for the companionship of the Reverend, not Mr. Heiser, is all.”

  He looked away from the road for a moment, checking her expression for sincerity. “Heavens, Cecile. Why would she do that? Everyone knows you and the Reverend are made for each other.”

  She shut her eyes against a fresh wave of humiliation. So all of them were watching, waiting for her and the Reverend to get together. What would they think when they didn’t? Now she really had to make sure the Reverend checked out, and Ivy with him.

  She checked her phone to see if she had service. Two bars. She quickly logged on to Facebook. “How much longer to town, Garrison?”

  “Lord Almighty!” He swerved in his lane and she almost dropped her phone. “Did you see that?”

  “What?” She hadn’t seen anything. But then came another clap of thunder, this one so loud it shook the car.

  “The lightning. It hit the ground, I’m sure of it.” He leaned forward, peering around her.

  “If it’s this bad, maybe Heiser won’t make it.” She was calm.

  “It did hit, look!” Garrison pointed out her window and she turned.

  In a farmer’s field, a tree had been split down the middle and was smouldering. Its bark had exploded off the trunk with the strike, the exposed wood ragged and pale. Flames licked up and were tamped back down by the rain, the sky fighting with itself to bring heat and water at the same time. She watched until they were over the next hill, until all she could see was a single plume of smoke still rising through the rain.

  That smoke was a message as clear as if He’d leaned through the foggy glass and whispered in her ear. Cecile now knew exactly what she had to do.

  VICTOR IN THE WOODS: THE AGE OF REASON

  “I am just as trapped as you are, brother,” the rogarou said. “And just as miserable about it. Maybe more.” It rubbed its chin with a thoughtful hand.

  Its eyes were distracting, flashing between yellow and green like a traffic light. Caution, stay still, they shouted. Get the fuck out of here! they screamed.

  “The truth of it is, I was tricked here.” It lifted its arms level with its shoulders and turned a slow circle. “I don’t want to be here.” It spoke slowly, as if Victor were himself slow.

  Victor was backed up against an elm trunk, where he had wrapped his shaking arms around himself in a weak attempt to stay calm.

  “I am used to being a free agent, so to speak. I don’t like to follow anything but my own heart.” It tapped at its chest with the head of its walking stick, the rounded knob carved into a snarling wolf’s head. “And yet here we both are.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My dear child, you know who I am.” It rested the stick on Victor’s shoulder like it was knighting him. “You know in your bones.” As it uttered the word bones its eyes flashed in the dark. Victor held his breath.

  He did know. This was the creature from one of his moshom’s stories, the dog from the road, the dancing trickster who didn’t fuck around. “I do.”

  It smiled. “I have a bit of a reputation, don’t I?” If it really was trapped, it seemed pretty calm about it all.

  “Normally, I would slip right over you.” It ran the stick up one of Victor’s arms, across his chest and down the other, as if measuring him for a suit.

  “But then I ran into a stranger somewhere.” It rubbed its forehead. “It’s the damnedest thing, I can’t really remember…Regardless, I ended up slipping under you instead.”

  The creature sighed and lifted its head toward the moon, which had managed to cut through some of the pervasive gloom. Victor stared at its long snout, at the dark fur that covered its cheekbones and brow. Not man at all, though it spoke like one and wore a man’s clothing.

  In its presence Victor felt the certainty of his end and he remembered his moshom taking him out on an overnight hunt when he turned seven. In the church and at his Catholic day school, the priests called seven the age of reason. Moshom called it the age of learning how the hell to survive. Same thing, really. So the day after Victor’s birthday party, held in his grandparents’ kitchen with a dozen cousins and not enough cake to go around, Moshom took the boy into the woods.

  “People think it’s the hurt things you gotta worry about. The hungry ones. The crazed ones.” Moshom settled on a large rock and lit a filterless Player’s. “But they don’t think, them. Hunger and hurt makes an animal do things he won’t do regular. Makes him irrational. He’ll make mistakes. You can live to see tomorrow because of those mistakes.”

  Victor sat on his packsack watching as his grandfather coaxed a fire out of kindling. The flames, as they grew, turned everything kinetic. Even his grandfather’s face, usually stern and smooth, was animated. Shadows poured out of the crooks of branches. They slid along the leaf-strewn ground. They formed solid figures just beyond the first trees and teased the boy from there.

  “It’s those healthy ones you gotta look out for when you’re tryna stay alive. The ones who know what they’re doing. They got their job and they’re damn good at it. An animal’s not lazy like a man. He’ll kill because it’s what he’s supposed to do. He’ll eat every part that’s not poison. A creature who understands his own damn self and isn’t distracted by fear or pain: that’s the creature you don’t turn your back on.” The old man tapped his smokes in the breast pocket of his flannel jacket, indicating his heart.

  So here, in the clearing, Victor kept his back against the tree while he unwound his arms and stood. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from wavering. Which was impossible, because he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask.

  “You’re going to eat me, aren’t you?”

  The rogarou laughed so hard it howled. And then it said, “In a manner of speaking, yes, and also quite literally.” It crouched to seek out Victor’s eyes and stared yellow into them: caution, caution.

  “Only the parts that aren’t poison.”

  18

  HURRY

  Her head hurt like an open wound. But that was minor compared to the operatic pain in her hand. She waited in bed with her eyes closed, a pillo
w pulled over her face. It would come back to her. It usually did. Yup, here it came…

  The email.

  The Drunk Tank.

  The cowboy.

  The truth.

  The punch.

  She threw off the pillow, then winced as she checked out her hand. It was swollen, the entire rack of knuckles split and bloody. Those damn veneers.

  She swung her legs off the side of the bed and waited a moment for the nausea to settle. Then she tiptoed to the bathroom and ran the water as hot as she could stand and held her hand under the stream to clean it, swearing steadily. Then she switched it to cold for the swelling.

  She wiggled each finger, relieved that nothing was broken. She dried her hand as best she could, then patched it up with an alcohol wipe and gauze from a small first-aid kit she carried in her purse. She carefully dressed, wincing when anything touched her hand, then had to take her time as she repacked. The ministry wasn’t here. Victor wasn’t here. And after the email and the fucking bar, all she wanted was to go home.

  When she slid the keys into the ignition of her Jeep, she had a moment of fear that it wouldn’t start. Fingers crossed.

  She turned the key and there was too much silence and she was sure she’d been jacked again. But then came a rumble and a rev and the Jeep gurgled to life.

  Thank god.

  She backed out of her parking spot and drove slowly across the lot, keeping her head down in case the cowboy was around. It would take her a few hours to get back to Arcand, so she paused at the end of the driveway, reached into the glove box and grabbed a bottle of Aspirin, shaking three directly into her mouth and chasing them with last night’s cold coffee. Then she turned right, toward home.

  * * *

  Zeus’s bike was sprawled on her front lawn.

  Fuck.