Tesseracts Seventeen

by Colleen Anderson

  Her insides churned, but she forced herself to stagger to their bedroom closet. She dug out the battered prayer book she’d owned since she was ten, stuffed it in her parka pocket, and ran out, slamming the apartment door.

  Marion didn’t bother to phone the police. She knew better than that. By the time she convinced them of the urgency, Jenny would be dead.

  Marion stood in the glare of a bare light bulb outside the warehouse, the streets dark and silent. The Exchange was only busy during the day, when the last vestiges of a dying garment industry brought workers into the grand, half-abandoned old buildings. It felt like minus forty and the wind bit into Marion’s face. She shakily grasped the cold metal doorknob.

  Someone turned it from the other side and pulled the door in, jerking her off-balance. All the things her grandfather had taught her — keep your back to the wall, stay out of the light, keep your hands up — shouted within her.

  Marion smelled the old woman to her left so she stumbled right, legs jittering, trying to keep her distance. The door scraped as it was pushed shut; then the latch and lock clicked in the darkness. The only light in the great open space hung above a chair on the far side of the room. Jenny sat bound to it, a gag in her mouth. Ni chii mitch! My little sister!

  A slight, familiar figure stepped slowly out of the gloom by the door. Marion recognized the woman immediately. Miss Harrow, her old teacher from MacDonald Indian Residential School in Saskatchewan. The one the students never referred to by name. Sin a squay, they had whispered behind her back. Whispered, because to be caught speaking anything but English meant a beating.

  Miss Harrow had been old the last time Marion had seen her three decades ago, the only teacher at MacDonald School who wasn’t a nun. The dusty smell of chalk that had always clung to her had been replaced by that of aerosol hair spray and patent leather. Her hair was no longer drawn back into a bun, everything held in place by glistening black hairpins. The hoarfrost hair stuck wildly out from her head. She used to wear nearly all-black clothes; modest skirts, dark brown sweaters and sensible shoes. Now a trim-fitting purple skirt and jacket, with calf-length black boots did little to hide the menace she had always exuded. Like a photo in a fashion catalogue — there was something that tasted of mannequin and mockery — that thin crust of November ice that fooled unwary skaters. Much more in style for the times, but still, just unnervingly off. No matter how she dressed she only played a role. Marion wondered how much of Miss Harrow was left, and how much had become— that other thing.

  Marion licked her lips. Her mouth was too dry to speak. She felt just as she had at twelve, sitting in Miss Harrow’s windowless basement classroom after class trying to read aloud the Apostles’ Creed, while the old woman, an owl ready to snap up a field mouse, loomed over her. Marion barely understood the tiny rows of print, and Miss Harrow’s yardstick slammed down on her fingers with every hesitation or mispronounced word. She would keep it up long after the mess hall had closed, forcing Marion to go to bed without supper. Jenny, the little raven, had gotten out of her dormitory after curfew three times to share some bread with her; but one of the nuns caught her and had her whipped for stealing. Marion only got free of Miss Harrow’s after-class ritual when an older student helped her orally memorize every page of the prayer book. It took months.

  “You both are so very alike,” Miss Harrow said softly. “I have a friend who would like to meet her.”

  “She’s not like m-me,” said Marion, hating herself for stuttering.

  Miss Harrow stood still as the frozen surface of a pond. “Oh, but I’m always thirsty. Much more than ever I was before.”

  Marion ground her teeth at the memory of Miss Harrow’s tears, every time students from the school went missing, as she told the R.C.M.P. the girls “must have run away.”

  Now her distinctive scent lessened, though she didn’t seem to move. Marion ignored what her eyes told her and strained to hear the slightest sound. There, crossing the floor, a light footstep, and the trailing odor of Miss Harrow’s rank breath, even though the old woman stood right in front of her.

  Marion risked a glance at her sister. The image of Miss Harrow faded. Marion’s grandfather had told her of these parasites’ powers. They could make you see things; while they slipped away— or right up close behind you, before you knew they were there. But they couldn’t mask their odor. And since that terrible day in the school basement, she’d always been able to smell them. Marion broke into a run, but she was too late. Miss Harrow now stood right beside Jenny, who shrieked through her gag.

  Marion let out a deep breath and began the change.

  Miss Harrow calmly pulled a long, thin knife from her sleeve. “Stop,” she said. “You’re just a little girl. You have no power.”

  Marion’s thoughts clouded, and she clawed for a sense of who she was; but it all slipped away, a black, icy amnesia. Her back bent and she raised an arm, a motion practised to ward off a teacher’s brutal hand. What had she and her sister done now? Why was Miss Harrow punishing them? She could recite the entire prayer book—

  “That’s better,” said Miss Harrow. “He’ll be here soon. Pour soul hasn’t tasted one of you yet. He doesn’t know the freedom that waits.”

  Marion stared at her own hand. Her skin was callused and wrinkled, a beech bark of old age. What had happened to her? There was something important she could do, but couldn’t remember what. “Let my sister go. You don’t need her.”

  “But I did. You would not have otherwise come.”

  With her free hand Marion reached inside her parka pocket. Her hands found the rough, battered cover of the prayer book. She tried to thumb it open, hoping she could find the page Miss Harrow wanted, but all the pages were fused together.

  She remembered the scent of glue. She had done that, as an adult. She shook her head. How old was she now? Not a child anymore.

  The pungence of fallen leaves on a cold September night rushed back to her. Her grandfather had shown up at the school unannounced, then been chased off by the nuns. The first relative Marion had seen in nine months, except for Jenny, whom she only saw at mealtimes. Grandfather had sneaked back after dark, and she’d climbed out of her dormitory window to see him. He had slashed her palm with his pocketknife, then kissed the wound. You remember the stories I used to tell you?

  Yes, grandfather.

  Well, now you’re in one. Be brave.

  “Sit down!” said Miss Harrow. Marion’s knees buckled and she fell. She threw her hands out to catch herself and the prayer book skidded across the oily, dusty cement of the warehouse floor. Miss Harrow flinched when she saw it. Then she smiled, her mouth full of sharp, grey teeth, but there was a fracture line of discomfort.

  “You still have it,” said Miss Harrow. “Can you even read it yet?”

  Marion’s face burned with shame. She’d known! And she was right— Marion was still nearly illiterate.

  Miss Harrow’s teeth disappeared as her expression melted into a dark-eyed seething. “Ungrateful little savage. You thought that school was a prison, didn’t you? Well it was nothing of the sort. I know.”

  Marion pushed the memories back down; her breath raged as if she were drowning. The night she had discovered the bodies in the basement storeroom, and Miss Harrow had caught her there. The cold larval feel of the old woman’s lips on her neck and the thorny puncture of her teeth as she sucked Marion’s blood. Yours tastes different, she’d said. It’s… intoxicating.

  Finally, Marion had understood.

  Sin a squay.

  Leech.

  I’ve finally found one of you! Miss Harrow had said with a wide, bloody smile. Young and fresh.

  It became clear the new ritual with the old woman was going to be regular trips to the storeroom for more blood. And Miss Harrow had begun to call on the same power as Marion, but she became a massive, black Rottwe
iler who prowled the school grounds at night. It let Miss Harrow finally walk outside in daylight, but only in canine form, and go further afield for her prey; but Marion believed she also revelled in the chance to be “wild,” an animal herself, pretend she was free of human, moral constraints.

  When Marion managed to get Reverend William, the Anglican priest who ran the school, down to the basement, they’d caught Miss Harrow in the act of feeding. The Mounties came and Miss Harrow was sent to prison. During the uproar, Marion and Jenny had escaped.

  She’d left all her friends behind, and spent years hiding from government officials who would have put her back there— she and Jenny stayed with their grandfather as he followed work across the prairies, always moving, never enough to eat. And for years, wondering when she would wake up to find Miss Harrow’s teeth in her neck.

  It all rushed back to her at the sight of the prayer book, its pages carefully glued shut.

  Miss Harrow glared at her, an accusation. “The shameful things I have had to do since then, just to survive.”

  Marion thrust her chin out, just as she had when talking back to Miss Harrow in that basement room, to show she wasn’t afraid, even though she was terrified. It had enraged Miss Harrow then and she hoped it would now. “I could just change, and leave,” she said, her voice quavering. “You would still have to come after me.”

  “With nothing but paws, how would you open the door?”

  Marion bared her teeth, something she knew looked odd for a person, but it had become a habit when she was threatened. “I’m bigger, now. There are windows. They’d break, just like that.”

  Miss Harrow shook her head. “I’ve dealt with your kind before you were born.” She winced, and Marion watched her carefully. The expression had twitched across her face in an instant and then disappeared. Grandfather had said they sometimes went crazy, from trying to keep all their memories straight. People’s heads can’t carry that many years, he had said. They lose all the parts of their minds that make them human. That’s why they have to prey on others— find another body to live in, at least until enough years have gone by that it doesn’t work anymore, and then find somebody new to bite. They’re not like us at all.

  “Of course,” said Miss Harrow, “I don’t expect a dirty squaw such as you to understand.”

  The words stung, drawing angry tears to her eyes. Marion realized Jenny might not be there just as bait, or even as food. She might be someone Miss Harrow needed, to pass on the parasite inside her, and become a sin a squay herself.

  Marion shivered. “There’s something you don’t know,” she said, summoning the authority of her grandfather’s voice, and hoping Miss Harrow would not sense the lie. “It won’t work with us.” Maybe hearing “squaw” coming out of those thin, spiteful lips was too much, pushed her to risk being caught out.

  Miss Harrow’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not true.”

  “How much trouble did you have with my people, when you all came over? Because there weren’t any of you before the English and French started fighting wars over our lands. My people used to live far east of here, but you pushed us west.”

  “I was there,” said Miss Harrow with a sneer.

  Marion kept her chin up defiantly. “Then how many Anishnaabeg became like you?”

  “There were some.”

  “Not in any of the stories my grandfather told.”

  Miss Harrow’s sneer grew nastier. “Well, that’s the trouble in relying on stories. They change to hide what people want to forget.”

  “But that’s not the same as actually forgetting, eh?”

  Miss Harrow’s fingers fluttered, as if she wanted to catch Marion’s words and crush them. “Be quiet!”

  Not much left at all, thought Marion. But enough to care. “Just let her go,” she said. “You don’t need her.”

  “My friend and I plan to drink a toast after we have what we need from you,” said Miss Harrow. “Now be a good little Indian and sit down.”

  Marion’s face felt hot. Good Indian. The words burned. How often the nuns had made clear to them day in and day out: they weren’t civilized; they were closer to animals than people. She wanted to call on the power beneath her feet, as Grandfather had shown her; ask her Mother to cast off her human shape and pour her into that of the great dire wolf, older than people on these lands. But the old woman was still too close Jenny.

  “Sit!” said Miss Harrow again, and Marion felt her knees buckle.

  She forced herself to stand up straight. She was a grandmother now. She was no child for Miss Harrow to twist and abuse. “No.”

  Miss Harrow flinched. She bared fangs. “You naughty, dirty Indian.”

  Marion took a step, holding the prayer book high. She would have used a cross, but she didn’t believe in it. Her grandfather had said, It doesn’t matter if they think it means the same thing you do, deep down. It may actually hurt them more if it means something different. So she had chosen the prayer book, whose pages she had glued together when she turned twenty-one and there was no danger she would be sent back to MacDonald or any school like it. But to Miss Harrow, it was a symbol of a life she would never get back. Marion had seen to that. “Get away from my sister.”

  Miss Harrow averted her face. “Put that down! Dirty squaw! Savage! How dare you touch that holy book?”

  Marion took another step and spat the word at Miss Harrow: “Sin a squay!” Leech. Miss Harrow had never known what it meant, and she hated it, because she knew it was an act of rebellion.

  The old woman shuddered, and her blade wobbled. The fingers of her free hand writhed in Jenny’s dark hair. Jenny’s face was wet with tears, but she refused to make a sound.

  Miss Harrow grimaced as if an iron spike were being driven through her skull. “Sit down! Get away!”

  “No,” said Marion, and took another step. She was now only six feet away from them. Marion risked looking away from Miss Harrow to give her sister what she hoped was a comforting look. It’s all right, ni chii mitch, she tried to make her understand. I’ll take care of you.

  Jenny looked back, her eyes saying, I trust you.

  Miss Harrow was fairly snarling now and Marion thrust the prayer book at her. She had to be ready for the tiny woman to spring at her, or suddenly become the great black dog that had always terrified her. Marion had been a young wolf then. But now things were different. She was the alpha, and Miss Harrow was not even part of the pack. The omega.

  A ragged scream tore loose from Miss Harrow, and Marion started, ready to meet her attack. But instead, the old woman slashed Jenny’s throat and leaped away, out of the circle of light.

  “Jenny!” screamed Marion, dropping the prayer book and rushing to her sister. She was dimly conscious of Jenny’s warm blood spattered across her own face as she tried to raise her sister’s head, to stanch the bleeding. Her sister’s throat and shirt were drenched with sticky crimson that pulsed and slowed to nothing while Marion tried to stop its flow with her hands, wailing. If it were a small wound, maybe she could have channelled the power of her Mother to heal Jenny enough to keep her alive; but it was over so quickly. Her sister was dead.

  Miss Harrow’s growl deepened and clothing ripped in the darkness. Marion shook and could not stop. Get up, she told herself. She’s changing! She’ll tear you to pieces before you can pick up the prayer book!

  A great black Rottweiler surged out of the darkness. It went straight for Marion’s throat.

  Marion didn’t try to run. All fear had left her now. She turned to meet the beast’s charge, her hands up, and as it leaped at her, snarling white canines gleaming, Marion grabbed the head and gripped its ears. She let the dog’s momentum bowl her over but kept its face away from her. Quickly she got her right foot into its belly. Marion rolled onto her back and kicked hard, catapulting the dog up. She might have let go, sen
ding it flying, but she was angry now. She kept her grip on the dog’s ears, half-hoping they would tear right off; but they didn’t, and the dog flipped and came crashing down on the concrete floor, flat on its back. It let out a painful yelp, which quickly curled into a snarl. Marion let go and rolled away. If she took the time to change now, the black dog might get to her throat as she did. She just needed to trap it, for half a minute.

  Then she saw a door off in the corner, left ajar. There was a large window beside it. The warehouse office. She ran for it and heard a rasping growl behind her, punctuated by the clacking scrape of claws on concrete. She reached the door and turned the doorknob. Her bloody fingers slipped and the dog sank its teeth into her leg before she could open the door all the way. She screamed and fell, pulling herself through the doorway. It tore at her calf muscle, shredding it, but Marion tugged back, forcing herself into the dark office. She kicked at the dog’s face with her good leg, smashing her heel into its nose until it yelped and let go. She sat up quickly and grabbed the doorknob, just as the dog scrambled to get its teeth into her again. She slammed the door on it from a sitting position, catching it on the neck. The dog barked in pain, and without waiting Marion opened the door and immediately slammed it again, just as the beast turned its head; she caught it, the second time, along the side of its face. There was a crack and it dropped, twitching.

  Marion hauled the dog inside. It was still breathing. She crawled out and closed the door behind her. Marion’s pants were in tatters and her wounded leg screamed. She was carefully removing her clothing when, from across the warehouse, came the laboured click-clack of a key in the door. It flew open with a bang. “Margaret?” said a man’s voice.

  A savage bark erupted from the closed office.