Arctic Smoke

by Randy Nikkel Schroeder

  “Sit down,” she ordered.

  She sliced off one of her buttons. It hit the nightstand with a click and bounced. Lor could see each bit of broken thread bristling through the buttonhole, each fibre of eyebrow on her face, each lash. She licked a finger and moistened a zigzag line of hairs on his arm. Then slid his own finger between her lips.

  “Come on, Lor.” Her voice deep, somehow different. “One long, hot, slow honeyfuck is not going to kill you.”

  “What will?”

  She seized his neck.

  He sniffed ginger sweat. A sudden fit, a sudden swell.

  “Darci. Kiss me.”

  She bit his lip instead, then grabbed his wrists and cinched them with the belt. When he was tightly bound, she painted his ears with banana mud and inserted her pinky.

  “Gentle,” he managed. She stroked his ears, eyelids, elbows, prick, too many arms too many arms, why didn’t she let him go, let him roll, let him breathe before—

  He came like lightning. His orgasm forked, cracked, vanished. The room went with it. Darci too. The bed, the stars, the ceiling.

  He saw, in the flash, his hunger for connection. His ache for a single finger of communion, even one night of gently orchestrated illusion. But he was clouds inside.

  He opened his eyes. “Let me touch you.”

  “No.” She pointed the knife with pearled fingers. “Lie back. Now.”

  She sliced off his clothes and sat on his stomach, tracing the knife along his throat.

  “I’ll untie you,” she whispered. “If you promise not to kiss me.”

  He swallowed. Hands free, he sat up, stroked her arms, and gently pressed her backward, as if they were longtime lovers.

  “You must be joking.” She pushed him away. “From behind.”

  Through the next half-hour, she didn’t once turn to look at him.

  “Oh, God. . . . ” Lor grabbed her waist, about to come again. “Darci—”

  “Watch your tongue,” she said. “Tonight you call me Zurah.”

  “Zurah.” He reached to caress her shoulders.

  “Don’t.” She whipped back the belt and cracked him across the neck. He yanked away his hands. Eyes watering.

  It was the sting, nothing more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Visitation

  Seri stumbled from the shower and fell still wet into bed.

  What’s this?

  In her room’s corner was a wardrobe filled with living trees. Inside a figure crouched beneath an evergreen. Atop the tree sat a magpie, breast aglow with a lantern’s radiance.

  Her attention was drawn by warm light on her shoulder. She turned in the bed. A cloaked visitor bent over her, face hidden by a cowl.

  Seri felt at once the purity. “Who are you?”

  He laughed brightly.

  She did not recognize him at once, the way she always thought she would. But no matter. Maybe Raphael, guardian of love. Or Sandalphon, keeper of tears. Or maybe even Duma, patron of dreams. The visitor flexed a hand, fingers ringed with white fire. Then she guessed: Sadriel himself, the Angel of Order. The meaning was clear now as it ever was in the Old Testament: do not doubt. Who was she to doubt God?

  Seri sat up and extended her hand. But the visitor pointed at the nightstand drawer, as if it housed a forgotten gift or lost possession.

  Seri reached down. For me?

  The visitor dropped his arm and turned, interrupted by a shadow. The dark figure from the wardrobe crouched behind, unweaving the aura strand by strand. The angel waned. No!

  “Now a face, soon my heart,” he said, voice failing.

  Seri reached forward, to no avail. The room quickened to a wheel of darkening motes, caving at the core, spinning faster, smaller, tighter, then imploding with a discharge of golden brilliance.

  All her nerves snapped. Who was this wardrobe devil, to destroy her visitation? Night Manager Peart, the freak, Rooke himself? Her father?

  She awoke twitching. Three croaking ravens perched outside the window. She clutched the sheets, felt the warm light across her skin. Her first impulse was to smile, but when the ravens croaked again, she frowned. There was something incomplete to this sense of wholeness, as if it failed to reach the deeper cells. She bit her lip. Her face was still bruised. After sitting and listening to her breath, she reached for the nightstand drawer to retrieve the cut-up Bible.

  It wasn’t there. Only one page of the Old Testament, the Book of First Kings, ripped out. Nestled beside it, a small drawstring pouch.

  Seri plucked the page. Of course: the story of the prophet Elijah, disenchanted beneath the broom tree, begging God to let him die. Then his predictable sleep, his visitation, the angel’s touch—renewed strength for the final journey. The archetypal prophet’s myth. And didn’t he get his final strength from food delivered by ravens?

  Seri exhaled, slowly. So here were the signs, completely clear at last. A visitation, an inspirational Bible tale, Elijah’s ravens at the window. Another chance, a reminder that God did control the world, even its engines of chaos. For good measure, the symbols even mirrored the triadic structure of the journey—Seri, Rooke, and the shadowy apprentice. She cleared her throat. So why did she feel so little heat? Where was the fire, re-lit and stoked to white flame? Why, in fact, did she feel a smitch of disaffection, as if the Elijah tale were some old platitude, and she some jaded pilgrim?

  She paused. Hang on, those signs were not triplex, but quaternary: there was also this fourth, this pouch, filled with. . . .

  She picked it up. Her fingernails tingled with a strong itch to cast it back and close the drawer. What was inside? Placing it on the nightstand, she slipped on her cotton briefs and sports bra, then her green jeans and sweater, finally her shoes. After staring at the pouch for one long moment, she decided it was not, after all, a sign, and carefully replaced it in the drawer.

  She was feeling hollower by the minute. These signs mocked her. She opened the drawer again, dropped in the crumpled, fluttering page. Slowly, with quivering fingers, she reached for the pouch, plucked it, pulled tight its strings. Her fingers warmed. Perhaps then this was the fourth sign.

  Still, she did not feel enough crackle or passion to press onward. Where was her damned renewal? Was this her fault? Weren’t people who demanded signs without faith? She dropped the pouch. Well, that teaching was in the New Testament anyway. Not her book.

  She slumped on the bed. The choice was as clear as Augustine: press on with God’s plan, or go back. So why didn’t she care? She was emptied, bored even, as if lighting and fanning Rooke’s fire had cost her own. But maybe that was God’s final lesson on this journey, that choice was never a matter of inspiration or heart. Could she hold to faith, complete her calling without the fire? Was that the true test?

  She plucked the pouch, felt again the tingle up her fingers. Open it. No, pull shut the strings. She held it tightly instead. After one long, deep sigh, she pushed herself to her feet. Yes, this pouch was the fourth sign, opaque, mystical, but with a clarity still. The meaning was, do not trust to ecstasy. The meaning was, God’s commandments were no glittering Zen aphorisms, but precise declarations written on cool hard stone. The meaning was Seri was no Rooke, and never would be. A good thing, that. Look at the consequences of pure charisma: look at Satan in Paradise Lost, or the Green Witch in The Silver Chair. Yes, the lesson here was difficult, but clear as virgin ice.

  Read the signs. Obey. End of story.

  At the door Seri found more signs. Crumpled clothes, a splotch of blood, and, in the middle, stuck in the floor, a knife with a wavy blade. She was surprised to feel so little shock or horror. But there it was. Rooke had killed his apprentice, and left the Bible as his calling card. Now he was heading north.

  How much of a lead did he have? She pulled her pocket watch, realized there was no time to search for the body. Mindfully, fastidiously, as if girding with the armour of God to animate her empty core, she slid her notebook in a pants pocket, her watch in th
e other, and, very carefully, the knife into her sock, point resting on the flat sole of her shoes.

  She felt nothing; it hardly mattered. In The Silver Chair, Jill and Eustace had heeded the signs at last, and clawed their way up from the underworld, through the labyrinth, to the benediction of a cold winter sky. The Israelites, too, had finally followed God’s directions to Canaan. And Abraham, the patriarch, had taken the original strange road, without ever asking questions. God kept the maps: the path of faith was always, finally, the road home itself.

  Seri had everything she needed. But, before closing the door behind her, and with only brief hesitation, she dropped the pouch into her shirt pocket, next to her vacant heart.

  She could not explain why.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Visitation

  Lor fell asleep holding one of Darci’s fingers.

  What’s this?

  He was inside a wardrobe filled with living trees, gripping Darci’s knife, crouched beneath an evergreen from which a magpie gazed gravely, breast aglow with a lantern’s radiance. The room outside was dark against the wardrobe’s wintry light, but he could see the bed where Darci slept, covers tossed, damp limbs askew. What a relief, to find she hadn’t run away. He could hardly stand the thought of—

  Damp limbs? He squinted. That wasn’t Darci. This woman was too short, too muscular. He clutched the knife tighter. His Buddhist ex? Vandy-Anne Hellemond?

  A monstrous cloaked figure materialized over the bed.

  “Who are you?” the woman said, rising.

  The visitor laughed. Hairs bristled on Lor’s neck. He knew that laugh. He’d heard it in the Crystal Room in Lethbridge, in Yellowknife, in every damned town along this river. And he was not going to listen again.

  On the bed, the woman reached to touch her visitor, as if he were some lovely angel.

  No!

  Lor stabbed the knife into the floor, pulled himself forward, stabbed, pulled. In the bed’s shadow he raised the knife. Sliced. The blade bit floor. His finger rolled away. He reached with the stump, trembling, to paint the snowman’s hem with blood.

  “Kenny!”

  The visitor turned. At first Lor thought it was made of moonlight. But no: beneath the cowl the face was dirty snow. The snowman smiled, a stream of quickening features.

  “Don’t touch her,” Lor croaked.

  “Ah, Kenny. You gave me life in Lethbridge. A voice in Yellowknife. Now a face, soon my heart.”

  “Don’t touch me.” Lor raised his good hand.

  “Kenny, Kenny, still not ready?” The eyes smoked out, features whirling. “How many times must I ask?” The snowman laughed again, then vanished in a charge of golden brilliance.

  The woman moaned, as if on the cusp of orgasm.

  † † †

  Lor jumped awake, sat upright. Darci was gone, the sticky stars fallen from the sky. He searched for her clothes. On the bed, on the floor, beneath the sheets. All gone. He bent to sniff her pillow. Nothing. A stray hair? Nothing. Glancing about for something to hold, he hugged himself instead.

  Nothing. Nothing would do.

  He opened the nightstand drawer and plunged in his hand, grasping for the pouch of dust, grabbing instead a battered book.

  He yanked the drawer and stared. His dust was gone, in its place a slashed and severed Bible, from which a photograph fluttered out. He grabbed the picture, found himself staring at himself, flanked by Alistair and Franklin. He flipped the photo over. Dated June 1, ten years ago, in spidery red script. Franklin’s handwriting. Franklin’s picture.

  He flipped back to the photo. Alistair and Franklin looked so much alike. Fuck, did he really know either of them? How many chances had he missed, over the years?

  Lor placed the picture on the nightstand and stared at it for a long time. Then he fired his lighter and lit a curled edge. The photo barely flickered. These friends did not burn easily. Lor watched the flames struggle, thin smoke drying his eyes. Finally he stood and rifled all the drawers, but that dust was gone, long gone. It was over. The Weird was going to win.

  He stared at the burning picture, just as Franklin’s face began to sizzle. Seized with panic, Lor reached into the flames to save him. Too hot—he burned his fingertips, yanked back his hand. Franklin’s face curled into a smile before vanishing to ash.

  Lor watched the remaining smoke drift up sluggishly, hovering as if too weary to rise further. Finally, it descended into the open drawer. Lor stooped over and breathed it in. Coughed once. Closed the drawer.

  All gone. Everything gone now.

  After a long span, he stood, pulling himself up with the aid of the nightstand. Time to find rest beneath frozen waters, between stones, behind stars. He would take only the guitar, and these ashes.

  The guitar. He had almost forgotten: he still had some of the dust, painted across the body. What a relief.

  He knelt at the bed. Underneath, beside his shredded clothes, Darci had left him Vandy-Anne’s Mackinaw that she had no doubt borrowed in turn from some strange lover in some nameless town. They were all nameless now. He put it on, cased his guitar, scraped the photograph’s ashes into his palm.

  Ready. He knew where he was going—to a place swept clean, the tip of this crazy island, where he would unravel, and freeze, and sleep forever beneath delicious stars.

  PART EIGHT

  The Restoration

  Faith teaches that there is a right and wrong beyond mere opinion or desire.

  —Former Prime Minister Stephen Harper, 2009

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Odin’s Hat

  Seri cruised the lobby, mindful of each clean angle where she stopped and everything else began. Every item revealed its own true self—that fire in the hearth, that crack on the tile. She tapped the pouch in her shirt pocket, sipped a black coffee from the lobby perk. Whatever it took to press on.

  She smelled burning feathers.

  The night manager woman stood at the lobby’s centre in a bulky hunter’s shirt, squinting through a pair of twisted glasses, tossing pillows into the fire.

  Seri stared through the stinky smoke. “Where’s the nearest RCMP detachment?”

  “Depends where we are.”

  “We’re on Foggy Island.”

  “Depends where the island is currently floating along the Mackenzie.”

  Seri deflated. She sipped, tapped her shirt pocket. “Do you know?”

  “Directions.” Peart waved, then peeled her glasses and licked the lenses, began to scrub them with her shirt. “North, south, five more I can’t remember.”

  “Do you at least have a radio here?”

  A bell rang, followed by a male voice. “W’fuck, girlfriends, is there anything real ’round here at all? Holymorphic, nonspectral, to use a couple professor’s words? Anything tangible, touchable, true, anything here that might give us a clue?—er . . . corporeal, cognitive, clear-cut, quee, these are all words that begin with a c!—w’cept for the last one, which ain’t even a word at all, like it matters up here.”

  Seri turned to the front desk. She recognized him immediately—tall, thin, silvery hair tumbled to shoulders, the man from Rooke’s picture. So he wasn’t the dead one. Who was? On his head a tall pointed hat, white and widely brimmed, much like the mad god Odin wore when he wandered the earth hoarding wisdom. But this was no god. This was a man in grave danger.

  “It is a word,” said the night manager.

  “Excuse, ’migette?”

  “Quee.” The night manager replaced her glasses. “Quee is the very last wish you have before you die.”

  Odin laughed. “Nonsense! But such lovely nonsense, dig?” He rang the bell again. “Comely tommyrot, pop-pee-cock—fetching piffle, winsome tosh—pure ma-lar-kee, fiddle-de-dee—bewitching . . . er, have I used nonsense yet?”

  “Like it matters up here,” said the night manager, squinting.

  Seri pointed at Odin. “You’re in danger. Do you have companions?”

  “All gone. O
nly one left.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “A while. Honeypie?”

  “Don’t call me that. There’s a man out to kill you.”

  “Many men, ’migette.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Serious?” said the man.

  “Tricky concept,” said the night manager.

  The man rang the bell again and again. “Lord in heaven, ’migettes, this Arctic makes a man disintegrate.”

  “No,” said the night manager. “It simply attracts those already disintegrating.”

  She began to unbutton her hunting shirt. Beneath it was a plaid calypso, which she also began to unbutton. The man dinged the bell with both index fingers. The night manager emerged from her two shirts in yet another, this one zippered, not for long.

  “Listen to me,” Seri said. “What’s your name?”

  The silvery man stared.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  He stared.

  “Look. The man is going to kill you. He hates you. He’s unstable. He’s already killed someone.”

  “Name of?”

  “Theodore Franklin Roo—”

  “Franklin!” The man stopped hammering the bell. He leaned entirely over the desk. “What does he look like, what, what, what—”

  “White beard, used to be neatly trimmed, but—”

  “Tall?”

  “Very tall. About your height.”

  “What does he do?”

  “CSIS agent. I think.”

  By this time the night manager was down to a tube top.

  “Oh.” The man reached up to squeeze his hat. “That is, like, decidedly not him.”

  “Used to be a punk drummer.”

  “Don’t fuck with me!”

  “I’m not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ten years ago, in Lethbridge, he—”

  “Lethbridge! CSIS agent?” The man seized both sides of his hat brim and pulled down. “Un-fuckin’ likely—CSIS agents don’t even smoke up, and the dude’s disappeared for ’zactly ten years. . . .” He stopped to count his fingers, re-counted. “Jumping Jesus.”