The Ninth Metal

by Benjamin Percy

  All these years later, when he heard Talia was getting married, he was hesitant to come back because of who he used to be, and he was excited to come back because of who he had become.

  In every photo of his mother, she wears the same necklace: a chain with a pendant on it that carries at its heart a fang of iron. The ore that his family called the soul of the Northwoods. When he lost her, he couldn’t help but feel he’d lost exactly that—his soul. He traces the shape of the necklace with his finger and streaks the glass. She was wearing it when she died. They were able to save that, at least.

  A voice sounds behind him: “This would have been a good day for her.”

  “What?” He turns to find Yesno, who knocks gently on the door frame as if he needs permission to enter. John’s own tie was long ago unknotted and flung with his jacket over a chair in the kitchen, but Yesno is dressed as immaculately as he was at the wedding.

  “Your mother,” Yesno says. “She would have been very happy to see Talia married and everything go off without a hitch. Don’t you think?”

  “She was always happy. Or pretending to be.”

  “She was always kind. I know that. Her kindness is something we all miss terribly.” Yesno gives him a sad smile. “I’m headed to bed. But your father asked me to find you.”

  “What does he want?”

  “To catch up, I suspect. He’s down in the study.” Yesno offers a mock salute before retreating to the hallway. “Do me a favor and make sure he gets to bed. There are a lot of guests from out of town, which means we’re in for a lot of meetings tomorrow.”

  “I’ll remind him. But unless something’s changed, he’s never been much of a sleeper.”

  “The past few years have aged him more than he cares to admit.”

  John lingers another five minutes, not really looking at the photos anymore, more looking through them, his eyes blurring as he remembers his mother’s cigarette-roughened laugh and how, when she died, so did the love, along with any sense that he belonged to this family. Thirteen is the worst year of anyone’s life, because you’re flailing, trying in a clumsy hurry to figure out who you are. To lose a parent then—the parent who laid in bed with him every evening to read or talk about school, the parent who hugged and kissed him every chance she got, who taught him to make pancakes and plant a garden and shoot a rifle and drive a stick shift—was the equivalent of losing his true north. And to feel responsible for that death? It made his internal compass spin and spin and spin.

  Nothing is close in this house. Everything is oversize, with multiple staircases and hallways branching off in every direction, an iron-and-timber showplace. Here is a spotlighted alcove that features the first lump of iron excavated from the original Frontier mine owned by John’s great-great-grandfather. And here, at the top of a staircase, is a bronze statue of voyageurs in a canoe full of furs. And here is a river-rock fireplace over which hangs a Franklin Carmichael painting of the north shore of Superior.

  He pauses before a metal sculpture, one of Nico’s. It is set against the wall and looks like a doorway, but the frame is etched with what might be glyphs or runes. In the center of it is an eye. And coming out of the bottom, reaching across the floor, are either vines or tentacles. He’s not sure what compels him, but John touches the wall inside the door experimentally, as if half expecting his hand to vanish.

  He has dreams sometimes. Dreams that soak him with sweat and make him clench his jaw so tightly, his teeth might be ground to powder. He has tried ignoring them, killing them with drink and pills. They’ve come less frequently lately, as if he’s quelled that part of himself, but standing before this sculpture now, he can feel something rising up, like the acid of an undigested meal.

  His father’s study is a long room with three massive windows cut into one side of it. In the areas where there aren’t bookshelves, the walls are hung with taxidermy. There is a heavy wooden desk and a wet bar and a giant stuffed Kodiak bear standing upright with its claws extended and its mouth open in a silent roar. The fireplace crackles and pops, despite it being late summer, and his father sits before it in one of two leather chairs; the other is occupied by a short, squat man in a three-piece suit. His mustache bristles as he speaks. John can’t hear every word, but he catches snippets of what is being said: “Please seriously review . . .” and “It would be unwise to . . .” and “You do recognize how much money there is to be made, of course . . .” and “Weapons . . .” and “Keep in mind this is ultimately about nationalism.”

  His father smiles and nods accommodatingly, like a priest absolving the sins of some confessor. “Yes, yes, yes,” he says, “but you have to understand. Frontier Metals is a fourth-generation enterprise, and it was my grandfather’s desire that we stay out of war. He was happy to supply the ore that killed the Nazis, but later, I had an uncle who died in Vietnam, you see, and ever since then, it is our company’s policy to ​—”

  A floorboard creaks beneath John’s weight and both men swivel toward him. “There he is,” his father says brightly. “Come in, Johnny.”

  The stranger’s eyes seem to both grow bigger and shrink to mere slits, and John realizes this is an effect of his thick glasses. “I don’t want to interrupt,” John says. “Yesno said you wanted to talk.”

  “You’re not interrupting anything,” his father says. “Mr. Gunn was just leaving.”

  “Doctor.”

  “I’m sorry?” his father says.

  “Dr. Gunn.” The man stands and buttons his suit jacket. “I hope you’ll carefully consider what I’ve said.”

  “And if I say no, I hope you’ll gracefully accept my answer.”

  With that, the man smiles, showing a hint of teeth beneath his mustache. He stalks from the room, not offering any sort of farewell. They listen as his footsteps recede down the hall. “Everything okay?” John says.

  His father shrugs. “Everybody thinks I owe them something.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”

  “Neither did I. And I’m sure he’ll be even more unpleasant when I make it clear we won’t be doing business together.” Then he holds up a crystal tumbler of scotch with one hand and says, “Macallan Thirty. Can I pour you some?”

  “I’m good.”

  “It’s a day to celebrate. We should celebrate.”

  “I had some champagne earlier.”

  “You used to steal my whiskey. When you were a teenager.”

  “Mixed it with Coke too, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Blasphemy.” His father puts a hand over his heart as if shot. “Don’t tell me such things.” Again he motions to the bottle. “You’re sure I can’t tempt you?”

  “Don’t push it, Pops.”

  His father tips his head and narrows his eyes as if to see him better. “My son. The model of restraint. Who would ever have thought?” He sips from his scotch and licks his lips. “Well, sit by me, anyway.”

  John does, and the chair is still warm, and for a few minutes, they stare at the orange glow of the fireplace, not speaking. “Do you know how much money I made today?” his father finally says.

  “That’s none of my business.”

  “I don’t know the exact number, but I’m guessing a million. Maybe more.”

  “That’s great, Pops.”

  “In one day.” He runs his finger along the rim of the glass and it makes a hollow whine. “I’m not bragging. And I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m trying to entice you.”

  “As if business is what I give a shit about.”

  “It’s more than a business. It’s our family.”

  “We’ve gone over this. I don’t ​—”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. You want to fight overseas? Why not fight for what’s yours? There’s a war going on right here.”

  “Pops.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s be honest. You weren’t the best fat
her. And I wasn’t the best son. But I’ve been trying to do better. So let’s not fall back into the old ruts. Trust me when I say leaving was the only way I could get some perspective on myself. Leaving’s the best thing I could have done. And leaving’s what I’ve got to do again.”

  “Listen to you,” his father says with a smile.

  “What?”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Everything’s changed. The whole world’s upside down. Everybody’s trying to figure out what the rules are.”

  “Who are the heroes and who are the villains,” his father says, looking toward the hearth with shadows shifting on his face.

  “Exactly.”

  “But you, Johnny. You’re a hero.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “You’ve gone your own way. And accomplished great things on your own terms. In the past I know I’ve tried to entice you, or even bully you, or even shame you—and I’m sorry for that.”

  John can’t remember ever hearing those two words from his father, and they sit in silence for a time as if to acknowledge the weight of the apology. John doesn’t accept it, because it’s too big to sort through, but he feels a wet burn in his eyes and a tightness in his throat. He drops his head and finds his composure and when he looks at his father again, he recognizes something new in the old man, something frantic and vulnerable.

  “I respect the fact that you didn’t fall back on your family’s name or money. I do.”

  It takes John a moment to say, “Thanks.”

  “You went through a rough patch. And I might not have done everything I could to get you out of it. But the past is past. And the future is now. You’re your own man. A good man. When I say I always saw potential in you, you’re not allowed to start in about how I’m a megalomaniac who believes his bloodline is special. It’s not that. It’s you. Yes, you were smart, but lots of people are smart. You had something rarer. Grit, tenacity, toughness. Don’t think I forgot how you made it to home plate with a broken leg in that Little League game. Don’t think I forgot how you refused to eat for three days when your mother wouldn’t let you watch that movie everyone else in your class had seen. Don’t think I forgot how you walked away from summer camp at Wolf Ridge and hiked and bummed rides home. Who knows how life would have turned out if not for . . .” His voice fades away and then rights itself.

  “If not for Mom.”

  “Yes,” his father says and winces. “Anyway, that’s why I was so hard on you. Because I knew who you really were underneath all that anger and sadness and recklessness. And I was right. Because look at you now. I’m so proud—I applaud you.” And here he sets down his whiskey on a side table and gives a damp clap before picking up the glass again. “Truly, I mean it. Your siblings could take a page from your book. But Johnny ​—”

  “It’s John.”

  The old man bends his right ear toward him and cups a hand. “What?”

  “John. I go by John these days.”

  “John? Fine.” He waves dismissively. “I don’t care if you call yourself Tulip Magoo. What matters is, this can be yours. This can be all yours. This family. This house. This land. And the metal beneath it.”

  “I don’t care about the money.”

  His father’s voice grows loud. “It’s not just about the money, Johnny. It’s about legacy!” Here his face darkens. “Your great-great-grandfather started this company. Our family is Frontier Metals. If I could live forever, I would. You bet I would. But I’m going to die one of these days and it hurts my heart to know you won’t be carrying on what I’ve built here.” He thumps his fist softly against his chest.

  “Talia and Nico ​—”

  “Johnny,” his father says and clears his throat. “John. Have we ever talked like this?”

  “What?”

  “Have we ever had what I guess you might call a heart-to-heart?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “And yet isn’t that how you would describe what’s happening now?”

  “I guess.”

  “We’re having a heart-to-heart. I’m trying to say what’s been unsaid for too long. Maybe that proves that I’ve changed too. And maybe that says something about how . . . desperate I am.”

  “Why are you ​—”

  “I love your brother and sister. Truly. But let’s be honest. He’s a weakling and she’s a hothead. And that’s putting it kindly. Things have become . . . volatile. And unstable. At a very critical juncture. I’m old and this town is new and ​—”

  “What do you ​—”

  “And in the meantime you—you’ve grown up and become the man I always knew you could be. It’s got to be you, John.” He leans forward, reaches out a hand, and places it over Johnny’s. “It’s got to be you.”

  John squeezes his father’s hand and nods and then stands. “Night, Pops.”

  “Now, hold on. What’s the rush? Don’t you want to sit by your old man? Look. I came on strong. It was too much, too fast. I apologize. I’ve had a lot to drink. How about let’s talk about something else? A funny anecdote. Your favorite television show. Something that happened to you during your adventures overseas. Anything.”

  “Talia asked me to do her a favor.”

  At this his eyebrows come together and his face darkens. “What?”

  “Don’t know. She says it’s important.”

  There is a long silence. “Well, then. I guess you’d better go.” He rocks his body forward and stands and lets out a groan and then marches toward the wet bar to refresh his glass. He sounds tired when he says, “You can’t deny a woman on her wedding day, after all.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” John says and backs out of the room.

  His father stands before the bear and the fire’s shadows tremble across it and makes it appear very much alive. “We had some rough years, John, but we made it through. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

  * * *

  When he reads the text from his sister telling him where to go, he knows trouble will be waiting there for him. Because the house stacks and sprawls, constructed into the side of the hill, there is more than one section of it that might be considered the basement. But the particular sublevel where Talia directs him is unfinished: concrete floor, stapled wires, bare studs, exposed strips of fleshy insulation.

  It is the smell that strikes him first. He’s halfway down the stairs when his foot pauses midair. The ammoniac stink of urine, the earthy funk of loosed bowels. He can’t see much from where he stands, but enough. A thick line of blood reaches across the floor and puddles at the drain.

  Slowly he makes his way down the last five steps and sees the body bound to and slumped in the chair. He wears a deputy’s uniform. He looks young, but it’s hard to tell through the blood. His head is dented and cracked from the baseball bat that lies on the floor nearby.

  John doesn’t bother checking for a pulse. He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose and stands there for a good minute. Then he pulls out his cell and dials his sister and she picks up on the second ring. “You got to be kidding me,” he says.

  “Thanks for the help, Johnny,” Talia says.

  “You got married today. What kind of person ​—”

  “It happened after the ceremony, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not,” he says. “But you can clean up your own mess.”

  “I’m already gone, Johnny. After the father-daughter dance, I said my goodbyes. We flew down to Minneapolis on the Cessna. Few hours and we’ll be boarding our flight to Cancun.”

  “Then you’ll just have to come back.”

  “Not happening. Girl’s got to get her honeymoon on.”

  “I’m not doing this. I’m walking upstairs and closing the door and leaving on the train tomorrow.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am. Did you not just hear me say that’s exa
ctly what I’m going to do? I’m not a part of this family anymore.”

  “We can talk about it when I get back.”

  “You’re not getting back for two weeks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t really think you could leave us, did you, Johnny?”

  “Does Dad know?”

  “Of course he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know his head from his ass these days.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Johnny.” And here the sound shifts, as though she’s moving the phone from one ear to the other, maybe leaning forward. “Johnny, you do remember that I own you, right?”

  He doesn’t respond except to swallow.

  “You can go ahead and put on a show for everyone else. Wear your uniform and your medals and stand real straight and talk real nice. But I know you, Johnny. I know what you’ve done. I know what you’re capable of. And I know where you belong. It’s right here.”

  His voice is quiet when he says, “I thought you were going to ​—”

  “Just do what you’re told, Johnny. We can talk more when I get back. In the meantime, I’m going to screw my husband dry and drink ten thousand margaritas. Cool?”

  “What the hell am I even supposed to do with . . . him?”

  “It’s the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes,” she says. “Choose one.” And the line goes dead.

  10

  * * *

  Five years ago . . .

  Every November, the Earth spins through the orbit of the Tempel-Tuttle comet. This is the Leonid meteor shower. But in 1833, it was not a shower. It was a storm. A tempest. Hundreds of thousands of meteors burned through the sky every hour. People thought it was the end of the world.

  They were wrong then. They were not wrong when they believed it this time. The world had ended. The world as they knew it. On June 17, the debris from P/2011 C9—from Cain—entered the atmosphere with shining tracks and flaming pinpricks that gave way, over several days, to firework-bright explosions and kaleidoscopic traceries of light. There were white and green and yellow and red and orange trails that scored the atmosphere and observers’ eyes, steadily brightening the sky until day could not be distinguished from night and Earth appeared plugged into one dazzling circuit. The number of meteors was impossible to determine, the equivalent of trying to count all the snowflakes in a blizzard.