Blood Rites (18 page)

Alan enjoyed everything but caring for the twins.

He couldn’t help himself. He was afraid of them—the strange way they looked at him, their oversize long-fingered hands, their anger. In addition, their primitive attempts to touch his mind would create static in his head as if his brain weren’t tuned to exactly the right station.

But worst of all they talked. Not in the simple, often indecipherable babble of toddlers but with overexaggerated enunciation. It was obvious, though, from the way they usually combined their words that they didn’t understand many of them. Bomb, revolution, and chocolate were Patrick’s three favorites and once Dickey asked for a “tomato Wednesday” with such seriousness that the adults started laughing, leaving Dickey with his lower lip stuck out and misery in his eyes though, like all Austras, he was unable to actually cry.

“Tomato Wednesday,” Patrick repeated and laughed with the others.

Alan didn’t even smile. He wished he had the courage to pick up the silver-haired boy and explain but he wasn’t sure how to begin. Stephen did it for him, carrying both boys to the kitchen to show them the tomatoes ripening on the windowsill, then sitting them on the counter, holding up a calendar, and silently showing the passing of days, naming them as he did.

“Sunday, Monday, Tuesday . . .”the boys recited in their singsong lilt. They kept it up until, exasperated with the noise, Stephen taught them to count.

The more Alan tried to overcome his fear of the pair, the harder it became to even approach them. “They make me feel like such a sissy,” he confessed to his father one night after they’d gone to bed.

“I think the little nippers are jealous,” his father replied. “You’ve taken Hillary’s attention away from them. And now that they know you’re scared, they’re playing with your mind, trying to make you feel more afraid.”

“Like dogs that bite you when you run?”

“Sort of. Stephen said this is something they have to learn to do but if they bother you too much, talk to him about it, OK?” His father groped in the darkness, grabbing Alan’s shoulders and giving him a hug through his sleeping bag. “I’m sorry you’ve been so cooped up. I wanted to show you more of this country.”

“We have lots of time, don’t we?” Alan asked, sounding hopeful.

“Sure. And tomorrow we’re driving to town with Stephen. The next day, he and I are taking you climbing.”

“I thought we were going to stay close to the house.”

“If we’d been followed we’d know by now.”

“What do you think Carol and Judy are doing while we’re here?”

His father laughed softly. “Running amuk in the Gimbels basement.”

Alan listened to the wind rustling the pine trees around the house. He snuggled lower in his bag, burying his nose inside, inhaling his own warmth. “I’m glad you brought me here,” he said.

“And I wouldn’t want to be here without you.”

Late that night, Alan woke and heard Helen laughing in the main room. He cracked open the door and saw Helen sitting cross-legged on the floor, nursing Patrick while Dickey waddled around the room.

Patrick saw Alan first and pointed. Dickey turned his way and pushed his body back on his haunches; bare feet, hands, and bottom planted firmly on the floor.
He sits like a puppy
, Alan thought, and smiled.

“Come out,” Helen said. She spoke so softly he didn’t know if he heard the words or only sensed them in his mind. He liked it when she spoke to his mind, as if he somehow shared her magic. He went and sat beside her on the carpet, brushing her arm in a kind of greeting he’d come to understand tightened their bond, carefully avoiding any physical contact with the child in her arms.

Helen buttoned her blouse and sat Patrick upright on her lap. “I’m teaching Dickey to walk on two feet. Watch what happens.”

She motioned to Dickey to come to her. He stood with his hands on the floor, then his fingertips, then his feet alone. He managed a half-dozen steps before he fell, rolling forward in a full somersault. Dickey giggled. Alan rolled forward, imitating him, then rolled back. Dickey mimicked him exactly, then giggled again.

—Help him stand— Helen suggested. Alan shook his head and she responded, “It’s all right. I promise I won’t let him bite you.”

Alan held out his hands. Dickey, his thin fingers almost as long as Alan’s, gripped Alan’s hands and he pulled himself up. The toddler’s long legs shook and seemed in as much danger of breaking as of collapse. Then, his lips pressed together stubbornly, his forehead tight with concentration, Dickey seemed to will them steady. He lifted one leg a number of times, then the other, let go of Alan’s hands, and walked to his mother.

Alan clapped, softly because he knew the boys’ ears were sensitive to noise though they seemed to make a lot of it themselves when the urge struck them. He thought he should give Dickey some reward. Food was out of the question since they lived on nothing but their mother’s milk supplemented with canned milk from Dawson. Alan could make a badge but he had nothing to pin it on since they didn’t wear clothes either. The first time he’d helped with laundry he understood that if clothing wasn’t needed, it was best not to wear it. Hand washing in water you had to pump and then heat on the stove was too much trouble. Alan considered everything he knew about Dickey, then walked over to Stephen’s loom and pulled a few pieces of yarn from the basket beside it. Working slowly while Dickey watched, he braided the strands together and tied the makeshift bracelet to Dickey’s arm. The silver-haired boy beamed with pleasure, sat down next to Alan, and fingered his gift while Patrick scowled.

“Why is Dickey so much stronger than his brother?” Alan asked, hoping that Patrick understood him.

“He isn’t. He just has the stronger body. Patrick has the stronger mind.”

“Will it always be that way?”

“I don’t know. We named Dickey after your father, you know. Stephen thinks that he will take after your father in size too. If so, he will be bigger than the men in the family, less thin and very powerful. As for his mind, we’ll have years to see how strong that becomes.“

“And what about Patrick?”

“He’ll probably take after his father.”

“Or his uncle,” Alan commented. Contrary to what his father believed, Alan remembered Charles Austra all too well.

“If Patrick knew how interesting you were, he wouldn’t be so angry about having you here,” Helen said. “Why not let his mind into yours for a while and show him where you live and what you do with your friends.”

“That’s not interesting, not at all.”

“It is to children who’ve only lived in a cabin in a forest. Try it. Show them.”

Encouraged by Helen’s coaxing, Alan let her merge his mind with the twins. He showed them his house and his toys. He recalled his school, the rows of desks, and the tall stem nun in starched black and white who pounded his knuckles with a ruler when he talked out of turn during class. He took them to Mass at St. John’s, sharing not just the windows their father and uncle had made but also the sounds of the singing, the smell of the incense, and how sick it always made him feel. When he finished and opened his eyes he felt as if he had been asleep, and somehow ordering his dreams. Patrick stared at him wide-eyed, almost smiling, then deliberately pointed to his wrist.

“Should I make him one?” Alan asked Helen.

“He held your bond all by himself, I think he deserves one,” Helen responded.

Alan chose different colored yarns. “Your brother’s are red and gold because those are effort colors. These are blue and green mental colors.” What he’d just said made him feel self-conscious and he started to laugh. Then he saw Helen’s approving expression, shut up and tried to look serious.

“That’s good.” Helen rested her hands on her children’s shoulders and Alan sensed her explaining this to them. “I told them they will collect these. They understand.” She stood and picked up Patrick. “It’s nearly dawn. Let’s put them to bed. Then I’ll have to go out for a while.”

“To hunt?”

“To hunt.”

Alan slowly held out his arm, wrist up, looking frightened, hopeful.

“No, you don’t understand. It’s not a chore, it’s . . . magnificent. And I like the rain.” She hesitated, then asked, “Are you sleepy?”

He heard the excitement in her question and answered, “Not anymore.”

“Good. I want to share a hunt with you.”

Helen waited until Stephen came home, dried off at the door, and slipped on a brown satin robe. Then, with only a mental warning, she was gone. Alan, lying on the couch, seemingly asleep, smiled at the wonder of the frosted night.

Helen looked at the ground and Alan saw the long ice crystals beneath her bare feet break and re-form. He saw the world around him distinct as early evening, the frost-coated ground glittering in the quarter moon. He saw the wolf glide, silent and smooth as a ghost, from the trees, felt the air on her bare legs as she ran through the woods, the heat of the deer, the soft light fur of its belly as she brought it down.

Though the deer had run from her, it was not terrified of Helen. She had fed on it before and it knew her scent. But the wolf meant death and it shook as she held it and drank.

Life. Flowing. Filling. Wanning.

And he had offered her his wrist!

—Alan, I don’t need your gift. But I wanted you to share this. It’s my gift to you.—

She let the deer loose, watching it disappear into the forest, giving it a long head start before she pulled the mental leash off her hungry companion and walked slowly through the trees toward home.

Later that morning, Dick found his son covered with a blanket, sleeping in front of the fire wrapped in his cousin’s arms. He had an expression of such wonder on his face that Dick left him undisturbed and returned to bed. He waited until he heard Hillary talking to Alan in the kitchen before he got up again.

Alan never told his father what happened that night. Dick never asked. Alan was old enough to have his secrets.

II

Dick Wells had never learned patience, and at this point in his life, he didn’t care to change. In three weeks, he’d read every book in the cabin, absorbed the last two Austra annual reports, played cards with anyone who would join him, solitaire when no one would, and scanned the Edmonton paper looking for some mention of Carrera or the investigation in Ohio, some indication of when he could go home.

During that time, Stephen scouted the area around the cabin and made unscheduled trips into Dawson to see if any strangers had shown up in town. Outside of the usual itinerant trappers beginning to arrive for their winter hunts, no one had come through. Finally, Dick stopped waiting for the killer to come. He wanted his last trip to Canada to be a good one, for his son as well as himself.

But though he told Alan there was no danger, Dick couldn’t quite trust his instincts. He kept a wary eye on the road during their drive to Dawson, asked a few discreet questions at the diner where he and his son ate while Stephen had his class. Dick noticed nothing strange. He hadn’t been followed. He couldn’t have been.

When Stephen joined them, he carried a letter addressed to him from New York. Inside, along with a brief note from Paul and Elizabeth, was a letter from Judy telling Dick that Carrera had been arrested and released on bail.

Now that it seemed safe to do so, Dick phoned Judy. They shared stories about their separate trips, Carol’s and Alan’s changes. Afterward, Dick made a list of everything Alan would need for wilderness hiking and took the boy shopping for a wanner coat and hiking boots.

The next day, Dick and Stephen took Alan farther into the mountains.

The trip began perfectly. The night’s dusting of snow had melted by midmorning, leaving hardly a trace on the frozen rocky ground. They climbed onto the ridge above the cabin, Dick and Alan spreading an early lunch on a sunny outcropping of rocks while looking down on the cabin, its long private drive, and a section of the main road.

Dick joined Stephen on the edge of the clearing where he sat shaded by the surrounding pines, a hat and glasses protecting his eyes from the sun. “A good spot for someone to watch us,” Dick said.

Stephen noted Alan trying to lure a chipmunk to his feet with a piece of bread and commented, ‘ ’At least one man stopped here a few days ago.“

“How do you know?”

“His scent. He peed on the tree behind me.”

“Should we go back?”

“Not yet. The man could have been a hunter or hiker. I want to see what else I can discover.‘’

After lunch, they traveled deeper and higher into the hills, crossing a rise and beginning a descent that would eventually take them to the flatter country north of the cabin. From there it would be an easy hike home.

“Do I hear a river?” Alan asked.

“With a waterfall,” Stephen told him. “You can go on ahead if you like but don’t try to cross.”

Dick stayed behind to confer with Stephen. “Notice anything?” he asked.

“Not yet. I don’t think . . .” He stopped and started to run toward the river. An instant later, Dick heard his son’s cry of alarm and followed.

A tree had fallen below the falls, making a natural bridge across the quick narrow stream. In the center of it, a fox had been caught in a spring trap and had somehow managed to avoid falling into the water and drowning. Now it crouched, its eyes glazed with pain, growling as Alan moved slowly closer.

“Get away!” Stephen warned and pulled the boy back. He grabbed a stick and sprang a second trap that had been less than a foot from where Alan had been standing and a third, well hidden by leaves, on the opposite bank. Then he stood over the fox. His hand moved too fast for Alan to follow, his long fingers gripping the animal’s muzzle, holding its jaws shut while he examined its wound.

Alan sniffed. Its fur was so beautiful. “Will it live?” he asked.

“No. It won’t be able to hunt and it will slowly starve.”

“Come on, Alan. We’ll climb above the falls,” Dick said to the boy.

Stephen waited until father and son moved away before lowering his head.

After the animal had died, Stephen moved its carcass well away from the bank and ripped each trap apart, leaving the useless pieces dangling from their chains.