by Exile
Over there!
When he found the place where he could have sworn he heard the crying, the sound now came clearly from over the next rise. Something about the way the wind blew was playing tricks with his ears, echoing through the trees. Maybe the baby was much farther away than it seemed to be. Tyler sloughed through the bush, hip-deep in snow, plunging his feet into hidden creeks, branches scratching his face and hands. Hiking up steep ridges to reach the next decline. Deeper and deeper into the forest. But no matter how close he seemed to get, whenever he thought he had found the baby, the crying was somewhere else.
Tyler imagined one of his little brothers lost somewhere out in the snow, alone. He forced himself to go on, though he was beginning to think he was simply crazy. There was no baby, and the sound was all in his head. Certainly Cutter and Theremin hadn’t heard it.
As he reached the top of the next incline, the crying abruptly came to a halt. All he heard was the whisper of the wind as it combed through the thousands of pine needles. Dead branches clacking together like sighing voices, the trees murmuring amongst themselves about the lone boy trudging frantically through the wilderness searching for something that wasn’t real.
He felt hollow. His forehead knotted with worry. His muscles burned; his feet were cold and wet. Maybe the baby had stopped crying because it was dead? At the thought, his heart dropped, as if he were on a roller coaster.
He realized he had long ago lost track of his place in relation to the school. So he began the long trek back, following his own footprints. It was safer than taking off in a new direction, which may have been quicker, or may have led further out into the forest.
It was third quarter by the time he reached the school.
Cutter asked, “What happened to you?” when he trudged into class, soaking wet, fifteen minutes late for the second-last class of the day, and trailing a path of mud, leaves and branches. Tyler gave no answer.
THE STERLING STANDARD
GRAVE ROBBERS DESECRATE ANCIENT INDIAN BURIAL GROUND
Racism is being blamed for the recent spate of cemetery vandalism that took place last week on the Ghost Lake First Nation. Headstones and burial platforms were knocked over and vandalized, with the words ‘“squaw” and other epithets scrawled across tombstones.
Family members have reported that certain sacred items and ceremonial objects were missing, possibly taken by the same perpetrators or by relic hunters.
The incident is being investigated by the OPP as a possible hate crime. Fair Action, a local organization dubbing itself as an equal rights group, has drawn suspicion, though there is no indication of their involvement. The group has been accused of hate crimes in the past – in particular the recent spate of arsons that took place on reserve, damaging a beloved heritage site.
The Sterling mayor, the Chief of Ghost Lake, and other local officials have condemned these acts. “These crimes are unacceptable,” Mayor Meriquin said, “and are by no means representative of the cooperation and respect between our communities.”
The furnace kicked in and drawings fluttered in the artificial draft where they had been tacked to the supporting beams. Potential tattoo designs, old and new, covered exposed pipes, ductwork and pink fibreglass insulation.
“Oh shit!” Tyler Kendrars said. “Look at this!”
Theremin and Cutter scanned the news article.
“We didn’t do that!” Theremin exclaimed when he had finished reading.
“I know that. But this must have happened shortly after we went there. We were there on the fifth. Do you know what this means?”
Kendrars stared at the article. “If someone saw us crossing the lake to the reserve – people will think we’re the ones who did this!”
“But we didn’t!” Cutter said. “All we did was look for ghosts.”
Theremin said, “You took that arrowhead. I saw you.”
“I didn’t take anything,” Cutter lied.
“We didn’t kick over any gravestones,” Tyler said. “All we did was look!”
Cutter shook his head. “It won’t matter, if someone finds out we went out there. We’ll still be blamed.”
Theremin dropped into a chair. “Maybe we should return the stuff.”
“No. That’s the last thing we should do,” Tyler said. “What reason do a bunch of white kids have to go to a burial ground? Especially after this! That will just make us look guilty.”
“Well, maybe we should go alone – or at night.” Theremin suggested. “It won’t draw as much attention.”
“Fuck.” Cutter stared at the floor.
None of them liked the idea of going back at night, but it was a better option than getting nailed for vandalism – something they didn’t even do – or getting caught for grave robbing; which they were guilty of.
Tyler looked at his silent friends. “We should probably wait a few days, for things to settle down. The place is likely to be busy with visitors now, checking on their relatives.”
Tyler was in the Indian burial ground again. He knew because he could see the outline of the platforms and scaffolding, and some of the newer headstones. But it was dark; there must have been no moon, or else it was shrouded by clouds, and masking even the light of the stars.
He wasn’t alone. There was someone else there with him. “Who…who are you?” Tyler asked the shadowy presence.
“My name? You want to know my name?” He couldn’t see her, but he could hear age in her voice, like the rustling sound of a rattlesnake shedding its skin. “You aren’t worthy of knowing my name. You may call me Naphtha, because when you die I will be waiting, and I will make sure you burn.”
The darkness retreated because Naphtha’s eyes glowed like coals. Pupils dancing with the strangest colours – chartreuse, cobalt, violet, crimson – colours more likely to be seen in the northern lights than in any campfire. It was as if the northern lights were concentrated and distilled to this more intense flame.
Naphtha’s eyes blazed with greater intensity and then exploded to eagerly devour her body in multi-hued radiance, only darkening her skin for an instant – flickering and dancing with a sickening shift of light that illuminated her features. Frizzled white hair stuck up madly in all directions, one eye filmy-blue as if from glaucoma, filled with stars, like constellations in the night sky, the other eye an opaque sphere; dual-coloured eyes like a husky, returned to normal now that the light had left her irises to engulf her whole.
Naphtha was the fuel source, and the flame. Her hands extended like claws, then she launched herself towards him. Technicolour jets like deformed wings haloed her body – a phoenix in human form.
Her arms wrapped around him. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t escape. The flames burned redhot and iridescent, trembling hypnotically. He’d once accidentally placed the palm of his hand on the glowing coils of a stove element, letting out a shriek when his skin sizzled and stuck to the nichrome. He felt that now – that same searing pain, but infinitely worse because it wasn’t merely his hand, but his entire body had become a torch.
He couldn’t see through the smoke, his nose thick with the burning-sulphur smell of human hair, and human flesh – his flesh. Maybe his eyeballs had melted to drip down his face like candle wax – he could no longer see anything but he still felt the pain. It had become his whole world, his everything, his all. There was nothing else in the unrelieved darkness. He was unable to see even the light the wick of his body made, or what shadows it cast.
No matter how hard he pulled, Naphtha’s arms were like iron bands that wouldn’t release him, so they burned together, like the corpses of two lovers embracing in the grave as their flesh dissolved and rotted away.
Tyler screamed, thrashing as he woke among the tangled blankets, confused when there were no flames, no heat, and no homicidal woman like some sort of avenging X-Man. He was welcomed by the familiar sight of his basement bedroom – exposed pipes, ductwork, and beams overhead, the sallow morning light filteri
ng through the small rectangular windows at ground level.
“What’s all that racket down there?” His mother’s voice came muffled from upstairs. “It’s time for you to get ready for school. Stop fooling around!”
What kind of name was Naphtha? What a strange dream! But like all dreams, this one too was beginning to fade as his breathing returned to normal, the sweat dried, and he began getting ready for the day. Strange dream, or no strange dream.
Tyler Kendrars couldn’t sleep.
His room was lit by a dull, greenish glow coming in through his window. It was a clear, cold, cloudless night; the stars where showing off and the northern lights were acting up. They lit up the entire landscape the way a full moon did. Coils of sapphire and electric jade infiltrated his room, like flashes from a television screen. Except his television wasn’t on. The flicker formed a secondary phenomenon, as if it were a miniature three-dimensional version of the larger aurora outside. Curtains and diffuse arcs danced in place like a mind-bending cathedral.
The symphony of light reminded Tyler of his nightmare – had it only been the night before? The woman named Naphtha, her anger, and her radiance – so akin to the night sky with its ribbons and veins of pulsing, fluctuating fire. Tyler knew the aurora was caused by charged particles, electrons and protons entering the atmosphere, the solar wind interacting with the Earth’s magnetic field. But he also couldn’t help believing that Naphtha had in some way caused this borealis, and that she had something to do with the geomagnetic storm in his bedroom. It was his magnetic midnight, and he was standing on the opposite side of the sun, at the height of an eleven-year sunspot cycle. Naphtha was that magnetic centre, and her fury was like the furnace of the sun.
It wasn’t only the glow of the northern lights that kept him awake. It was also the wind howling, rattling his windowpanes – and carrying with it the sound of a baby. Crying. Crying. Crying. But by this time he knew it wasn’t real. There was no point in sloughing through the mud and snow, searching for something that didn’t exist. It existed only inside his head.
He knew a real baby would have frozen to death long ago, but he couldn’t tune it out. He wrapped a pillow around his ears, but could still hear the incessant wailing.
Tyler’s mom opened his bedroom door, saw him lying on the bed with the pillow around his head, and said, “Oh, you’re going to bed already?” She looked at her watch. “It’s only 9:30! At least you’ll get a good start in the morning for once.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?” She paused at the threshold.
“Do you hear anything?”
She stood in the doorway for a moment, listening as a gust of wind blew outside, rattling the glass, whistling as it passed the opening of the chimney overhead.
“Just the wind,” she said as she closed the door.
Tyler groaned into his pillow. I’m going crazy.
Weeenh. Weeenh. Weeenh. The baby cried. He knew this had to have something to do with that dream – the woman with star-like constellations and the fire of the northern lights in her eyes. Naphtha. She had let the fire consume her, and then she had rushed to embrace him.
Tyler cracked one eye open and saw the old, painted toy rattle on the nightstand beside him. He had come home, left it on the mantle, and then promptly forgotten about it. How had it ended up on the nightstand? He couldn’t remember.
Of course! he thought, finally connecting the dots; he should have already put two and two together by now. The baby! No wonder Naphtha was so pissed. He had taken her child’s toy! He remembered the desperation that had gripped him, out in the woods, when he imagined it was his baby brother that was missing, alone and lost, and it had pushed him to keep searching, even when he thought it was hopeless.
Somehow, the child’s spirit was tied to the toy, and Naphtha wanted her baby back. He’d pretty much stolen her baby!
He needed to return that rattle.
He didn’t think he could stand the baby’s crying for another night, or Naphtha’s possible return, so Tyler got up. He pulled on long johns, jeans, socks, a T-shirt, sweater, and his jacket and crept up the back stairs, trying to avoid the places that creaked. He stepped carefully through the laundry room so that the swiff, swiff, swiff of the rattle in his pocket didn’t make too much noise. It was still a school night – better if his mom thought him asleep.
He closed the back door softly, and walked towards the lean-to at the side of the garage where he kept his skidoo. With each step, the rattle in his pocket made a swiff, swiff, swiff in time with the crunch, crunch, crunch of the snow – like Styrofoam under his boots. At least when the rattle sounded he couldn’t hear the baby crying – whether because the baby was drowned out, or the rattle soothed the spirit into silence – Tyler wasn’t sure. He was just grateful he didn’t have to hear it anymore.
Tyler made his way to the ice road, his path lit by wildly vibrating bands of cobalt and crimson now boiling across the star-filled sky. If it had been cloudy, it wouldn’t have been so cold, the snow wouldn’t have had that same crunch, and the natural fireworks in the sky wouldn’t have lit the tracks so clearly.
He had heard stories about the aurora – it was the dead, dancing in celebration on their journey to the afterlife; or walruses kicking human skulls in a spiritual game of kick-the-can, like the bowling giants he had once believed caused thunder. One explanation was just as good as the other – it made as much sense to him as magnetic midnight. The folds and striations of light looked like the fall of drapery now, fluttering in the cold, cold wind, freezing-him-to-the-bone beautiful.
It seemed appropriate that the night should be illuminated by such a brilliant borealis, and he could imagine the spirits dancing, lighting his way, just as they did the path of the dead.
Still he wondered why this rattle was so important? What power did it have over Naphtha or her child? Why weren’t their spirits at rest, or dancing in the sky? It was a night for such questions.
A big part of him didn’t believe any of it was real, but he still felt the need to return the pilfered instrument. The rest – the baby’s cries, the dreams – were probably manifestations of guilt, like the ticking of Edgar Allan Poe’s telltale heart hidden under the floorboards. Tyler’s guilt didn’t tick. It made a swiff, swiff, swiff sound in time to the crunch, crunch, crunch under his boots as he made his way through the graveyard. For several panicked minutes he began to sweat despite the cold. He couldn’t remember from which tomb he’d taken the child’s rattle. Would it be enough if he simply left the plaything somewhere in the burial grounds? Would the spirits of the dead still haunt him?
Then he dropped through a deadfall in the snow. He heard something snap and felt a sharp jolt of pain as his foot twisted in the hollow of a sunken grave. No doubt the same one he’d tripped over before. He had injured himself this time, probably owing to the fact it was night, and he was alone.
Tyler wasn’t sure if he’d broken or merely sprained an ankle. All he knew was that it hurt. Hurt. Hurt. But there was no way around it. He sucked in a breath as he worked through the pain, waiting for it to subside, and disappointed when the throbbing continued, beating in time to his pulse. On the plus side, his headlong tumble into the snow had brought him to eye level with the little house hovering on stilts just above the snow, and the little ledge which had been the rattle’s original resting place.
He pulled the old rattle from his pocket: a bolt of fear stabbing through him like a spear when he saw that he had landed on the instrument. The side had been ripped open so that the beads inside fell out. He held the white, discoloured beads in his hands, not wanting to lose any part of the toy, hoping to keep the thing together, in one place, if not in one piece. He realized that what he held in his hand were not beads or small stones, but small, pointy, rounded teeth – the baby teeth of a child. Tyler looked up, for the first time noticing the crowding of little houses on stilts, all congregated together, and each of them, he had no doubt, with their own little teeth
-filled rattles. If they had not survived long enough to grow teeth – he hated to think of what might have been inside the rattles. Fingers? Toes? And he concluded that the shorter, smaller domiciles were almost certainly designed as the final resting places for children, six or seven of them in a row – so many dead little ones. Some of the houses were so small they could only have been for a newborn or a stillborn child. How many babies had Naphtha lost? He imagined a time before penicillin or hospitals, and a new suite of diseases introduced by the Europeans: small-pox, typhus, cholera, measles – deadly invaders on a microbial scale for which there was no immunity, no treatment, and no cures.
So many dead children. So much loss. Tyler thought he understood better the madness he had seen in Naphtha’s eyes – the loss of children in life, and now in death too, seemed to be an unnecessarily cruel indignity.
He hoped that by returning the toy he also returned some measure of peace. He placed the rattle back on the ledge where he had found it, then let the teeth pass through his palm like sand passing though an hourglass, back onto the shelf where they belonged. For the first time, he noticed the fine strands of dark hair decorating the handle which he had taken for decorative ribbons, but which in all probability had also belonged to the child. How could he have been so blind?
His lip curled in revulsion. The swiff, swiff, swiff he’d been hearing with his every step, had in fact been the percussive sound of human body parts. There was something macabre and disturbing about the idea of using the body’s materials in such a way to create sound, to create music. But it served him right for stealing from the dead. He should be creeped out.
It was a mourning rattle.
He wondered if Naphtha had used it to sing songs, and what those songs would have been. Goodbye songs, or songs of memory and loss. Or songs to conjure the long-lost dead. He was weak with relief that he had never gotten around to using the instrument to create a looping audio track, heart racing at the idea of the sounds that might have been recorded. Or how he would have managed to return sound, once it had been captured in the waves of digital software. He imagined the audio track of shaking teeth following him around, haunting him forever.