“You sorry son-of-a-bitch, you promised!”
Susan whispered it again, repeating. Her teeth chattered, the chill of this place eating into her heart. The cave was changing around her, she could feel that damned spirit path closing, the echoes turning harder, the walls turning darker and the shadows lighter until she could see stone again as if those shadows no longer led into further and yet further doors.
Just one more try, and then she was going to step into that circle. To hell with Aunt Jean’s warning. Take the chance of finding him, wherever he wandered, however bad the spirit lands might be. Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven, or something.
“Damn you Carlsson, I love you. Please come back.”
Nothing. She felt coldness trickling down her cheeks, icy tears. She lifted her right foot, closed her eyes, clenched her teeth, and stepped.
Her foot never came down. Something hit her, full-body, heavy, big, hard muscles under softness, overpowering strength, she hadn’t taken that gun from Alice, she didn’t have a knife or even a sharp rock, dammit, she started to claw and bite and then her nose woke her brain and she wrapped herself around that furry male stink as if she was trying to force it through her jacket into her skin.
Carlsson.
“You bastard.”
She kept crying. She kept her face pressed into his jacket and let it soak up the tears. His arms wrapped tight around her, something poking into her back, hard, sharp, but she didn’t care. Her feet didn’t reach the ground, no use for support, so she wrapped her legs around him too and squeezed with them. Never let go.
Warm breath in her ear. “I love you too.” Whisper. A kiss on her hair. Movement, walking. Hands shifting to her armpits, lifting her, peeling her off his body, setting her down. She felt cold hardness at her back, stone or concrete, supporting, she squatted against it and let it hold her. She opened her eyes and looked up.
Carlsson. Her nose hadn’t lied.
Darkness framed him, with a halo of flickering light, candles. He reeked of burned gunpowder and the biting aromatic smoke of sweetgrass. Other people moved at the edge of her focus. Bulky shape, white hair, round wrinkled brown face, Aunt Jean. Small skinny shape, black hair, sharp brown young face, Alice. They were still in that cave.
Carlsson squatted and felt his ankle, testing that army surplus foot of his, then feeling his ribs and left arm and the back of his head. “Lying bastard.”
He stood up. He stared at his left hand, blinking, at a club he held. That must be what had been poking into her spine. He set it down, pulled out that huge British pistol and broke it open, checking the cartridges, and then shoved it back into his holster. He turned to Aunt Jean.
“Red-furred son-of-a-bitch tried to tell me I was dead. Looked like a bear’s head on a man’s body, but he smelled of fox. I called him Loki. You got a Naskeag name for the bastard?”
Aunt Jean shook her head with a frown and wrinkled nose, not really disagreeing, maybe didn’t like his army cussing. “Yes, your ancestors would have called him Loki. I will not speak our name for him, not here, not where I might bring him. Perfide, that one, never to be trusted. Always he does what amuses him. You must tell me your story.”
Shivering again, teeth chattering, Susan felt the stone closing in around her. “P-p-please, can we just get the hell out of here? I’m c-c-cold.”
Alice materialized in front of her, hands on each side of Susan’s forehead, warm, soothing, flowing strength down her spine and into her legs. “Eagle, remember? Traps? She needs to see the sky. We can talk later.”
“Vraiment, I forget. More and more these days, I forget. You must remember for me.”
They gathered things and snuffed candles and snuffed that smoldering sweetgrass braid and gathered them and filled Alice’s backpack and passed out of the cave into the cellar. The door and lock and bar clanged heavy and cold behind them and Susan found she could breathe again. Through the musty cellar shadows and up the steps and out the portico door into gray storm-sky and spitting snow turned bright by contrast and clean winter wind and that door locked guarding its secrets and she almost felt like she could fly.
Now Alice and Aunt Jean were the cold ones, their clothing soaked from the impossible seawater that had tried to drown them, and the four of them hurried through a bitter wind to the boathouse and its welcoming stoves and warm mixed air of breakfast and woodsmoke. Susan clung to Carlsson, to that big slow quiet man who had become an essential part of her life. Not dependent on him, not looking for protection, but claiming her property. He was hers, and nobody was going to threaten that. Ever.
A scream overhead, a second, and she looked up. Eagles. A pair of eagles glowed as if in full sunshine, soaring, stooping, tumbling in mid-air, locking talons in their acrobatic mating dance. Wrong season for that, she thought, and then realized why they were glowing. No sun. That was Eagle, Spirit Eagle and her Mate, celebrating. They plummeted from the deep gray December sky, flared their wings, and landed in the tall pines to either side of the boathouse roof.
Susan shook herself, as if waking from a trance. They still waited in their trees. They still glowed.
Aunt Jean stood in the snow, staring at her. The old Naskeag witch nodded and winked a smile. Just that. Susan felt a blush darkening her brown skin. Newly-weds, that wink said. Worry about the marriage license when you’re pregnant. Naskeags live by older laws.
The eagles leaped up from their trees and climbed into the storm and vanished with another scream. She had their blessing—nothing else much mattered.
They’d be back.
Susan let go of Carlsson’s hand and grabbed Alice by the wrist, the right wrist, not the one she had been testing with a grimace and tentative fingers. “Come on, girl. Get you into the warm and check out those ribs. Carlsson has bandages and antiseptic and all that crap in the treatment room. Unless you think the stuff he’d use for animals isn’t good enough for people.”
“I’ll be okay.” Alice tugged back, but Susan held on.
“No deal. I’m not a doctor, don’t even play one on TV, but I’ve had three courses in backwoods emergency medicine. Fieldwork pseudo-doc, for when the closest road is two days’ hike by washed-out mule trail. And I work with animals, kid. I know the kind of shit those claws get into. Literally. Your tetanus shots up-to-date?”
She paused, remembering Aunt Jean’s plea. This kid needs an older sister. “And when your wrist and ribs are up to it, I know some wicked ski trails out on Eagle Point. Shouldn’t have any more trouble with phantom snowmobiles. Okay?”
The kid relaxed and let Susan pull her through the boathouse door.
o0o
Dennis watched them vanish into the treatment room, latch clicking behind them. She’d be back, Susan, that full-body hug had promised a welcome-home celebration worthy of . . . what? He fumbled for superlatives. Worthy of them, anyway. She’d made it plain she was glad to have him back—back and safe and whole.
Aunt Jean nodded at the closed door. “Oui, I think that one pushes people away because she is afraid they will leave anyway. This way, it is her choice. Be kind to her. She is worth the trouble, n’est ce pas?”
“We’re working on trust. That’s why I had to come back.”
That earned him a lifted eyebrow. “You might not, without her?”
“Temptation, ma tante. That spirit world looked interesting. And I had two feet again, at least for a while. But that was probably a lie.”
“Probably.” She pointed her chin at the club he still carried. “That, that is not a lie. Bear has strong magic, to let you bring a thing from the spirit lands back with you. May I look at it?”
He handed it to her—heavy, smooth gnarled wood dark with rubbed oil or fat, a sticky coat of pitch wrapping the grip, those vicious flints set into the swollen end with pitch glue. Something out of a caveman cartoon, except it had felt light in his hands in battle, dancing balanced like a fine sword, hungry. Like a bear’s claws on the end of his arm.
She set it on the kitchen table, closed her eyes, and ran her fingers over it, head cocked to one side. She smiled and shook her head in wonder. “Vraiment, Bear has strong magic. Très strong. Did you threaten . . . the one you called Loki . . . with this? In the myths of your ancestors, this might have been Thor’s hammer. Deep underneath, all stories are one story, all spirit lands are one land. I wonder how this came to you.”
Dennis thought. The fight, the spirit world, it all jumbled together, confused snatches of freeze-frame like combat often settled in his memory. “I shot at them, all six rounds, then that was in my hands and I used it. Or it used me. I think I picked it up in the cave, rather than in the spirit lands. Maybe that’s why I could bring it back.”
He paused, thinking. “That’s really all I know. I don’t even remember holstering the Webley. Loki, or whatever, he kept his distance. He wasn’t afraid of the pistol. When I picked up the club, he vanished.”
She nodded, eyes open now and studying him across the table. “Strong magic. Keep it close. I think you do not need Naskeag spirits to help you, you and Eagle. Our ancestors set the proper clan to guard Spirit Point.”
She paused and studied him some more. “Remember the lies. Always remember the lies. This land needs the protection of your clan. This land needs Eagle to preserve its wildness. Do not let lies tempt you away from guarding us. The one you know as Loki will offer much, but he always cheats in the giving. Even though giving costs him nothing.”
He studied her face in return. That bruise—she was going to have a black eye, come tomorrow. “Are you hurt? You need to visit Dr. Tranh’s clinic?” He nodded toward the treatment room.
“Eh? This?” She ran fingers over her cheek, testing. “I am old and fat and slow and my hands shake and I think I know everything. It is good that I be reminded of these things, oui? And it is good that young Alice learns she is not perfect, either. She needs more than skill with a gun. If she had kept drumming, the spirits could not have reached us. I will tell her of this thing.”
She pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a kitchen match from the tray high on the stove back, and blew smoke in the four directions, muttering in Naskeag. Then some Latin, he didn’t know it, and finally English, “May God bless this house and guard it. May God guide the souls who live on this land and guard it. World without end, amen.”
A shiver ran down his spine, as if some spirit had touched him and spread into the walls of the old boathouse from the sea and stone and forest beyond. He felt magic, power, blessing, not empty religious noise. Ghost Point, Spirit Point, this was truly sacred ground—these rocks had been strange long before any whiteskin God walked this land.
Aunt Jean stood there, studying his face. “You still fear the memories, fear the nightmares, oui? Fear what might come of them? You do not know if you dare to love, dare to sleep with love? You think you might hurt her? Trust Bear, trust Eagle. They know what they are doing.”
Dennis closed his eyes and sighed, feeling tension leak out of his shoulders. Yes, he’d feared that.
Sandy appeared from wherever cats hide, padded across the floor, and sniffed Aunt Jean’s pants.
“Mrrrt?” He rubbed against her legs, not just the ankle polish but head-butts and more sniffs. Strange. He didn’t pay much attention to people . . . .
Aunt Jean looked down at the cat and shook her head. “Eh bien, I think Sojourner Truth has been advertising. Our girl-cat would like to meet your boy-cat. I do not know what color they would be, a black mother and orange father. Sort of like you and Dr. Tranh, eh?” And she grinned at him, an earthy knowing grin that answered any lingering questions he might have had about her and Frenchy LeClaire. No, all the Haskell Witches weren’t lesbian.
The treatment-room door opened and two giggling girls walked out. Tranh’s Vietnamese nose and eyes aside, they could have been sisters. Dennis didn’t know how old Susan was, had never asked, but with that “Doctor” and the initials after her name, she had to be thirty, give or take a few. Fifteen years between the two girls, twice Alice’s age. He never would have guessed, to look at them. She’d age well . . . .
Tranh nodded to Aunt Jean. “Doesn’t look like she broke anything. Any sign of infection, or if those ribs don’t quiet down in a day or so, get her to a real doctor. Any other patients?” She narrowed her eyes and studied Dennis.
“I’m fine. Aunt Jean thinks she’s fine. Ask again after they’ve warmed up and dried out. Cold’s an anesthetic—I’ve hurt myself, working outside, never known it until I saw the blood.”
“Non, my children. We leave now. This was important, She-Who-Swims-Dark-Waters was important, but we have other duties. A fire burned last night, an old trailer up near Grants’ Corners, a mother and two children now have no home.” She noticed the look that flashed across Susan’s face. “Non. Not arson, a bad heater. But they need a roof over their heads, and food, and clothing. These things will not grow out of the snowdrifts without help.”
Dennis shook his head. “You got soaked. Wet clothing, winter wind, snowstorm starting—that combination will kill you. Where’s that leave your homeless mother and kids?”
“We go. The snow is God’s blessing, oui, hiding tracks, taking eyes away. And this jacket, these pants, they are some new miracle from Du Pont or Dow. Plastic fibers, Alice can tell you what, but the water, she does not soak in. Feel. Dry already.”
She held out her arm and Dennis touched the sleeve. Dry. Ten minutes in the kitchen—next to the stove, yes, and December air, the humidity was damn near zero—but the fabric felt dry.
Alice kept glancing between Dennis and Susan, a strange intense frown drawing lines between her eyebrows. Jealousy? Then she settled on staring at Dennis and nodded to herself.
“Kate Rowley.”
Aunt Jean nodded. “Oui, she has her grandmother’s blood in her. The House would welcome that one.”
Then the old witch frowned and sighed and her shoulders sagged. “I think you will find pain on that path, my child. Much pain before you find joy. I see this. Do not choose before you must.”
Alice shook her head. “Kate.”
Aunt Jean shook her own head, a wry smile crossing her face before she straightened and looked strong again. With a nod and wink to Susan, Aunt Jean headed out the door. Alice shrugged her shoulders, picked up her backpack, and followed.
Susan cocked her head, listening to the grunts of bodies stooping to strap and buckle snowshoes, the crunch of snowshoes on crust already muffled by the new snow falling. “Did you see Grendel in the spirit lands? Any idea where she is?”
“No. I hope she went wherever that water came from. And that it was the right water. I don’t think we’ll ever know.”
He didn’t think Susan’s mind was on Grendel right now, though. He could tell he’d just about scared the shit out of her. One time in the faint glow of a lantern, after sex, she'd told him that she'd always lost anyone she cared about.
The crunch of snow faded. At last, Dennis couldn’t hear anything but the wind and trees and waves, the creaking of the old wood of the boathouse. She nodded agreement and grinned at him and pulled her sweater up over her head and tossed it on a chair. That still left a second sweater and long underwear before she’d show him any skin. She grabbed the waistband of her pants and all the layers beneath and shoved them down to her ankles and got tangled in her boots and cussed and thumped her bare butt down on a chair and fumbled with bootlaces.
She stopped and glared at them and then flopped back in the chair, laughing up at him. “Sexy, eh? Maine winter—by the time you get all the layers stripped off, you’ve forgotten why you started. You gonna work on your own stuff while I figure out those knots?”
She laughed again. “That old woman has a dirty mind. But she’s right. Now that we don’t have an audience, I think I’ll play doctor with you. First thing on the list, a full physical and cardiac stress-test to prove you’re healthy. And scent-marking my territory.”
Welcome home, soldier.
Dennis looked down at her and grinned back and quit thinking about Grendel, She-Who-Swims. He started fumbling with his own layers.
o0o
She swam. She tasted the water, searching for names, searching for clues. She listened. She lifted her head and shoulders above the waves, into warm wind and sun, and turned, sorting through rocks and trees for any shore she knew.
They’d waited in the dark cave, the one called Dennis with his sharp-smelling club, his pistol, pointed at that place in the air that set her fur on end. The old woman had sung words that almost seemed familiar, not English, not the language the land-dwellers used in that world, and the air turned thick and things came out of it. Loud noises, strong smells, biting, slashing, spinning, screaming, fierce joy washing through her arms and legs with something to fight, to kill, blood hot in her mouth, the Dennis grown huge and strong and furry but still giving his same smell, the things scattering in fear and they’d followed and she’d smelled water, familiar water, the smell of swimmers and water broke around her and she swam deep and the Dennis and all that land vanished.
Smells. Tastes. She had learned a new taste in the water now, the taste of that place between the worlds, bitter and slippery, she’d found that when the spinning in her head passed her into the cold season and pain and loss, she’d found it again in coming here. She could give that smell, that taste, to her nest with a warning.
If she could find her nest. If her nest would know her, after this swim between the worlds. She did not recognize the trees, the rocks, the currents, coming sudden to this place instead of following known to known. She knew direction, she knew smells. She smelled food, and she was hungry.
She dove and sang part of the hunting song, asking leave to hunt a strange nest’s waters. She cast her smell, her name into the water, not coming as a thief.
Challenge came back, soft, distant, the voice of her own kind. She sang her part of the nest song, just the single part, just the single swimmer rather than a full nest of hunters taking food from the teeth of whoever knew these waters.
Silence answered. Even the prey held silent, hiding from the hunters.
A call, her own call repeated but rising at the end, questioning. She sang again, longer, yes, this is who I am. Silence followed and lengthened.
Variation, the call lower in pitch, notes inserted, a new phrase at the end.
Nest-sister!
She sang around the new call, behind it, ahead of it, her form of the nest song blending with Nest-sister’s. Joy washed through her, adding yet more notes, rising and falling, repeating, lengthening. Joy added phrases instead of single notes, songs, music, from the stereo in the nest of Dennis, the nest of Susan, this is who I am, this is where I have been. Those phrases came back to her in a lower voice, a louder voice even though still distant, He-who-smells-of-mating blending his song into the full song of the nest.
She sang. They sang. She swam headlong through dark water, waves overhead, feeding forgotten, sharp teeth of other hunters forgotten, following their songs, voices growing stronger. New voices, faint, high-pitched, one, two, new variations on the nest song.
Nestlings!
She had to stop. She had to rise to the surface, breathe, float, wash the thrill out of her body. Nestlings. They lived. She had found her home, her nest, her family. That was the word, the English word, learned from Susan. Susan, Dennis, Alice, Rick, Aunt Jean, she remembered the sounds, she remembered the smells, she would always remember their smells.
Land-dwellers, but family. Part of her nest, part of her new nest-song.
She dove again, rejoining the song, stronger now, closer, even the nestling songs clear and dancing through the water. She swam and swam and swam and they were there, Nest-sister and He-who-smells-of-mating and nestlings, filling the water, spinning, twisting, touching, diving, rising, songs and bodies blending together, smells blending together, strong enough she almost forgot to rise and breathe.
Home.
-END-