Sourland (46 page)

Behind her then she heard his voice sharp in the cold air, like knife-blades. “Soph-ie!
Soph-ie
!” He was in pursuit of her, and he was walking—hiking—fast. He knew the trail, he had hiked this trail hundreds of times. She was in terror that he would set the dog after her—but she didn't hear the dog. Behind a tree, she hid. She hid, and tried to rest. She'd been ascending the trail—this was a mountainside trail, strewn with boulders—an ancient volcanic upheaval, the Sourlands of north central Minnesota—she was badly short of breath, climbing the trail. Also she was very cold, trembling. Her eyelashes were stuck together as if frozen. Her eyes spilled frozen tears. Her husband had died and abandoned her and this now was her fate, in Sourland. Even the spider bites on her body throbbed with the heat of accusation. There was a hot ribaldry to these itches. She fumbled to pick something up with which to protect herself—a broken tree limb. She would strike the man with it, if he came too close. If he set the dog after her, she would murder the dog. She was running, hunched-over. Her limbs ached, her head ached, she tasted vomit. She slipped on an icy rock, fell and cut her hand. She forced herself to her feet. She was talking to herself, whispering. She'd become a hunted creature. The man shouted after her knowing exactly where she was. From the first, he'd known. She could not hide from him, her footprints were revealed to him. He carried a flashlight in one hand and in the other hand he gripped a walking-stick like a figure in a Grimm's fairy tale. He would seize her and drag her back to the cabin by her hair. She would be cleaved in two, the man would
jam his fist into her, his penis hard as a club deep inside her body. She would be cleaved in two, she would die. She could not survive another assault, she would die.

Something screamed nearby—a screech owl. There was a blurred frenzy of wings not twenty feet away overhead in the pine boughs, an owl striking its prey in the shadow of a boulder, a rabbit's shriek, the tiny death was over in an instant.

All this while the moon hung crooked in the sky. The man was hunting her, swiftly yet not in haste. His movements were never careless, he knew the trail by night. In his left hand he held a flashlight and in his right hand he gripped a five-foot walking-stick. It is a terrible thing, to be pursued in the night by a man with a five-foot walking-stick. Sophie tried to hide, she'd crawled behind one of the great white boulders like the eggs of a giant prehistoric bird.
Soph-ie! Come here! You'll hurt yourself for Christ sake.

She heard the
click!
of the walking-stick. The stick against the frozen earth. Striking the rocks, deflected from the rocks. By now it was well past midnight. By now the moon was careening across the sky, toward a distant horizon. Sophie scrambled to her feet, stumbling into the wild for she'd lost the trail. Yet telling herself
I want to live. This is proof, I want to live and I will live.
She slipped, she fell. She fell hard, injuring her wrist. And her ankle—she'd turned her ankle. Oh! her ankle had twisted beneath her, she cried with pain, disappointment. She was sure she'd heard the bone crack. She was sick with loathing for herself. For now the man was close behind her, closing the distance between them. The light of the flashlight swarmed onto her, blinding her. How he'd known that she'd left the cabin, she could not imagine. She'd been so quiet, so circumspect! Now the man loomed above her. He'd put away the flashlight, he had no need of the flashlight now. And there was moonlight, that came splotched and strangely glowing through the trees. Like a cornered animal she struck out at him, a small vicious creature, a mink, a ferret, she had only her claws to protect her, and her teeth. But the man was too quick for her, and wary. She could only flail with her hands,
that were numb as with frostbite. She was on the snowy ground now, amid the rocks, sprawled, helpless. She was crying softly, all passion had drained from her. The man had triumphed, he was lifting her, grunting as he lifted her, in triumph, gloating. She knew, he had to be gloating. He had to be laughing at her. She had not the strength to scream at him to tell him how she hated him, she despised him, all that he'd done to her and would do to her, he was repulsive to her. In silence he lifted her, his arm around her waist. He was a man who would say little, Sophie knew. She would have to communicate with such a man in a way more primitive than words.

He held her, standing. She could not have stood, on her own. Her right ankle throbbed with pain. Her clothes were torn, her hair was wild as tangled briars. Still he held her steady. She was sobbing, pushing at him, yet weakly now. There was no hope, she could not escape him. She'd gotten less than a mile from the cabin, for all her cunning and desperation. By daylight you would be able to see how far. By daylight he would laugh at her. The pig-bulldog would laugh at her. Footprints in the snow, her prints and his prints in pursuit, until he'd caught up with her, hauled her to her feet, he would half-carry her back down the trail to the cabin where a fire still smoldered in the fireplace, where the bulldog had been confined and yipped frantically as they approached. Bitterly she was saying she didn't want to be with him, she didn't want this. She had made a mistake, she didn't want this nor did she want him. She was sobbing with pain, frustration. She leaned against him, with great difficulty she walked, her right ankle was near-useless. Still the man held her, walked with her bearing the brunt of her weight as they made their way cautiously in slow downhill skids, on the icy rock. His was a perverse and unyielding strength, she understood would not fail them. She could feel the heat pulsing from his body, through the nylon parka. She asked how much farther it was back to the cabin and the man said, “Not far.”

Many thanks are due to the editors of the magazines and journals in which, often in slightly different versions, these stories originally appeared.

“Pumpkin-Head” in
The New Yorker
.

“The Story of the Stabbing” in
The Dark End of the Street
, edited by Jonathan Santlofer.

“Babysitter” in
Ellery Queen
; reprinted in
Horror: The Best of the Year 2006
.

“Lost Daddy” in
Playboy
.

“Bonobo Momma” in
Michigan Quarterly Review
; reprinted in
Pushcart Prize XXXIII: Best of the Small Presses 2009
, edited by William Henderson.

“Bitch” in
Boulevard
.

“Amputee” in
Shenandoah
.

“The Beating” in
Conjunctions
.

“Bounty Hunter” in
The Guardian
.

“The Barter” in
Story
.

“Honor Code” in
Ellery Queen
; reprinted in
The Finest Crime and Mystery Novellas of the Year
, edited by Ed Gormand and Martin Greenberg.

“Probate” in
Salmagundi
.

“Donor Organs” in
Michigan Quarterly Review
.

“Death Certificate” in
Boulevard
.

“Uranus” in
Conjunctions
.

“Sourland” in
Boulevard
.