Indigo Moon

by Gill McKnight

  “That last tincture seemed to help more.”

  “Any blood?”

  “A little. Not much. I’ll be okay. You better concentrate on that new girl.” Jenna gave Ren a cryptic look before leaving to catch up with Mouse.

  “You’re both invited to dinner tonight, by the way. I happen to like her, too,” she called over her shoulder.

  Ren sank down on the edge of a bed and rested her elbows on her knees. Jenna’s cough had her worried. She was running out of ideas, and the bleeding hadn’t stopped. She’d look through the almanac again tonight and see if anything else caught her eye, but her choice of herbs was limited in winter.

  She was pleased Mouse and Jenna approved of Isabelle. It was important they all got along. Her little group was too small for confrontation. That could pull it apart. She thought of Patrick and his prickly behavior with the others. There would be a run-in soon if she didn’t act now to pull his claws in.

  She felt weary and a little lost herself. Running a young pack was exhausting. She looked around the narrow room with its rows of cots, bare walls, and meager personal possessions. It was not a home, and she hadn’t a clue how to make it one. Jenna had worked wonders with the kitchen but seldom moved out of it. She was content in her domain and in sharing the comfort she’d created with others. Before Jenna arrived, the cookhouse was a wreck of a building. Not that Ren or any of the boys had cared.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” she murmured. “Why is this is so damn hard?”

  Was she wrong to even try? What choice did she have? She dreaded to think where Mouse or Jenna, or any of the others, would be without this place. Most likely dead.

  Not many ferals survived on their own. They just didn’t have the skills. With their humanity in meltdown and their wolven side spasming out of control, they were a danger to themselves and everything that crossed their path, if they even got as far as full transmutation. Like a robust cancer, the wolven contagion reproduced quickly at a cellular level throughout the host body. The human genome was supplanted by wolven DNA flushing through the cells, reprogramming them. Lycanthropy was a fragmentation of the human self at its cellular core, not some wild call of the moon. The body either re-oriented to the invading DNA or became totally apoptotic. If victims did survive this dismantling of their physiology, the psychological stresses of that first change usually tipped them over. It was survival of the fittest, both physically and mentally, and what made you the fittest was a strong pack. An Alpha with any gumption should be able to nurture her initiates through this torment. The old Garoul almanac sitting in her kitchen had been a lifeline for more than one of Ren’s strays.

  Ren glumly thought of her little pack and the various sad ways they had come to her. Isabelle, however, was a different matter altogether… She remembered the colors of the picnic blanket. The sweet smell of wine on Isabelle’s breath as she leaned in to her for that first kiss. Isabelle’s eyes widening as she realized Ren’s intention. And that slight lift of her chin as she accepted. Ren’s skin still goose-bumped as she recalled the thrill that had run through her on that first kiss. She had at last found her mate, but that was no excuse. No amount of isolation and loneliness could absolve what had happened.

  Ren left the bunkhouse and its glum interior and made her way home. Explanations were due, and soon she would have to provide them—no matter what the consequences.

  *

  Ren was greeted by the smell of home cooking. She found Isabelle at the kitchen table, gazing off into the distance.

  “Hungry?” Ren nodded at the half-eaten steak in a pool of bloody gravy.

  Isabelle snapped out of her reverie. “I didn’t hear you come in. You move like a cat.”

  “You were daydreaming.” Ren took the seat opposite. Isabelle looked over at her puzzled.

  “I just realized something.” She looked mournfully at her bloody plate. “I’m a vegetarian. I even asked Jenna for greens.”

  “Oh?” Ren was unsure how to tackle this. It was an opportune segue, but she hesitated to grab it.

  “Yes,” Isabelle said. “And suddenly I love meat? Rare meat? Really, really rare meat. The taste is…is fantastic.” She cut another mouthful. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “Maybe your body needs the protein.” It did, lots of it. Ren was pleased with Isabelle’s robust physiology. She was coping well.

  “I cooked you one.”

  “Thank you.” Ren grinned, pleased at the cozy domesticity and thoughtfulness.

  “This is it.” Isabelle pointed at her plate and its oozing contents. “I was so hungry I ate them both.” Isabelle stared at her dolefully. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Your body’s expending a lot of energy to heal. It needs a ton of calories and proper nourishment.” Ren shrugged, making light of it. “It’s nature’s way. You’re an animal after all.”

  “Jenna said you work for the fisheries here.” Isabelle’s conversation changed direction. Ren smiled. Isabelle never missed an opportunity to ferret out some new information.

  “Yeah. We’re a satellite station for the Creeker hatchery. They have dozens of sites all over this area.”

  “A satellite station?”

  “Yup. I’m heading down there now with the boys. Come along and I’ll show you.”

  “Is that why you all live here in the middle of nowhere? You work for the hatchery?”

  “The hatchery contract is only part-time. It brings in some extra money, but my main income is from my veterinary practice. I keep a summer surgery in the valley.”

  “And the young people working for you, Ren? Where do they come from?”

  “They just drift in, mostly from Vancouver and a hundred other places in between. If there’s enough work, then I offer them a bunk and a wage.” She could tell by Isabelle’s frown her story was not as easily swallowed as the last of the steak.

  “What about Mouse? What happened to her parents?”

  “I was a friend of her mother’s. I never knew her father. He was long gone before Mouse was born. Mouse stayed with me when her mother became…became ill. We…lost her, and Mouse lives with me now. I’m her legal guardian.” The words were curt and pain-filled, though she tried to hide it.

  “Isn’t she lonely way out here? What about school, or friends of her own age?”

  “She gets home schooling and she has plenty of company.”

  “But she’s so young—”

  “Enough.” Ren rose to her feet. “It’s the way it is. This is the best place for her. It’s her home.” She realized she sounded sharp and tried to soften her words. “Are you ready to head down to the river?”

  She was relieved when, after a moment’s thought, Isabelle nodded and gracefully accepted.

  *

  Ren’s truck bounced over a mud track that was barely wider than the cab. They were hard on the tail of Patrick and Noah’s truck. A steep incline of tight hairpin curves drove them deeper into the forest. Isabelle imagined they were being swallowed, sliding down an intestinal tract into the murky belly of the valley.

  “What’s the name of this valley?” she asked.

  “The Singing Valley. And the river’s called the Tearfell. It’s a salmon race, and it’s in the center of a conservation bioregion.”

  “The names sound so beautiful…and sad. I’ve often wondered how places got their names. There must be a sad story behind this place.”

  Ren looked sideways at her. “Local legend has it the ghosts of wolves gather here, and at night the valley is filled with their singing.”

  “That’s spooky. What about the Tearfell?”

  “Someone must have thought it was salty.” Ren shrugged, disinterested.

  “Filled with tears,” Isabelle mused. The deeper they descended, the gloomier the surrounding forest became. It was a woebegone, claustrophobic place. The weak winter sun barely penetrated the tree canopy. The light that did manage to creep through was marbled gray, consumed by the shadows before
it reached the forest floor.

  They swerved around another wild bend and the track began to level out. Over the rattle of the engine Isabelle thought she could make out the splash of the nearby river.

  “We’re nearly there,” Ren said. “The valley’s about three miles wide and the Tearfell cuts from the northeast down to the coast. The water runs slower in this particular spot, so it’s easier to collect the fish eggs and milk. Today it’s running faster because of the thaw.”

  “Milk is the fish sperm, isn’t it? I’m not going to ask how you collect that.”

  “Later, after the eggs hatch, they’re brought back up here and we nurse the fry. That’s what the channel is for. We rear pink salmon fry until they’re big enough to head downstream.”

  “Does it hurt them? Collecting the eggs and milk?”

  “The fish come here to breed, then die. We leave most to do it the natural way and collect from a few, just to be sure. They all die in the end. It’s their destiny. Breed and die. But we can use their life cycle to monitor the coastal ecosystem. They are a fantastic species indicator for the health of the river and coastline.”

  “Poor fish. So more survive because of the harvesting?” Isabelle asked. The truck hit the level of the valley floor, and Isabelle saw they were headed for a clearing by the riverbank.

  “They’ll mature at sea and come back in a few years to this exact river to breed. We collect the brood stock annually. The pinks are mostly a sporting fish and we get a remit for how many we raise. The conservation side is for sockeye and coho. They’re more susceptible to disease so we have to tag and monitor their populations carefully. There’s a little less money in that, but to be honest, I’d do it for free anyway.” Her love for the valley and its nature was apparent in the warmth and energy of her voice.

  “So you collect the eggs and they’re taken down to the hatchery and then the hatched fry are sent back so they can mature in the river they came out of?”

  “Exactly.”

  Isabelle looked around her. “I feel like I know this area. At least some of the names sound familiar, like Singing Valley and Lonesome Lake.”

  Ren stiffened. “We’re nowhere near Lonesome Lake. What put that in your head?” Her voice was flat and careful now, the previous energy muted with caution.

  Isabelle shrugged and acted casual.

  “Can’t remember.” She could hardly say she’d been ransacking the contents of Ren’s suitcase and found a marked map.

  “The Tearfell’s a smaller tributary of the Old Ironshoe River. I guess when you stayed with your aunt Mary you visited some of these places. Parts of the Old Ironshoe are very touristy. You can water raft, and fish, and stuff.”

  Ren was trying hard to look nonchalant, but it was obvious Lonesome Lake was an off-topic subject for her. Maybe she was right, Isabelle pondered. Maybe she had visited these places and that was why the names were vaguely familiar. It made perfect sense. But the map proved that Lonesome Lake was important to Ren in a way that wasn’t connected to hatchery work.

  “Here we are. There’s not much to see. It’s a fairly basic setup.”

  The trucks pulled into parking spaces before a small lodge built onto the waterside. Patrick opened the lodge doors.

  “What’s in there?” Isabelle asked.

  “Nets, temperature-controlled cold boxes, waders, all sorts of fishing gear.” Ren and Isabelle followed the boys into the cabin. It was a work hut. Reams of nets hung across the roof beams. Plastic cold boxes were piled everywhere. It smelled of fish and disinfectant. Hosepipes, hooks, life jackets sat in rows. It was an orderly and efficient storage space.

  “The different fish have different breeding seasons, so it’s mostly year-round work. But there’s not much to do in the winter.” Ren made a quick inspection. “Looks good, boys,” she said.

  Noah and Patrick puffed up with the praise. Isabelle remembered the scolding they’d gotten earlier for the fox. This must be the make-up, she decided. At least Ren tried to keep a semblance of balance in managing them, but it was a strange setup. They seemed to worship her.

  Again, Isabelle wondered how this little group had congregated here in the first place, especially if the work was only seasonal. Did they all go their separate ways later in the year, or stay and farm the upper slopes? When would her growing list of questions ever stop?

  “How do you get the fish eggs down to the hatchery?” She had no idea how the system operated. Did they float them down the very river the brooding fish struggled to swim up? How ironic would that be?

  “The hatchery plane comes for them,” Noah said. He stood beside her pairing off a pile of mismatched rubber boots.

  This was news. “Planes? I thought we were isolated.”

  “Nah. We have a courier service every couple of weeks or so, for provisions or to ferry people down the valley.” He gave an easy smile at her confusion. “Jenna would bite my hand off if she didn’t get her regular supply of Tootsie Rolls.”

  Isabelle was dumbfounded. Tootsie Rolls? Wasn’t her car crash enough to merit a flight down to Bella Coola General? She’d lain for days in a hallucinogenic fever suffering brutal nightmares, to awaken with partial amnesia and a face like a prizefighter. Isabelle felt her temper begin to fray. Ren’s whole attitude to her accident was far too cavalier.

  “Where do the planes land?” she asked, keeping her voice calm. She needed to find out all she could from Noah. It was obvious Ren was not going to surrender the information.

  “Over the ridge. There’s a lake there.” Noah had stopped work and edged a hip onto a stack on boxes. He seemed content to take a break and sit with her.

  “What lake is that?” If the answer was Lonesome Lake, she was going to explode right then and there.

  “The Black Knife. Jenna and me will take you swimming there in the summer. There are some great rocks to dive from.” He gave her a huge, enthusiastic smile. “Jenna makes a killer picnic.”

  He assumes I’ll be here in the summer? Isabelle dismissed the thought. She could mull over that little tidbit later. She was on to something more substantial here.

  “Tell me about the plane. You mean it flies in and lands on the water? Like a float plane?” That sounded exciting.

  “Yeah. Float planes. We got supplies coming in the next few days. Mostly medical stuff, right, Ren?”

  Ren was poking about the cold boxes checking out the thermo gauges, Patrick shadowing her every move. She grunted at Noah, not really listening.

  Isabelle took advantage of her distraction. “Why do you need extra medical supplies?” she asked quietly. “Because Ren’s a vet?”

  “Sort of. Joey’s accident used up masses of stuff. Ren went through almost all our stitching silk and saline pulling him back together. He looked like a rag doll by the time she’d done.”

  Isabelle felt a renewed twinge of anxiety. Joey hadn’t been bragging when he said his wounds were from last week.

  “What happened to him?” she asked, determined to lay at least one of her fears to rest. Had he been mauled? Accidentally shot? Fallen from a tree? What the hell had happened to him? It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her.

  Noah gave a graceless laugh. “He forgot to look left and right before crossing the road,” he said cryptically.

  “Noah!” Ren called sharply. “I need you over here. Go over the inventory with Patrick. We need to replace several cold boxes. The thermostats are clouded.”

  She took Isabelle by the arm and guided her out of the lodge. “Come see the channel. Then we have to go. Jenna’s invited us for dinner.”

  It was midafternoon and already the sun was dipping over the valley lip. The gloom deepened and the woodland around them became even more oppressive. What little light there was had almost disappeared. The valley floor would never see much sun, not even at the height of summer; it was too overgrown and crowded. The area they were standing in would be a mosquito pit on hotter days.

  Ren led them toward her truck
.

  “We need to drive about half a mile along the riverbank to get to the channel.” She raised her head and sniffed the air. Her skin glowed and her eyes narrowed. She seemed content; a new kind of vibrancy entered her step with the lowering light. It was almost imperceptible, but Isabelle was aware of the subtle changes and looked around for the source of Ren’s excitement. Whatever it was, it eluded her.

  “You never told me there was a plane.”

  “I didn’t think to mention it,” Ren answered. “Are you always this dogged?”

  “Yes, I am. Especially when it’s clear I could have gone to a hospital at any time.”

  “You had a fever, that was all. I took care of your stitches. You didn’t need to go to a hospital. You were safe here.”

  “Ren, I whacked my head. I lost my memory. Jesus, doesn’t that worry you?”

  “It doesn’t matter where you are, here or in a hospital ward, your memories will come back. It’s best you’re with me when they do.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Ren’s fingers tightened on her arm. “Because I’m the one with all your answers.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Then tell me.”

  “I can’t. You don’t know the questions yet.”

  *

  The channel was a disappointing concrete trough, about thirty feet long and covered with a metal mesh to keep the birds out. Fresh river water constantly flushed through a series of end valves while the fry swam against the man-made current becoming bigger and stronger. Isabelle pressed against the wall and squinted at the brown fry squirming in their concrete prison. Her mind was on other things. She pushed away her annoyance at Ren and her riddles. It would get her nowhere. If she wanted answers she had to deduce them for herself. But it was interesting that a plane was arriving in the next couple of days. When it left she hoped to be on it.

  A flash of blue caught her eye as a belted kingfisher dive-bombed into the river. An instant later it splashed free with a wriggling brown blob in its beak.

  “Someone’s caught his dinner,” Ren murmured. “Maybe it’s time we did the same.”