This River Awakens

by Steven Erikson

  She slammed the receiver down. She lit another cigarette, then crossed her arms. ‘Next time, Owen,’ she said, her back to me, ‘walk, don’t run home.’

  ‘Uh, sorry. I didn’t know she’d call.’

  ‘Count on it.’ She faced me and stepped close, resting a hand on my head. ‘With Miss Rhide, count on it every time.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I need a coffee,’ she said. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen.’

  We sat on the stools at the counter. She sipped coffee, tossed out smoke rings, looking thoughtful. Finally, she sighed and said, ‘Jennifer’s having problems. How much do you know?’

  ‘At school? Well—’

  ‘No, I mean at home. Her parents. The situation there.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t talk about it. Ever. I haven’t even met them.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense. Sort of. I’ve learned things I had no right to learn – about all that. The last time Jennifer and I sat down, I could see there was something she wanted to talk about, but I didn’t push it. You can’t push it. She’ll run if you do that. Rhide’s supposed to be there to help. Christ, she’s just one more problem for Jennifer. Where’s the support?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, completely lost. What was it about her parents? What was so terrible?

  ‘Sorry,’ Mom said, ‘thinking out loud. So your teacher has put herself between you and Jennifer.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Since day one. It’s a pain, but we’re still going together, and that won’t change.’

  ‘Good for you. It’s none of Rhide’s business.’

  ‘She thinks it is.’

  ‘It isn’t. She’s out of line, Owen. That can happen to teachers as well as to anyone else. Don’t let her intimidate you on that. If she tries, call me – just walk out of class and call me right away. I’ll go straight to the school board.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said quietly. I’d never seen my mother so agitated, so fierce.

  ‘Now,’ she said, rounding on me. ‘What’s this about your grades? And your note-taking?’

  I shrugged. ‘She’s teaching what I learned last year—’

  ‘Not very well, it seems.’

  ‘The test? Oh, that. She said it was a practice test.’

  ‘A practice test?’

  ‘Yeah, doesn’t count on your grades. I pass all the real ones.’

  ‘Then why did you get all the answers wrong?’

  ‘Not wrong, exactly. Just incomplete. Like I said, it didn’t count. I didn’t study. Besides, I wanted every answer to be exactly ten words long. One sentence, ten words. It’s hard to pack everything in. Harder than I thought, I guess.’

  She closed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Oh, Owen,’ she said, ‘go get into your clown costume.’

  I jumped down from the stool.

  ‘From now on,’ she added, ‘just do the tests properly. Practice or not.’

  ‘Okay. Do you think Rhide knows she’s teaching Fifth Grade social studies?’

  Her eyes squeezed shut, she shook her head. ‘I have no idea, Owen.’

  V

  Snow like ashes. Sten smiled at the scene through the kitchen window. It was nearing midnight, and all the world’s runts were snug in bed. No more knocks on the door. No more shrill proclamations – Trick or treat! Just the silent snow left, draping its meaningless whiteness on to everything.

  With winter, our house gets smaller, and smaller and smaller. The walls are alive with chittering tongues, the floors heave with restless passings. Our shoulders brush the hallway’s peeling walls, we hunch to keep our heads from scraping the ceiling. We grunt our thoughts like Neanderthals in a cave, and I want that hair in my fingers, my cock huge in my hand.

  But it was almost midnight, and he was on his way. The lich. The peach-skinned bastard walks tonight, with his drooling grin and the pits inside which I can see my own eyes, embryonic and blasted with venom. I’ll hear him soon, in the clank of bottles, the shuffling feet, and I’ll smell his stench – he’s dripping with bile, spitting out pieces of his guts while crows cling and squabble in a black mess of feathers right there at the hole under his belly button. Ripping out slices of liver, heads jutting as they work the morsels down their narrow throats. And his fists are huge, onion skin wrapped over cracked, misshapen bones. There are bits of my face on them still, pieces of meat, shards of tooth, my spit and my blood – all still there because that’s how I see his hands now, how I’ll always see them. Those inexorable, relentless hands.

  ‘Fall. Fall down, you little shit! Show me just how goddamned spineless you really are! Stay up after this, and this! And this andthisandthisandthis—’

  I stayed up. I never went down. I won in the end. I won.

  The house remained silent behind him. Elouise asleep. Jennifer asleep or drugged out or maybe masturbating upstairs. His smile broadened. Outside, the dogs padded restlessly. They’d barked themselves hoarse. All those kids – they’d wanted soft throats in their jaws, so bad, so bad, and the hunger, the desire remained, keeping them awake, still hopeful. Still ready.

  The wind had picked up, swirling the snow, raising itself to a low moan. That’s him, isn’t it. Hallowe’en, the night of the dead. The wind rips through the fabric, it opens the way, and now he’s coming. Closer, closer.

  Sten felt something warm dribble down his chin. He wiped at it, saw blood on his hand. His welcoming smile had set his gums bleeding. The memory of Fisk’s knuckles returned in a dull ache. Better than you, Dad. That old man, he knew how to punch. He knew how to go for effect, to break something each time. He wasn’t drunk, Dad, that was the difference.

  Sten clawed at his face. The pain was unbearable, the throbbing of cracked bones, all those flaws that now answered the storm outside. There was blood coming down from his nostrils. His ear was ringing, a high-pitched pressurised scream.

  He raised the rye bottle and tossed back three mouthfuls.

  I need. I need protection. This time he won’t get to me. I know what I need. I know exactly. Moaning with pain, Sten staggered to the back door. He set his bottle down and shrugged his way into his felt coat. Cold out there, so cold, so cold. He collected the bottle and drank some more, then pushed the door open and stepped out on to the porch.

  My dogs. They’re watching me. They know he’s coming. But they’re mine. Mine, not his. Four savage, hungry beasts. Four – no, three. Oh, Christ. Max.

  He wiped the blood from his face with a sleeve, the plumes of his breath streaming into the wind. The air was bitter cold. Winter, my winter.

  Sten went down the steps. He took the wind on his face, feeling the stinging snow on his cheeks, willing the cold to seep in and numb the pain. His gut was on fire, churning like a maelstrom. Squinting, Sten stared at the sky. Pallid clouds, their western edges reflecting the city ten miles away – a lurid cast, coppery and sickly. Snow speeding down like stars tumbling from heaven, melting to nothing against his face. The wind shrieked in his head, and he could hear now – faintly, so faintly, the clang of bells. Bells. Bottles. He’s coming. I hear him.

  Kaja whined in the kennel. Ignoring her, Sten rushed for the work-shed. He pushed open the battered aluminium door, then paused at the entrance to drink another mouthful before plunging into the darkness.

  The shovel slipped from its hook when he groped for it, falling in a loud clang. He hissed a curse, picked it up and headed back outside. He’s coming, I hear him. He hefted the shovel, scanned the far edge of his wife’s garden, now all snarled with snow-matted grasses.

  Kaja let loose a howl. She knows, the bitch knows. She’s calling, listen to her joy! The other two dogs picked up the chorus. Grinning, Sten stumbled over the garden’s uneven ground. I know you’re coming. With your beasts all fanning out through the clouds. Still burning from hell’s fires, you’re coming back. And you want my blood. Again. You want it again. But I’ll fight fire with fire. My hell against yours, Dad. It’s Hallowe’en. Both ways, Dad. Boy, won’t you be
surprised. He reached the uneven earthen mound, stabbed the shovel into the frozen dirt. My favourite. Here to protect me again. One more time. You think your horns frighten me, don’t you? But listen to my dogs answer you. Listen to them! They’re going wild! He flung away clumps of earth, his breath coming in gasps. Dammit, what’s with this rye anyway? Oh yeah, it’s water. I’m clean. I’m dry. My stomach’s killing me, ’cause I’m dry. It’s been days. My God, days. Remember Christmas, Dad? All those festive occasions, when it all started going bad, when you fucked up and by the time dinner was served you were puking your guts out in the bathroom? Remember those times? My memories of Christmas, every Christmas, Dad. How my guts churn every Christmas, every year. But you’re dead now. I’ve been walking in your footsteps. How could you do that to me? How?

  The tears froze on his cheeks, the blood from his nose hung thick and slimy, cold against his lips.

  But Hallowe’en, now. Different. I’m all grown up. I can fight back. Watch me. Oh, I hear you, so close now. So close. You think you’ll win again.

  His shovel snagged on the garbage bag. He fell to his knees and clawed at the wet, cold mud. Kaja’s so happy. Listen to her. Yes, dear, I’m bringing him back. Your beloved son. Oh, Max, oh, Max, my friend. It’s all right. Listen to your mother, your brothers – they’re going mad with joy. Listen to them! He pulled the bulky bag free. The smell caught him by surprise. He reeled back. Max? The body inside the garbage bag felt too soft in places, too hard in others. Max sounded wet, soaked, all curled up inside the bag, the tendons drawn tight around his rotting guts. Sten kneeled beside him. ‘Oh, God,’ he croaked. ‘I’m sorry.’ He pivoted and looked at the kennel. The dogs were in a frenzy, the chain-link wall shaking as they flung themselves against it. Listen to them. Oh, what have I done? Kaja – I’m sorry. I should never have done this. I’m so sorry.

  He pushed the bag back into the hole, his fingers raking dirt over it. He picked up the shovel and quickly filled the hole. When he had finished packing down the earth, he paused, racked by shivering, the spit in his mouth foul with the taste of Max, his entire body a mass of pain.

  I need a drink. I’m dry. I’m hallucinating. I thought I’d dug him up. I thought I’d called his soul, ’cause it’s Hallowe’en. It’s this storm, that wind, those clanging, clunking bottles, the shuffling footfalls coming up behind me.

  Sten spun around. He screamed as the fists flashed out at him.

  Trick or treat.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I

  Annulment. Mental incapacity. Reversion to the previous document, moneys to go to a charity for veterans, minus owing rent and interest, and funeral expenses. Reginald ‘Reggie’ Bell was deeply distressed by the decision. He’d hoped for the best – for the boy, of course. But that was for the judges to decide. The rent had been owing since ’63, plus interest, of course. The old man should’ve taken better care of his affairs, all things considered.

  A pot of gold had been shown to my father and mother. Shown, only to be swept away again. I couldn’t make much sense of the details, but it seemed that Walter had tried to leave me some money, but there’d been legal hitches, and the money was going elsewhere.

  It was hard to tell how my parents took the news. They’d seemed bewildered by the whole thing. It occurred to me that it would have been better if we’d never heard about any of it. Reggie had called his visit a courtesy, in case the boy – me – had been expecting different news in payment for befriending a rich old man. Reggie always fashioned himself a courteous man, but in the end he was responsible to the Yacht Club, and if he needed to challenge a will on the basis of debts incurred by Mr Gribbs while living on the grounds, well, then he was obliged to represent the club’s interests. Of course, you can call the lawyers if you wish to, Mr Brand. Unfortunately it won’t change things. Besides, the charity’s very grateful, very excited. That portion will go to good use, I’m sure you’ll agree.

  Nothing was done. Something seemed to break after that, break deep inside my parents. There were more arguments, and long conversations reaching hours into the night. Dad’s business wasn’t doing well – the news was a shock to me, though it became obvious that my mother knew, and so did Debbie. I’d been kept in the dark, and it made me feel young and stupid, and I spent the weeks approaching Christmas under a brooding cloud.

  There was hardly any money available. There’d be few presents, and just for the kids. I wasn’t sure if I qualified as a kid in that equation. I didn’t much care. I’d made a list, of course – mostly books, but they were all ones I could get out of the library in the city, which I continued doing. I’d wanted, more than anything else, a copy of Beowulf for myself. Now I dismissed the wish. It didn’t matter.

  Finding a spirit to match the season proved difficult. The days got shorter, the snows came and stayed, school dragged on – dull and dulling – and we all felt lost.

  My only hope of reprieve came from Jennifer. Whatever was happening with her family had directed her closer to me and my mother. She visited regularly, sometimes just showing up at the door, looking frightened and embarrassed. But my mother insisted that there was an open-door policy in place for her. Any time, day or night. She could phone, she could visit. The evening when my mother told her all this, I thought Jennifer would cry. It was a close thing, but of course she held it back.

  I didn’t know what to make of it all – I felt out of my depth, but I could see that Jennifer needed my mother as a friend, maybe more than she needed me.

  It changed our going together. We still fooled around, but not with the same abandoned greed that had marked the summer. There was more caring in it, more quiet, slow times. I began to miss the old ways, but I could see that Jennifer wanted it the way it was now. Needed it, maybe.

  * * *

  The first term was nearly over. I’d set up my hockey net in front of the garage and practised shots and rushes, using a tennis ball. No one played hockey around here, except for the Riverview kids. There was a rink, set up behind the school, but no nets. I desperately wanted a real game. I couldn’t understand the lack of interest.

  It was Sunday afternoon, and I was waiting for Jennifer. Sunday dinners at our house had become a regular routine for her, and so Mom had made it a special occasion for us as well. We’d never managed to maintain things like that before, with Dad often working, but even he’d made allowances. It seemed that the person pulling our family together wasn’t even family, but on Sundays, that was now the case. I wondered if, with the news about Walter, we didn’t need her as much as she needed us.

  I practised wrist shots, picking the corners. It felt kind of ridiculous, since my usual position was as a goalie.

  Jennifer came down the driveway. ‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘It’s Bobby Hull!’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  She wrapped me in a bear hug. ‘Cheer up,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘Only three days left, then no school, no Rhide till January!’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I’m going inside,’ she said, stepping back. ‘Coming?’

  ‘In a few minutes. Dad’s not home yet.’

  She threw me a pout.

  ‘Tonight,’ I said, ‘I’ll show you a secret.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve seen it,’ she replied, grinning.

  ‘Not that. Something else.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She headed in, her bell-bottoms frozen stiff at the flares, her hips swaying beneath the down-filled parka.

  I started on my backhand shots, the kind of shots even Bobby Hull had trouble doing.

  * * *

  She was wearing two of my sweaters, and I could see her breath as she looked around.

  ‘The candles will warm things up a bit,’ I said. ‘But it takes a while.’

  Frost covered the stained-glass windows. I’d lit ten candles, each in its own saucer, and the yellow light glistened gold on the ice crystals. ‘I’m reading all these books,’ I said while Jennifer slowly walked around. ‘Copies of them,
that is. These ones are all rotten.’

  ‘Rats,’ she said. ‘Seen any here?’

  ‘Yeah. But not lately. We set traps.’

  ‘Your parents know about this?’

  ‘No. The traps went downstairs. In the basement and stuff.’

  ‘You kept this a secret. From me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, it’s okay, I guess. I’ve never told you things. Like about my dad. He’s a drunk, an alcoholic.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Your mom knows, doesn’t she?’

  I nodded. ‘I think so. Rhide called once. My mom was so mad. You wouldn’t believe it. Rhide said stuff she shouldn’t have said. Private stuff. Mom gave her shit.’

  ‘I figured she’d heard something.’ Jennifer perched herself on the desk and pulled out her cigarettes. ‘She probably thinks we’re necking right now.’

  ‘Yeah. She sat me down, a while ago, and told me all about sex.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘That must’ve been a real scream.’

  ‘Yeah, we both started laughing. Finally she just told me to be careful, ’cause you might get pregnant.’

  She took a drag, watched me. ‘You want to do it? Fuck? You want to fuck, Owen? I won’t get pregnant. Guaranteed.’

  ‘Here? It’s freezing.’

  ‘In your room.’

  ‘In my parents’ house?’

  ‘Why not? If your mom’s already talked about it—’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Not here, I mean. Not with my parents downstairs. Let’s find somewhere else.’