Hot Pterodactyl Boyfriend (36 page)

She had already crossed so many lines. And she was hungry. Pyke tore a strip of flesh. He dangled it, danced with it, teased her, shook it slowly, then quickly, as she lunged, starving for it.

“I am human!” she yelled at him, and her voice was strong, full of flame.

Dream or not, maybe this was exactly where she needed to be: her frozen river, her burning cabin, her endless night.

She seized the flesh finally, gorged herself. Chilly and burned at the same time.

She grabbed more from the beak of a passing crow, fought off others, heard herself laughing.

This was her dance. Her night to feast, without fear, to burn the whole thing down.

In the morning
she awoke on a battered board not far from where the cabin fire still steamed and hissed. Sunlight trembled on one side of the surrounding hills. The river sounded louder, ever-flowing beneath the ice.

She was cold, stiff, hungry. The twisted head of a moose carcass glared at her through glassy eyes.

Really? A moose?

Yet here it was, gigantic, half-emptied, its flesh and guts spilling into the ashes.

Silence.

Shiels examined herself, and laughed—her arms were still arms, legs still legs. But oh she was sore from yesterday! Her shoulder from the landing, her hands from hanging on to Pyke so long then tearing up those boards, everything aching and stiff from the fitful few hours of cold sleep before a dying fire.

High in a fir tree she spied what seemed to be a pair of ancient handbags hanging together from a limb. Pyke and Jocelyne—they were rousing themselves too, unfolding their wings sleepily. Jocelyne pushed off, stretched out and caught an updraft as if she had been doing it all her life. Pyke sprang after her, and the two circled each other, calling and shrieking.

There were no crows. The white frozen river looked mostly innocent of any debaucheries from the night before. A few glistening black feathers littered the snow. New frost was forming on some of the cinders.

Pyke's security bracelet lay near her feet. How had he pried it open? Had the crows, or Jocelyne, last night—

Pyke and Jocelyne circled, circled, came closer and performed a sort of flypast, swooping low toward Shiels then pulling up, shrieking, waving. She could not join them, not now, never again. She was stuck in this aching body, unfit to be a beast.

She smiled, she cried at the thought of it.

Good-bye, good-bye!
the pterodactyls shrieked, and soared away.

Shiels picked up the abandoned security bracelet, clicked it shut. Was it still working? Surely the authorities would find her now, if she hung on to it. It wouldn't be long. Her parents would have haunted the police station all day and night, urging action! Or was she beyond the reach of the signal?

She moved farther along the riverbank. There, by more abandoned shacks, was a snow-covered road. She was wearing her yellow running shoes, her torn mitts, a winter jacket not meant for wilderness.

But this was a road. A thin crust, good footing.

She could stay, she supposed, maybe even coax more heat from the remnants of last night's fire. But it didn't really seem to be an option. As she moved, her body began to forgive her. She started along, whacking her sides to warm herself. She was hungry but she had eaten of last night's half-scorched roadkill moose. (Could crows bring down a moose by themselves? Even ten thousand of them?)

She began to run. It only seemed natural. She straightened herself as Linton had taught her, leaned from her ankles, tried not to overstride. Where was her breathing? (In her belly, down below.)

Her feet felt lighter than usual.

She warmed up rather quickly, considering everything, and all of her began to feel lighter.

She imagined herself suddenly becoming Jocelyne Legault (who had, after all, suddenly become a flying beast), perfectly sure and light of foot, effortless and quick, with stride after efficient stride.

She felt quick. Her eyes seemed . . . stronger. She picked out a tiny movement from all the way across the river and halfway up the hill, far in the distance. Pyke and Jocelyne, just specks now against what was becoming an astonishingly bright blue morning sky.

She could see their fine wings, could sense their hearts thrumming with the delirium of flight.

We know you,
they were saying.

She felt again the warmth of clutching Pyke while he had flown her far above the Earth.

Now Pyke and Jocelyne circled higher, getting smaller, until they disappeared behind the sun-blessed hill. The road took a curve then too. When it straightened out again, the flying beasts were gone, swallowed by the sky. Impossible to prove they had ever been there.

She surprised herself. She reared back suddenly and, perhaps channeling Jeremy Jeffreys, hurled the security bracelet as high as she could. It soared, lodged perfectly in an upper tree branch, a startling throw. There it stayed, glowing slightly against the darkness of the fir. Surely it would not be long before a crow stole it off, some new prized possession to be deposited even deeper in the woods.

On, on she ran. It felt good now, this human body of hers, like it was made to move, to travel great distances.

Stride, stride,
posture, breathing. Was this a dream? The whole thing? Just this moment, right now, seemed more real than anything could be. A curve coming. Shiels sped up, leaned into it, took it on.

Who was she?
her footfalls seemed to be saying.

Who was she now?

•  •  •

Many turns later the road straightened out, she climbed a hill, her stride was holding. Ahead of her she saw a red pickup truck angled into the ditch, the battered hood propped open, an elderly man in a trucker's cap, a heavy coat, and tired boots leaning into the engine. He straightened up at her approach, wiped his face with the back of his hand. He looked hurt. His forehead had a welt on it. “Are you out here—jogging? Really?” he said. “Did you frostbite your nose or something? Looks like you're peeling.”

Her nose did feel itchy. She touched it, and a corner of skin came off, purple on the surface. In the reflection from the truck's side mirror she could see the skin beneath was lighter, almost pink.

“Nothing serious,” she said. “What's happened to you—are you all right?”

He smiled crookedly. “Been rattled worse in my time, I guess.” The truck really did look banged up, the body dented badly, the windshield broken but held together in parts with new-looking tape. “Blame thing. Took the wrong road last night, hit a moose come from nowhere. Bung my head up against the steering wheel. Truck's so old, doesn't even have an air bag. Lucky to be alive, really. Must've been dazed. I swear about a million crows come swarmed me, some of them dastard huge, excuse my language.”

“Really?” Shiels said.

“Never seen anything like it! Completely forgot my phone had a camera! Not that I know how to use it. The grandkids are gonna laugh!”

He was tall, snowy-haired. He had a kind grin, some of his teeth. Something about his bearing reminded her of Linton.

“Sometimes strange things happen,” Shiels said.

“Need a lift somewhere? I'm just about to give this rig another try. Think I can make it back to Duggan.” He lowered the bashed hood, fastened it somewhat closed with a bungee cord.

Where the hell was Duggan? It didn't matter. The guy climbed into his truck, and she stood with her hands on her hips breathing, looking at everything: morning dawning on the hills, a frozen river so white it almost hurt to take it in. He tried the engine. It shrieked, coughed, then turned over and started to purr. Then he threw it into reverse and she jumped out of the way as he wrangled the wreck back onto the road.

“Get in!” he cried, and the mangled passenger-side door swung open all on its own. She climbed up. The seat belt didn't work. She had to hold the door closed. The cold wind blew in through a dozen cracks and gaps.

“I swear one of those crows,” the driver said, “had a beak this big!” He abandoned the steering wheel for a moment, stretched his arms as far as they could go. “No one's going to believe me. And I don't know how the bloody moose survived impact and walked into the bush. But I sure couldn't find him in the morning. No tracks—gone without a trace! How'd
you
get here, anyway?”

He had an easy smile, as if used to a gobsmacking world, to telling stories wide and wider.

“I guess I just flew in,” she said. “How far to Duggan?”

The drafts were cold, but her body was warm still, her heart full to swelling.

“Not more'n twenty miles. You runnin' the whole way? You some elite athlete or something? Should I know who you are?”

Bump, bump
—the truck rattled like it might come apart any moment, but kept on rolling.

“Shiels Krane,” she said, and felt herself smiling from the roots of her hair to the arching soles of her yellow shoes.

First of all,
my deep thanks to Libba Bray, whose January 2012 lecture at the Vermont College of Fine Arts, in which she briefly mentioned the fascinating nature of the pterodactyl boyfriend experience, set me on the path of the current study. Her throwaway remark lit up a constellation of thoughts and considerations within me. When I told her of my burgeoning interest, she immediately gave me her blessing. Libba—I did go for it, as you can see. Many thanks!

Due to the sensitive nature of my research, few of my study subjects agreed to speak on the record, so I am presenting this work in its entirety as a “fiction.” The characters and events described are not true to life; locations have been obscured, and all names have been changed. The one notable exception, of course, is Professor Lorraine Miens, who declined to be interviewed, citing privacy issues concerning a current student. Her works are well-known and speak for themselves.

Heartfelt thanks to several funding bodies that made the investigation and completion of this work possible: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, the City of Ottawa Arts Funding Program, and the Berton House writer's residency program in Dawson City, Yukon, sponsored by the Writers' Trust of Canada, with additional help from the Dawson City Community Library board and the Klondike Visitors Association. Truly, this financial backing and artistic encouragement have been invaluable over the years it has taken to complete the effort.

I also write with the love and support of an extraordinary family. Without my brother Richard's example and enthusiasm, I would never have pursued writing as a lifelong vocation. My daughters, Gwen and Anna, brother Steve, niece Ashleigh Elson, and sister-in-law Wendy Evans all read early drafts and helped shape the work, as did dear friends Helena Spector, Kate Preston, and Kathy Bergquist. My mother, Suzanne Cumyn, has always read my initial efforts with loving interest and in this case was especially encouraging in her enthusiasm for my ongoing pterodactyl studies. My wife, Suzanne Evans, tenaciously helped me sort through a number of difficult sections with her usual unerring instinct and iron determination. Many thanks as well to my agent, Ellen Levine, for championing this work from the moment she saw it, and to my editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, whose passion, patience, skills, and insight were invaluable throughout, especially considering the wildness of the undertaking.

Finally, a note of gratitude to paleontologist Mark P. Witton for his scholarly yet accessible work
Pterosaurs
, and to the American Museum of Natural History in New York City for their enlightening exhibit
Pterosaurs: Flight in the Age of Dinosaurs
, both of which were invaluable in helping me access my own inner pterodactyl.

Any inaccuracies in the physiology or psychology of teenage pterodactyl behavior, and all other deficiencies in the work, remain, of course, my responsibility.

Alan Cumyn

Ottawa, April 2015