by Amy Star
Sarah obediently went to the closet and pulled out the Army green plastic-shielded satellite phone. It was bulky and heavy, in the same way that Chris was, and she thought they made a suitable pair. “I think this qualifies as an emergency,” she said, and turned it on. “There’s… there’s no signal.”
He nodded. “Takes… awhile, sometimes, to get a signal.”
“Well, this is the first bit of good news we’ve had in awhile,” she said out loud.
*
Meanwhile, Dylan was busy patrolling the winding trails that led over the island. The island itself wasn’t huge but it was big enough that if you didn’t know the lay of the land you could end up getting lost quite easily. Tall groves of pale-trunked cedars littered the underbrush, reaching high into the sky with their lofty boughs, interspersed here and there with the smooth blood-colored trunks of arbutus that winded in precarious serpentine tessellations. Down by the shoreline the stronger, hardier straight-trunked sequoia stood like sentries, guarding the interior of the island like a windbreak.
Dylan knew all these trees by heart, but more importantly, he knew where they were localized. In the six months he’d spent training his body and his mind to better adapt to the shift from human to bear and back again, he’d come to know the island as well as he knew his own name. All he had to do was speak it, and the topography opened up to him. This morning, he skirted some of the watersheds, the small creeks and streams that speckled the island, many of them dark as well-steeped tea with the bled off tannins of trees. Although, recently, the streams were quite clear. Just wait for the next rain storm, he chuckled to himself.
Chris hated when the water turned a dark brown even though it was perfectly safe to drink (arguably even better, considering it was laced with minerals and vitamins), the older man had a hard time dealing with it. But Dylan had another purpose in tracing the water streams. Here and there, in the wetter patches of mud and lowland grass, grew a number of plants and herbs endemic to the west coast that could be used as a sort of medicine and antiseptic for Chris’ wounds.
In all likelihood, his patron was out of the woods in terms of the infection but he still worried. It took a lot to take a giant like Chris down. I guess a 30 aught 6 rifle would do it, he thought, trying not to recall the events of the two days past. He still had a nasty cut on his forehead covered with Sarah’s dressing. It would leave a deep and wide scar, even though she’d managed to sew it together.
The images in his mind turned from blood, pain and pressure to that fateful night, when he and Sarah had finally consummated their marriage-to-be and made love. He blushed in spite of himself, recalling the feel of her warm body sliding against his, the feel of her pulse through a breast or a thigh, or her own stunted breathing gasping into his ear. Maybe it was the stress that had driven them to it; maybe it was being trapped on an island. These were his excuses – his rationale – for avoiding the more obvious answer.
She’s fallen in love with me, he dared to think. And what about me? He searched his feelings, and while he could say with certainty that he felt strongly about her, he wasn’t sure what to call it. “Gah,” he moaned out loud, slipping on a stone and splashing up to his ankle in muddy water. He looked down and tried to peel off the grime on his hairy leg with his finger and threw it back in the small stream. And there, just upstream, he saw what he’d been looking for.
The mud forgotten, a smile drew on his broad lips and he pulled back the heavy black sheaf of hair that had started to grow shaggy and slide wave-like over his broad brow. His blue eyes centered on the spiny plant. He took out the knife from his waistband and began to saw at one of the pale stalks. Devil’s Club, an aptly named water-borne plant with fearsome nettles. He swore as his hand slipped and received a stinging reward for his efforts but it could be made into a tea and would help with Chris’ recovery. The dank heavy smell of it was pungent that he had to turn his nose away from it as he gripped a handful of the shoots and, satisfied with his bounty, started back toward the cabin.
His shirt was already wet with sweat, and clung to him uncomfortably, so he peeled it off and stuck it in the waistband of his pants next to the knife. Young full muscles rippled with promise. All the time spent clambering up hillsides, running, and climbing trees had given him a lithe and dexterous frame, no longer the boyish musculature that he had arrived on the island with. Now, there was something mature, something thick and hardened to him, a comfortableness with the flex and ease of tendons and the wiry flesh that concealed them.
He had taken to going barefoot on the island. It felt good to feel the earth under him and it gave him additional grip as well. He felt as if he was truly returning to his roots, so to speak. Bears had no need for hiking boots or sandals and he had begun to take a certain pride in the endurance of his feet; they had hardened, turning into thick callused pads, and he could easily run the rocky root-wracked trails without fear of cutting his feet, which he did now.
Autumn was fast approaching, and he could feel a small snap in the air, like the warning of what was to come. With the passing of the season, new smells began to unearth themselves, lacing the air with their own sweet aromas like calligraphy. He suspected that was why the training took so long. It was the initiation that every male shifter had to undergo and it wasn’t just about learning how to shift or get in touch with the inner bear that resided in his kind. It was a process that was designed to inform the novitiate about the cycle of things, the one restless constant that pervaded all existence – change.
I wonder if that’s what Chris is trying to teach me, he thought, a bit contemptuously. He had nothing but respect for his oldest friend in the world, but he was a bit frustrated with the protocol the elders had enforced. Not the least was the way in which they had had him select his mate: a small booklet with a profile list of different women of ideal mating age, who had been carefully chosen as appropriate candidates. Based on what criteria, he wanted to shout.
No, it wasn’t Chris’ fault. And neither was it Sarah’s. He had brought her to the island in the first place, and even though there had been a tepid connection between them, it had quickly turned on its heel. But it was he who had put her in the danger they were now facing, and he couldn’t escape that lingering fact. His pace quickened as he ran, barefoot and shirtless, fresh sweat slick on his back and forehead, as a frown overtook his clean-shaven cheeks.
Before he made it back to the cabin, he veered off one of the lesser used trails, already starting to overgrow with salal and ferns that hovered over top of it, creating a mini canopy that seemed to be trying to hide any evidence of human or bear. He smirked and bushwhacked through it, the speed of his sprint causing the ferns to shudder in his wake as though they’d been jostled. He knew that the trail edged over several high granite cliffs that gave a relatively good view of the bay to the northeast of the island. That’s where the poacher’s had come from, and if they tried to land on the island again, that would be the best place to run aground.
He slowed consciously as he neared the cliffs. He could already see the grey-blue break of the ocean and horizon through the trees ahead and crouched low, going down on all fours, as he peered over the side, his face framed by the foliage. Nothing. That was good news, but in a way, the waiting and expectation, the constant threat of them possibly returning, was even worse. Part of him hoped he might see the small white mark of a boat ploughing the waves, something that would clarify the danger for him, bring it into a physical and real light, rather than this dancing around what-ifs and shadows.
When he got back to the cabin, Sarah was outside rooting through the small fenced off garden behind. She still had on her running shorts and tank-top. He watched her wipe at her brow with the back of her hand, smudging the top of her eyebrows with dirt. She almost didn’t hear him until he was right at the gate.
“Geezus!” she said, gasping and almost stepping on the tomato plants. “Don’t do that!”
“Sorry,” he held up both hands defensivel
y. “Force of habit. When you’re in bear form long enough, you tend to want to walk like one. Real quiet. How’s Chris, is he awake?”
She nodded and squatted down, plucking several ripe tomatoes into the wicker basket beside her. He noticed with sly grin that she had started to follow his example, going bare foot at every opportunity. Already her toes and her soles were dark, like someone had penciled them in.
“I think he’s still weak… I don’t think he’ll be able to walk, much less run, should the occasion warrant it,” she said, and a look flashed between them. Both of them had started to think in terms of worst-case-scenario, which did little to improve the morale that loomed down on them like growing stalagmites. “But! He remembered about the radio…”
Dylan snapped his fingers and felt like hitting himself in the head. “I’m such an idiot,” he exclaimed. “I’d completely forgotten. Truth be told, I don’t even have the access code for it… another one of the elder’s rules. Thank goodness for Chris. Did you two get a signal out?”
“Not yet, but I left it with Chris. I guess… it’s not the most reliable piece of equipment,” she said, and stood up. “In the meantime, I thought I’d try and take care of the garden… you men really don’t have much of a green thumb, do you?”
He stepped through the gate and gave the garden a pitiable expression. She saw his look and giggled under her breath, and he approached her and wrapped his arms around her stomach from behind, nuzzling his face against the top of her head. A sweet smell lingered, some sort of flower, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what that flower might look like. He was worried, for a moment, that she might flinch, or try to escape his embrace. Not too long ago, she had been confused, distant and aloof, all emotions he knew too well, and all predicated on their marriage.
But she only sighed, and seemed to relax against his chest, even as his hands trailed over her belly, pulling her closer into him. He felt her straighten her back and push her buttocks against his groin. He made a grumbling sound that was half-way a laugh and slipped his fingers an inch under the rim of her waistband on her shorts, causing her to giggle.
“Careful, Chris might hear us…” she said, and then corrected herself, “or… me, anyway.”
“Let him,” he whispered into her ear,. “He knows full well what is expected of us. If he didn’t hear us the first time, he certainly won’t hear us this time.”
“He’s awake this time,” she japed him, “and this time it’s in the daylight.”
She twirled in his grasp until she was facing him and wrapped her arms around his head but instead of kissing him, she merely stared at him, matching his eyes to hers. He felt suddenly naked, more naked than he’d even been, as she gazed at him, into him, as if puzzled by something she had caught on the periphery of her vision. He reminded himself that people usually couldn’t hold eye contact for more than twelve seconds and began to count down, but by time he’d reached fifteen, he knew there was something more.
“What is it? What are you looking for?” he teased her coyly, but kept his eyes fastened to hers.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, “some way to make sense of what I’m feeling. It’s hard…”
“Hard?”
She bit her lip and finally broke contact, dropping to her knees again to pick up the wicker basket. “What am I to you? I think that’s what I’ve been wanting to ask… but it sounds so… stilted, so artificial, so day-time-drama, to actually ask it out loud,” she laughed at her own analogy, “and I know you’re going to feel stupid answering it.”
“I…”
“But,” she interrupted him quickly, putting a finger to his lips. He shuddered at her touch. “… I don’t want you to answer this without thinking. I think… I think if you’re not careful, the answer will really hurt me. Which is okay, if it’s the truth… but…”
“Sarah,” he said. How to explain what he himself had no words for? His fist clenched and the pectoral muscle for that hand suddenly tightened. “Okay. I’ll think… I’ll wait. But I already know the answer, even if you won’t let me speak it now.”
She smiled at his stubbornness and took a step toward him, her small breasts gently scraping against his chest through her tank-top, and she angled her head toward him and kissed him lightly on the mouth. As she pulled away, it was impossible to conceal the pained look in her eyes, which were also at once full of a kind of pity that unnerved him. What does she pity about me, he wondered. That I was forced to make a choice between so many women, and chose her? That I have to suffer the consequences, the danger I’ve put her in now that she’s here? Or is it something simpler, something we both share in common – a loss of orientation, a compass without a bearing?
He lowered his head and said no more, even as she turned back to her work in the garden, shoving her hands into the soil’s dark complicity of worms and humus, as if he hadn’t been there at all. Disgruntled, but also shaken by her ultimatum, he walked inside and splashed cold water on his face. From the other room he heard a series of rattling curses. No doubt Chris trying to get the satellite phone to work.
Even if they could get a signal to the mainland, there was no guarantee that help would be sent quickly. He looked back out the main window and saw Sarah through the smudged pane, kneeling and plucking weeds from the garden beds. She was doing everything she could to keep busy, and in keeping busy, she was averting that circular pattern of thinking that had condemned Dylan. Smarter than me, he observed. He needed to keep himself busy, too.
He looked back out at the open acreage. If the poachers returned, they needed to be ready. Time to put some of that hard-earned training to use, he decided, and slapped another splash of cold water onto his face.
CHAPTER SIX
Arthur idled the small outboard motor at a steady pace. Sitting in the front of the boat with his rifle slung casually over one shoulder, Kyle had his camo jacket zipped to the neck and the hood thrown over, probably more to hide his scowl than to protect against the spatter of ocean that occasionally threw up over the side of the boat. But he came, nonetheless, Arthur thought to himself, hunched down with one hand on the rudder. Up ahead, the island loomed in the dying of the light. Already his trawler, the Pygmalion, would be half-way back to the mainland by now with Sean at the controls. He let his thoughts drift with the gravity of the situation back to Kieran, his son.
The cuffs of his shirt under his jacket were now dry with Kieran’s blood, and he prayed to whatever god was left to him that he’d make it through the night. The son of a bitch bear had nearly disemboweled him, and even if Kieran did survive, in what capacity? He’d have a hell of a scar, in any case. You just do what you gotta do and live, he thought to himself, trying to will the words in his head to reach Kieran telepathically, or else by some method of connection that tied them through a common blood. You live, and I’ll make sure the bastard that done you pays, he thought, muttering the last bit aloud under his breath.
The splashing of waves and the roar of the engine drowned him out, so he whispered it to himself again, louder, but not enough for Kyle to hear him. It became a kind of mantra for him, a way to fuel his anger, keep it burning as hot as the bullet he intended to put between the old grizzly’s eyes. The very one who had – no, he mustn’t think that way – killed his only son.
He grit his teeth, felt the enamel wearing down under the pressure, and spit viciously into the ocean. Up ahead, Kyle turned back, a bored look on his face, the kind that belonged to men who had experienced the weather too long, and now merely huddled under it, offering small silent prayers for its mercy.
“Comin’ in,” Kyle barked, “you wanna make for that north shore? Looks sandy enough… I don’t fancy getting ripped to shreds on those cliffs, not before we’ve finished this fool hardy mission of yours.”
Fool hardy yourself, Arthur wanted to snap back, you didn’t have to come. But Kyle would have anyway. It wasn’t so much that he shared Arthur’s taste for revenge, it didn’t even wholly ha
ve to do with some misguided sense of loyalty or sentiment. No, there was another layer to Kyle that he was hiding under the veil of an obligatory duty to Arthur.
Both of them had seen the bear Arthur shot – and then, the muscular naked man it had become when they arrived on shore. Since Sean and Kieran had departed, he had taken a chance and whispered to Kyle about the rumors of shifters, creatures in Native lore that could change their shapes at will, becoming animals or trees, even rocks, or the very waves they were sailing over.
Kyle scoffed at the notion, as Arthur figured he would, but he’d come along anyway. Incredible legends and make-believe monsters heard over campfires were one thing. But when you actually came upon such a fable, in the flesh, it was time to reevaluate what was possible in this world. Kyle was going through a metaphysical crisis. Let him, Arthur mused, I’m past that now. Just let me see the bastard… bear or man, or both… that cut my boy, and I’ll skin the fucker with my bare hands if I have to.
The promise of revenge in his imagination tasted bittersweet. For him, it was a kind of duty, something that he equated, on a primal level, with his own perception of manhood. There was nothing particularly pleasant about the notion of revenge, for him it was more about justice. A balancing of opposing forces, some imaginary status quo. At the same time, he couldn’t deny another basic instinct, a kind of giddy preoccupation with the hunt, with looming vantage that power gave him.
He nodded at Kyle’s suggestion and gently turned the outboard toward the sandy shore. The waves increased as they neared, and he saw Kyle grip both sides of the boat to support it. Already the light was dying, and instead of stars, he saw only a blurred halo where the moon was perfectly bisected. Cloud cover was marching in, a thunderous black cohort, and he swore to himself. The only thing that could spoil revenge was rain.
Kyle hopped out into the ankle deep water and hauled the boat up on the sand, even as Arthur stepped out as well and burdened himself with the dark green backpack. They’d have to make camp soon, preferably somewhere near the giant pinnacle of rock and vegetation that was the island’s highest point. From there, it would be a perfect base to reconnoiter the island.