Scion of the Fox

by S. M. Beiko

  I felt slighted. “No! I —”

  “You don’t destroy what you can use. That’s what my family says.” She tested the tension of the cables, then stood up. “He’s gonna tell us about his mom. So no one else dies. Okay?”

  She was still glaring at me. I averted my eyes like a chastised kid. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Okay,” she said a second time. She went back to pulling me towards her mysterious aunty, with a river hunter tied to the sled that bore my frozen, broken body. We went on for the rest of the way in silence.

  Above me, the stars had stopped laughing.

  *

  The bridge is still in chaos. News crews are on the scene, reporters interviewing pedestrians who don’t seem to remember much of what happened. A series of car accidents and a fight between two people. Many were injured but can’t recall how. A girl, some say. There was a girl. She was on fire. She went over the bridge. But when the newscasters try to get them to repeat the story, they’ve suddenly forgotten that, too.

  But there are people who have been documenting it on their phones. Taking pictures. Uploading video to YouTube, to Facebook. The onlookers prove useless in their testimony, stunned they’d filmed something they don’t recall happening. Some pictures even vanish from feeds. But CTV gets hold of one video and broadcasts it before it can be stopped. A girl falling over the side of the destroyed bridge. A vague, blurred image of her face. Who is she?

  The news scrambles to identify her, but with the faulty memories of the witnesses, reporters can only speculate. Terrorism, troubled youth, conspiracy, and cult tactics — words broadcast in place of truth, until they become truth. An anonymous tipster submits a picture of the girl, Roan Harken. A redhead. Maybe she is just another victim of the Red River murders. Or maybe she is the perpetrator.

  Perfect.

  Yes, a wave of amnesia seems to have hit all witnesses. But Eli has made certain of that. Their minds have been easily probed, their memories changed or erased. All anyone has to hold on to is that a girl has fallen over the bridge. Rescue crews are down on the ice trying to piece together what happened. Detectives are baffled by how the rail seems melted from its moorings. And if a girl has fallen under the ice in the Assiniboine, her death is almost certain.

  Almost.

  Eli moves unseen in the crowd of reporters and bewildered police, a strong psychic shield cloaking him from onlookers. He pulls his wool coat closer to himself in the night chill. The thrill of the fight has long ebbed away, replaced by a feeling of cautious victory, as well as pain in his face and burnt leg. He curses under his breath while passing the police line unnoticed and leans over the bridge rail, staring at the ice and the workers below. They will try to break through and retrieve the body. Eli knows they won’t find one.

  But a trill of worry still hisses in his chest, and he scowls against it, absently rubbing his head. Is she well and truly dead? Is it over? How can he be sure unless he finds out himself?

  “It’s neat work, cousin,” says a voice behind him. Eli resists the urge to whirl around, angry at himself for letting Seneca sneak up on him. But his face betrays nothing, for he really has nothing to hide, and he turns casually, his mental wall intractable. He probes into Seneca’s mind, but it is just as resistant.

  Eli smiles and shrugs. “It seems she finally succumbed to guilt. Hopefully this will be the end of it for the spring.”

  Seneca joins him at the railing, staring down into the ice. “Seems so.”

  Eli is carefully erasing himself from the memories of the onlookers of the entire affair. Soon, all the news would have is the girl’s name; soon, recollections would surface that she had caused all this damage — that is, if she survived. She would be watched for, noticed, unable to hide from him. It was an insurance policy if Eli himself couldn’t catch her. Let the humans do the work — his mind is busy enough.

  Harken’s friends had also been in the crowd but disappeared before he could get to them. They are his next target. He can’t risk them trying to tap another Fox, or even a Seal, and picking up the crusade where Harken had left off.

  But now he has Seneca to worry about, even though the voices assure him that nothing can threaten this new Narrative. Has Eli been sloppy in his ancestors’ plan? He has the skill to manipulate multiple minds while changing forms but had he lost control in the moment the Fox-girl bettered him? He resists touching his throbbing leg or drawing attention to the burn across his face.

  “Are you sad to see her go?” Eli asks, a harmless enough question, but filled with accusation because of what had transpired at the council meeting. He fears Seneca’s loyalties have changed. Best to redirect the tension for the moment.

  But his cousin doesn’t move, the wind pressing his sandy hair against his skull. He is deep inside his mind, either troubled or indifferent, his face conveying nothing. “What’s done is done. It’s over.” He turns to Eli, eyes full of knowing. “There is no going back now.”

  Eli’s eyes narrow. What was over? Their peril, or the ill-advised loyalties to Ancient, and all its mighty, weak tenets? “Indeed,” is all Eli replies.

  Seneca nods, pulling his hood up against the cold. “Be well, cousin. And be careful.”

  Seneca leaves Eli’s side, melting into the dazed crowd. Eli tips his head to the stars. Your cousin’s hope makes him weak — none can defeat the river snake. Eli nods at the words dancing behind his eyes, right and eternal. It will make him a traitor.

  Eli’s wings beat hard as he lights from the bridge, body and misgivings swallowed by the night.

  *

  I must have fallen asleep; the sound of the snow beneath the sled, coupled with the sheer exhaustion of the past few weeks, had taken me down into darkness. No nightmares this time, no visions. Just quiet, heavenly nothing. No images, either, just sounds, impressions.

  Roan, a voice whispered. Little Fox, rasped another, in many dry tongues. I felt Sil’s presence, but not that of her Fox form — it was Sil as flaming animal-woman, a wheel of nine tails spinning behind her. She bled through the black, leaning her huge body into a flaming garnet sword stuck in the ground. Her battle mantle was a corona, her fox head still on fire. Behind her, looming large and still, was the Moth Queen. Her wings shuddered. They both stared at me, into me, but allowed me my rest. It wasn’t a warning. Just a reminder.

  The Serpent stirs, the Moth Queen said, her children fluttering around her in a ring. It is almost time, the Sil-god nodded. The Moth Queen rested the thousand needles of her hands on Sil’s golden mantle. Sil held out the garnet blade.

  Are you ready? they both asked me.

  I opened my eyes. The mocking stars had been replaced by street lights. I took a look around. We were no longer on the Red, but a sidewalk, surrounded by houses instead of riverbanks.

  “Where are we?” I yawned, groggy but feeling much better.

  “Point Douglas,” Natti sniffed. “Nearly there.”

  I flashed to full alertness. “What? The North End? You pulled me that far?”

  Though I couldn’t see her, I was sure Natti shrugged. “How else were we gonna get there?” She didn’t seem phased by the distance, or really anything so far. And I must’ve slept for hours. Geez, I wondered how high and mighty her aunt was that she couldn’t just pick us up or something.

  Then we turned up a driveway. The yard was lost in snowdrifts, but you could see old car bodies insinuating themselves out of the snow like zombies who’d given up halfway out of the grave. Point Douglas was a far cry from Wellington Crescent. Any thoughts of high and mighty were well and dead as we got closer to the rundown North End house.

  The sled stopped suddenly. “Oh. You’re here,” Natti said.

  “Who? Who is it, Natti?” I tried craning my neck as hard as I could, but it revealed nothing in the dim outline of the porch light.

  Tiny footsteps pattered down the concrete steps. “
Me,” Sil said as she came towards me, golden eyes round and huge in the winter moonlight. She got up on her hind legs, sniffing my face before pressing her forehead to it. I could’ve wept for relief.

  “You’re a sight for sore everything,” I sighed.

  “You too,” she said and licked a tear away from my cheek.

  “What about Phae? And Barton? Did you get them off the bridge?”

  Before I could get an answer, I felt a jerk as Natti started hauling me, sled and all, up the front steps. She obviously didn’t have time or patience for heartfelt reunions. The front door opened behind us.

  “You finally back, eh?” said whoever held the door. As Natti struggled to get us up the last step and inside, I saw that the voice belonged to an old woman. She was huge; as tall as she was wide, wearing a ratty terry cloth robe and holding a cigarette. Her iron-coloured hair was clubbed back in a thick braid, big glasses hanging on a black string around her fleshy, brown neck. Her eyes glowed when the light shifted, and I saw her for the big Seal she was, a selkie wavering in the doorway. Sil followed us in, the old woman nodding at her, and the door closed.

  “Look at the set-up you’ve got here!” the old woman laughed as we settled into the cramped living room. There was clutter everywhere — the sofa looked fifty-years-used, the box-sized television crackled, and there were pop cans and overflowing ashtrays strewn beside dusty table lamps. “You did good, little nattiq. What else did you bring Aunty?”

  Natti had already started undoing the cooler from the sled as I took in the environment. It smelled stale and slightly mouldy, but at least it was warm. Sil sniffed around, investigating, but she came back and settled beside me without comment. Having her near was a reassurance we were in a safe place.

  A hulking guy came in then, another Seal, as big as Natti and her aunt. “This the Fox-girl everyone’s hatin’ on?” he said, leaning in to my face. I lifted an eyebrow at him and his awkward proximity, but I guess he was just as curious as I was. He was older than Natti, taller too, but when she pushed him away he backed off.

  “Yeah it is, Aivik, so step off.” He scratched his head but didn’t challenge her. “Ignore my brother,” she grunted to me. “He needs a hobby.”

  “Yo, I got hobbies!” he cried defensively, adjusting his skater hat and drooping jeans.

  “Yeah, if Warhammer counts . . .” Natti mumbled as she undid my blankets and revealed my icy sarcophagus.

  Aivik whistled. “Nice.” I looked over at Natti’s aunt and saw her resting her large hands on the beer cooler.

  “You brought an atshen here, Natti?” She meant the river hunter. She didn’t seem angry or even pleased.

  Natti looked over at me. “It basically means demon.” Then she shrugged, brown cheeks colouring a bit. “It came after me after I pulled her outta the river. Thought it’d be useful.”

  “Mmm.” Aunty nodded, chin merging into three deeper ones.

  There was a hesitant knock at the door, and Aivik went to it. A small voice wafted on the wind as it passed through the entryway. “Hi, we’re . . . I’m . . . looking for —”

  “Phae?” I shouted — if I’d whipped my head any harder, I’m sure it would’ve cracked the ice holding it in place. Aivik turned aside as she rushed towards me.

  “Roan!” Her arms were poised to fling around me, but she stopped short when she saw my ice-cubed status. “What . . . are you — ?”

  Aivik had disappeared out the door, only now returning as he shoved Barton and his wheelchair unceremoniously into the house. “You forgot this outside,” he grunted. Phae looked slightly sheepish.

  “It’s all good, thanks,” Barton said, wheeling as far into the room as he could. “Glad to see you on your f— well, alive, anyway.” He cringed, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “The same goes for you crazy kids.” My heart lightened past the pain. But I frowned.

  My phone suddenly clattered onto my ice-covered chest. “Pulled it out of your jacket earlier,” said Natti. “It isn’t in such good shape after your swim, but the case kept it good enough that I could text your friends.”

  “Lock it up, kids. We’ve got business,” said Aunty, and Aivik shut the door, then moved around the living room, closing the drapes. “Time to thaw her out. And you, girlie” — Aunty pointed at Phae — “get your Deer stuff ready, eh? She’s in bad shape.”

  I winced as Natti laid her hands on me and the ice began to liquefy. It didn’t melt all over the carpet, but rather left me encased in a fluid bubble. Natti split the water in two halves, then rejoined it over my head, compressing it into a dense ball about the size of a watermelon. She refroze it, then grumbled, “I’ll go put this in the sink.”

  My broken bones seemed to jut up against one another as my body settled into the sled, and all at once I felt like I was going to puke or pass out — or, regrettably, both. I tried not to make a sound, but the pain was too much. It hurt to breathe. I sucked on my teeth.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Phae tried to soothe, and next it was her hands on me. Bones and bruised flesh knitted together, but even that came with unique pain. I cried out, looking at my friend for support. Her eyes were the glowing white of the healer, the antlers in her hair solid, but blue sparks flickered along their lengths, and her brow furrowed.

  “The damage is extensive,” Phae muttered, surprised. “Your vertebrae are out of alignment. And your neck was close to broken.”

  I swallowed, unable to hold back the tears, but the pain was finally dissipating. “Well, when you wanna kill someone, you don’t half-ass it,” I groaned. “That guy wanted me good and dead. It was . . . almost personal to him. A real . . . honour . . . to do me in.”

  Sil snarled, her ears pinned to her skull. “I’ll rip that Owl’s throat out for this.”

  Aunty fixed her glasses to her nose and considered Sil through them. “Sure and you could’ve, Fox. Why didn’t you?”

  I wanted to interject on Sil’s behalf, tell the old woman that I’d sent her away. But my breath came out in hitching gasps as I felt my back return to normality. Next was my shoulder — dislocated — and a shattered wrist. Nearly done. But I had enough presence of mind to glance from Sil to Natti’s aunt.

  Sil’s eyes narrowed at her. “You know I can’t intervene.”

  Aunty’s mouth tightened, but she nodded. “Mmm. The Preparation.”

  “The what?” Natti asked when she returned, but Aunty waved her off.

  “Never you mind. How you feel, girlie?”

  I think that one was directed at me. Phae stood back but had to sit down on the arm of the sofa behind her. Scrapes were easy. Bones were tiring work. I flexed my hands, tilted my neck. Full range of motion. Natti bent over and offered support as I got shakily to my feet, finally free of the sled. I was whole again. Though for how long, I couldn’t guess. “I feel like a cat that’s running out of lives.”

  “Hope you saved one, at least,” Aunty said, undoing the cable on the beer cooler and wresting the lid free. “You’re gonna need it.”

  Natti pulled the sled away and went to shove it into an overflowing closet. We watched as Aunty waved her cigarette-free hand over the cooler, pulling the block of ice loose with an invisible tether. It floated in the centre of the room and, as I’d seen Natti do earlier, she unfolded and reshaped the ice until it was a sphere. In a flash, it turned to water, but it stayed airborne. Aunty took off her glasses, and we all watched as the hunter confined inside began to wake.

  Its eyes opened as the sphere revolved, looking into each of us with the understandable hatred of a caged animal. It lashed out against its watery prison, but it couldn’t get free.

  “Atshen, killing spirit, you are trapped in your own mother’s water. Ease yourself.” Aunty’s lilting Inuit accent had changed. The tone was like a rushing wave, or a glacier shearing into the sea. It echoed in our heads, and I sensed that the r
iver hunter understood. It turned towards her, eyes wide in shock.

  “Where is she?” it said, a voice both a child’s fearful whisper and a monster’s hissing knell. “Where is Mother?”

  Barton wheeled over to Phae. “What’s it saying?”

  I’d forgotten that Barton was out of the loop when it came to Ancient happenings. I answered him without looking away. “It wants its mom.”

  “Kinda sad,” Natti admitted, but none of us was moved to agree. The hunter took another look around the room, its hatred turning into desperation.

  “Did you hurt her? Will kill if hurt her!” The fear became rage, the teeth needling out of its terrible mouth.

  “It’s only a baby.” Aunty clicked her tongue, shifting momentarily back to her normal voice. “A hatchling.”

  It was thrashing inside the water again. “How are they even born?” I grimaced, uncomfortable with the idea that these things could reproduce.

  “They are made from the victims the river claims,” Natti said. “It was human once. Now it doesn’t remember.”

  I imagined a child unfortunate enough to not only fall into the unforgiving waters, but to be made into a monster for its innocent folly.

  “Man, this is dark,” Aivik complained. “I’m gonna get my DS . . .” He slumped out of the room. If only the rest of us were so lucky.

  I turned to Phae. “Can you . . . change it back?”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “It’s not like when Barton was infected. There’s nothing human left.”

  Figures. These were efficient parasites. Natti stepped up to the water prison. “Can you tell us about your mother?” she said, her voice a probing ripple in an Arctic stream — inviting, patient. The hunter whirled towards her, pressing its face against its confines.

  “Mother is all things. Mother loves us. Mother hates the Spirit Walkers and the dirty folk. Mother will make them all suffer.” The spiteful whisper cut away the warmth in the room, and the red, empty eyes found mine. Its vertical teeth made a poor imitation of a smile. “Mother wants Fox most of all.”