by Laura Bickle
A gunshot echoed across the lake.
“No,” I gasped. I started to wade into the water, but Will caught my elbow. I struggled against him, writhed free, and plunged up to my knees into the mud. I keyed the walkie to shout into it: “Don’t shoot! There’s something here.”
The shining eyes regarded me for an instant before slipping beneath the surface like an eel, leaving undisturbed water in its wake. The beam of a powerful flashlight zigzagged over the water.
“Don’t go,” I shouted.
A scream sounded from our right.
“Oh, shit,” Will said. “Those guys fucking shot somebody...”
I slogged up the bank in my waterlogged shoes and pants. Will offered me a hand up the slope, and I took it, thoughts racing forward to the source of the hysterical screaming. The walkie squawked an unintelligible traffic of shrieks, panicked orders, and heavy breathing.
We raced toward a flurry of light and sound at the eastern edge of the bank, not more than twenty yards from our original position.
It was the teens. It had to be the teens.
They were clustered around bouncing flashlights. The girls were shrieking and wailing. Will and I muscled through the wall of bodies to find a young man dancing with a snake.
Well, that was what it looked like. When I was fifteen, a friend of mine who belonged to a Pentecostal church asked me to come with her to Spring Festival. My seemingly normal friend and I wandered around people writhing, and talking in tongues, and handling snakes. An old man shook copperheads as if they were soda cans ready to explode. The snakes never did bite.
But it looked like this one had. One of the teenage boys was turning in circles, shrieking at a snake latched onto his hand. The tail lashed back and forth as he flailed, trying to free himself.
“Hold him down,” Will ordered in that calm tone of authority I’d heard him use on the rock-flinger who’d broken my windshield.
Two of the teens seized his shoulders, and Will snatched the arm with the snake dangling from it. He grabbed the snake’s tail and pulled.
“Don’t do that!” I reached behind the snake’s head. “Let me.”
I pushed the head of the snake forward, and it disengaged as easily as removing a clothespin. It wasn’t a big snake or a poisonous one: just an annoyed black snake, maybe four feet long, who’d thought the teen’s fingers looked like an edible rodent.
I squinted as the hunters’ bright halogen light bore down on us. Instinctively, I flung the snake into the river. It landed with a wet smack, but it would surely be safer there than with guys with guns who needed target practice.
“How did you get it to do that?” Will asked in amazement.
“Old snake-handling trick. Most snakes have recurving fangs. Pulling them straight back causes them to dig in deeper. You have to push ’em forward to get them to release.”
The bitten teen was sitting on the ground, shaking, his wrist bloodied. The hunters crouched down beside him. One of them had a first aid kit.
“Was that snake poisonous?” one of the hunters wanted to know.
“Nope. Common blacksnake.”
“Well, that’s the one bit of luck for the day.” He tore off a piece of gauze from his kit and addressed the teen. “How in the hell did this happen?”
The teen grunted. He was pale enough to pass out.
The second hunter looked back at the water. “Yeah, well you guys started screwing around just as Bill was coming up for some air.” He smelled like fresh gunpowder.
The wounded young man’s girlfriend answered. “He was being a moron. Noodling.”
“That was fucking stupid, boy,” the hunter grumbled.
Will looked at me. “I take it noodling has nothing to do with ramen?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “No. Noodling is hand fishing. You reach into the water near the roots of trees, the little dens where catfish live. The water is pretty murky and opaque there, because that’s how they like it.” I wiggled my fingers. “The catfish thinks your fingers are worms, and comes in for a bite, and you grab it by the mouth.”
He stared at me. “You’re shitting me.”
I grinned, enjoying shocking him. “Nope. I used to work with a guy who was noodling for box turtles, but got a snapping turtle instead. Turtle took two fingers.”
“This is a weird little corner of the universe.”
“Yeah, well...” I was going to say it’s home, but wasn’t ready to, yet.
The twentysomethings had arrived and two of them were praying over the snake-bitten teen. The hunters got him draped over their shoulders and walked back toward the picnic area.
I glanced back at the water. It was still and silent, as if nothing had ever been there.
Maybe, like Will’s ghost, it was just sleeping.
*
Someone called the mother of the snake-bitten boy. Shortly afterward, the teens piled into a minivan and rode into the night with a shrill voice lecturing them like a pissed-off banshee. The rest of us deposited our equipment before Alan and pored over our evidence.
Paltry as it was.
The hunters, Will, and I had seen a large shape moving in the water. And they did confess to taking a shot at it: “That bastard would be an amazing fucking trophy.” Alan kicked them out of the group after that. It took some stones, but he did it. I re-evaluated Alan. The guy had a spine.
The twentysomething New Agers said they’d sensed a disturbance in the Force. Or something like that. It wasn’t entirely clear. A blond girl with henna tattoos on her hands talked about a still, earthy power disturbed by our presence. Her psychic powers told her it wanted to be left alone.
Alan showed us a picture on his digital camera of a dark shape on the water. It looked a lot like a log, and that was surely what people would say after he posted it to his blog. But it was a photo, and he was absolutely giddy over it. The group clustered around the small screen to oooh and ahhh.
I asked the heavy metal sound guy if he’d seen anything.
“Nope. I stay at the station,” he said, gesturing to his equipment. “I send the signal out and see what comes back. And anything that comes back, I record.”
I lifted my eyebrow. “Did you hear anything, then?”
“Not me personally. My recording equipment caught this.” He leaned back to adjust a knob on his speaker. “Hear that?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“You wouldn’t. It’s an ultrasonic noise beyond the range of human hearing.” He pointed at a series of green waves plotted on a chart on his computer screen. “I can’t parse it into any understandable pattern, have no idea what any of this means.”
“Well,” said Will. “It sounds like you called Buzzard Bill. And he answered.”
*
“You’re home late.”
I had hoped to slip home undetected, but Mom was waiting up for me. She was in her magenta velour robe that zipped up the front and looked like a costume for a Vulcan priestess on Star Trek. The coffee pot was half-empty. She’d been waiting up for a long time.
“Sorry,” I said. “I lost track of time.”
“Were you out with Jason?” There was a peculiar pressure to that question.
“Mom!” Unbidden, the plaintive teenage plea for privacy crept to my lips.
“Okay, okay. I know you’re an adult. But as long as you’re in this house, please try to call if you’re going to be out past midnight on a weeknight. I worry.” I could see in her eyes that she thought I’d been out with Jason. What else could I possibly have been doing? And I didn’t really want to disabuse her of that notion.
“Okay, Mom.” I leaned forward and gave her a hug. I knew she wanted to make sure my clothes didn’t reek of smoke and my breath didn’t smell like alcohol.
Satisfied, my mom patted my cheek. “And how was work today?”
“It’s good. I like my boss. And I’m learning the job.”
“Good girl.” She beamed. then yawned. “I’ll pump you for more
details at breakfast—and I will make you eat breakfast, young lady.”
I nodded then picked through the refrigerator for leftovers. As I heard her leave the kitchen, I closed the door and reached into my pocket for the envelope Mr. Peters had given me.
I had no intention of getting the windshield fixed right away, despite the cop’s warning. I pulled the money out of the envelope and put it in a pile on the kitchen counter. I took one twenty-dollar bill off the pile and set it aside. I thought for a moment then did it again. The rest, I stuffed into my mom’s billfold. I put the two twenties in my pocket.
There were more important things than windshields to worry about. But I still wanted a bit of savings of my own.
I padded into the living room, where my father was sleeping in his recliner, and kissed him on the top of his head.
He didn’t move, but his lips twitched into a smile. I was the only one who kissed his bald spot. No matter what he’d said about chasing dreams while in his Vicodin stupor, he was glad I was home.
And I was glad to be contributing. But my thoughts circled less around the drama at home and more around the mystery unfolding outside it.
*
The sun and work came too early.
I’d never had any problems with morning classes, since I spent more time at the library than out late partying. But it took two cups of Peters’s coffee before Gabby’s instructions on setting up shift schedules made much sense. Each worker had a magnet with his name on it, and she’d set up a magnetic wipe-off board with the days of the week. I was in the process of moving the names around corresponding to the workers’ days off when Peters stuck his head in my office. He was awkwardly holding a potted plant with a big ribbon on it.
“I’m gonna go see Gabby at the hospital at lunch. Wanna come with?”
I suspected he just wanted somebody to hold the plant so nobody would revoke his man card. “Sure.”
We piled into Peters’s truck, a Ford F-150 that still smelled brand-new. I carefully held the pot on my lap to keep from spilling any dirt on the pristine interior. We drove past the chanting protesters on the way out, with Will at the fringes. He lifted his hand in a wave.
I might’ve waved back, but my boss was too busy rolling down the window to properly give them the finger.
“Damn hippies,” he muttered.
I didn’t want to imagine what would happen if one of them threw a rock at his new truck.
“How’s your dad doing?” he asked, inevitably.
“Okay. I think.” I stared at the trees flashing past. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Is he getting around much?”
“No. Not really. He watches TV and sleeps a lot.” It was becoming easier to talk about. Maybe I was getting used to it.
“My dad had black lung,” he said suddenly, unbidden. “He was sick for a long time.”
I glanced down at the shiny ribbon on the potted plant. “I hope my dad’s not sick for a long time.” I meant that in all possible ways, though it sounded very naïve when I said it. I didn’t want to imagine what it would be like if he stayed like this for years, in this twilight state of living.
“A piece of advice...spend as much time with him as you can. ’Cause nobody’s parents last forever.”
We pulled into the hospital parking lot. Ours was a small community hospital—a brick building with just two floors and an emergency department. This was probably where they’d brought my father—a place for the sick and dying that smelled like Grandpa’s nursing home.
We went in through the regular entrance, past the gift shop filled with balloons and flowers, on to the maternity ward. Our shoes squeaked on the freshly waxed green tile floor until we reached Gabby’s room.
She was sitting up in bed, holding a baby. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was dressed in a hospital gown. Her face was scrubbed clean of all makeup, and she looked very young. The baby in her arms was pink and incredibly tiny, and she was singing to it.
Peters knocked on the doorframe. “How’s the little mother?”
She looked up at him and grinned. “Hi, Boss. Hi, Di. Come meet little Jana Renee.”
I’d never been good with kids. Truth be told, I’d never held a baby or babysat for anyone younger than the age of eight. I set the plant down on a nightstand full of flower arrangements as Peters scooted a chair up to her bedside and made cooing noises at the baby.
“It’s a beautiful name,” I said.
“Jana is my grandmother’s name. And Renee is my mother.” She smiled, handing the baby over to Peters. He degenerated into even less intelligible gibberish, tickling Jana’s tummy.
I was in awe—not so much of the baby, but of the fact that Gabby was so grown up. She and I were exactly the same age, and she was married. Living in her own house. Responsible for a new life.
“Stop hogging the baby, Boss. Give Di a turn.”
Peters reluctantly handed the gurgling pink bundle over to me. I was terrified of dropping and breaking her. She seemed unconcerned with my presence, a passive, wrinkly doll.
I stared at her. Something was wrong. Not with the baby, but with me. I gazed at it, and felt no longing, no desire for one of my own. I felt more when cradling my violin—more connected to life. More alive.
I glanced at Gabby. She glowed beatifically.
I felt a pang of despair that I wasn’t her. Not out of jealousy. It was just that I didn’t want what she had. And I was supposed to.
*
At the end of the work day, I went out to my car, which I’d purposefully parked at the far edge, away from the others. I waited behind the wheel until the lot cleared. As the dust settled, I put on my sneakers and grabbed my violin case.
Resolute, I climbed the blind side of the ridge in search of Buzzard Bill.
I ascended to the same spot I’d found at lunch yesterday, with the flat rock. The sun had dipped behind the mountain, plunging the area into shade. The rock was cool as I sat down and opened my case.
I glanced up in the trees. A sparrow perched above me, singing merrily in homophony at its fellows in the honeysuckle.
I lifted the violin to my chin, my heart rattling. I didn’t know what I meant to play. What came out was U2’s “With or Without You.” The song resonated, pure and despairing, in me. I couldn’t live with or without home. I dreaded becoming another cog in a machine, losing my art and my hope.
And yet...what made me think I deserved better? I wasn’t a superior human being to anyone, especially not someone like Jason. Someone who’d saved my father’s life.
Tears were hot on my face, and I dimly realized that the bird above me had stopped singing.
All the birds had stopped.
I turned to look back at the dark thicket, at the thing that was looking at me.
CHAPTER 10
EYES WHITE AND BRIGHT AS the moon watched me from the shadow of the dense honeysuckle. They were slitted, irising open large and black as I turned, like a cat’s when it sees prey.
A visceral jolt of fear pounded through me, unlike anything I’d ever felt before. My heart slammed against my breastbone, and my hands trembled. This was probably how a rabbit felt before it was torn apart by a hawk.
But, goddamn it, I felt something. Something I hadn’t felt when I looked at my parents, when I’d held Jason’s hand or when I held Gabby’s baby.
I felt alive. Like when I played music. Every cell singing, thrumming, alive. I drew the bow across the strings again, continuing the song. My rendition was clumsy—my hands shook too much on the fingerboard and the bow. But I watched the creature’s eyes as I played.
The black pupils thinned. The eyes narrowed, like a drowsing cat’s. What I was doing was pleasing to it. It liked music. It liked my music.
I came to the finale of “With or Without You” and I moved into Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” The eyes narrowed to bright slits, like crescent moons.
I kept playing. I played until the sun dipped below the mount
ain and the sky flamed gold and red and the shadows gathered. I played until my fingers cramped, and I set the violin and bow down in my lap.
The silence surrounding us was crushing. No birds, no crickets dared sing.
The creature moved, and I held my breath. The eyes rose from the ground, as if drawn by a puppeteer’s strings, but these eyes were supported by a massive black shadow. It had been crouching low in the underbrush, and I gasped as it drew itself to its full height, a silhouette of a snakelike neck lifting from the honeysuckle until it towered over me. It sat back on its haunches, and the silk-like rustle of wings as blotted out the last of the sunset. They were spangled in sticky white honeysuckle blossoms.
“A dragon,” I breathed.
It was the only word that came close. The creature was as large as the sugar maple tree that held my tree house, with glistening black scales. Two streaks of white stretched over its ears and down its back, like a badger. It folded its wings and inclined its spade-shaped head toward me.
“You play very well,” it said, in a voice that wasn’t human. It sounded the way ravens spoke when they were trained to talk: brittle and gravelly, as if it were missing the soft palate needed to take the edge off the words.
Jesus, it could speak.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
It leaned forward, and its nostrils flared. It smelled like charcoal. “You were at the lake. One of the hunters.” Its eyes narrowed, and this time, I didn’t think it was in pleasure.
“Yes,” I croaked. “I just wanted... I wanted to see you.”
It cocked its head.
“I don’t mean you any harm,” I said. “I swear.”
It made a small huffing noise. “Well, now you’ve seen. You can go tell your friends that you’ve seen...Buzzard Bill.” It turned around, shrugging almost haughtily, and began to melt into the underbrush.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t go.”
It paused. One eye looked back at me.
“I’ll play for you,” I said desperately, even though my fingers ached. “I won’t tell anyone.”
The creature seemed to deliberate. It turned back. “One more song?”