Three Rivers (15 page)

He picked out shapes in the darkness. A smoky scent from last night's fire lingered on his clothes. Liam would sleep for a while longer and would not be afraid if he woke to find Obi gone. Obi often hunted or gathered wood in the early morning while Liam slept. Liam knew Obi would always return before the sun was high in the sky.

Obi headed toward the house. He could be there in minutes if he walked briskly in a straight line, but he crept slowly in the darkness, on the unfamiliar land. The land was littered with hazards, but Obi was sure-footed. He lacked his mother's gifts of healing and seeing, but he could read the land. He reached the back porch as the gray mist of dawn began to rise.

Obi climbed the rotting porch steps. He could fix this porch. All he needed was a bit of lumber and some time. He peered through a window, confident no one would be awake and staring back at him at this hour. Someone had left a light on over the kitchen sink. A pile of dishes dried on a rack. A sturdy white-and-blue wrought-iron table and matching chairs sat in the center of the kitchen; a refrigerator and freezer stood against a wall. The countertop was lined with small appliances: a coffeemaker, a toaster, an electric mixer, a blender, a ceramic spoon rest. Dull, ordinary things. Obi moved on.

He looked into another window and saw the dining room with its long, polished oak table and chairs. A tall cabinet made from the same oak as the dining table stood against the wall. The cabinet was lit up on the inside, each shelf with a spotlight like a cabinet at a museum. The light shone off stacks of blue-and-white plates, teacups, and saucers. Obi knew nothing about china, but it looked like a valuable collection.

He moved around to the side of the house where the windows were smaller. The rooms were dark, and there wasn't much to see anyhow—a laundry room, a half bath, some sort of storage room, a den filled with books.

By the time Obi got around to the front porch, a gray and muted light shone through the clouds of the eastern sky. Curtains covered the large front windows, but the heavy drapes didn't quite meet in the middle. Obi shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted into the small space. The room was large and shadowy. He could barely make out one piece of furniture from another. He turned away from the window and scanned the front yard. Nothing but weeds and dead grass in the raised beds bordered by rotting logs. What a waste.

Obi left the porch and circled around to the back of the house again. The bedrooms would be upstairs, he knew, and he considered climbing a live oak that would give him a clear view into one of the upstairs rooms. He wanted to see what these people looked like, to take their measure. He gave up the idea as too risky when he realized he wouldn't be able to climb and keep his rifle at the ready.

He walked back toward camp. After he'd taken about a hundred long strides, he turned around to look at the house once more. He saw movement in one of the upstairs windows, and a light was on that hadn't been before. A man with dark hair stared down at him. Obi had the feeling this man was watching him all along. A hard kernel of fear settled beneath his breastbone. He hugged the rifle closer. A fat drop of rain came down on Obi's shoulder, then another on his forehead. He hurried back to the tent, back to Liam.

Liam, still groggy, walked out into the wet morning and relieved himself against a pine tree. From the car, Obi retrieved the tin of spice cookies his mother had given them and two leftover biscuits from the night before, plus the jerky and a container of mixed nuts. Liam ate and they listened to the rain. It was going to be a dark, dreary day. Obi wondered if the nearby creek contained any fish worth catching in the rain. He decided against it, mostly because he doubted he'd be able to get a fire going if he did catch anything. They would make do with the cans of deviled ham and Vienna sausages, peanut butter and crackers Obi kept with him for days like this one. Neither Obi nor Liam minded a bit of rain. It kept things cool and, on the river at least, the fishing was always best after a hard rain. No one ever died from getting wet.

The hardest thing about a rainy day was how it seemed to slow down time. On a sunny day, Liam would dig holes in the dirt and help Obi fetch water and they would build a fire for cooking or for warmth. They would fish or Obi would hunt for squirrel or turkey, often with Liam by his side. On a dry, sunny day, hours passed without effort, and Obi and Liam would be exhausted and ready for sleep come nightfall. Even if there was a good, soaking rain in the afternoon—and often there was—it was just an excuse to rest for an hour or so. When the rain started like this, though, first thing in the morning, it would continue for hours or even days. He hoped the tent wouldn't flood. If so, they'd have to sleep in the car.

Liam finished eating and stretched out on his back. He rested his head on his hands, and Obi could see how the boy was going to look as a man. “Did I ever tell you about my grandfather?” Obi asked Liam. “About your great-grandfather?”

Liam shook his head and Obi smiled. The story came to him fully formed, though he had no clear memory of being told the story himself. It must have been the memory of his grandfather's cane that brought it back to him. As soon as he began to speak, he could hear his mother whispering the story into his ear, and Obi knew she must have done so when he was no bigger than Liam.

“Your great-grandfather was a white dog. He looked like a man when the sun shone, but at night he became a large white dog with silver eyes and a soft, pure coat. White animals are rare and powerful.” Obi glanced at Liam to make sure he was listening. The boy's green eyes were bright with interest. “White animals are hunted for their skins. A woman married in the skin of a white deer will have nothing but luck and prosperity with her husband, and she'll have children who are strong and smart and bring her happiness. The tail of a white fox provides protection. A feather plucked from an all-white rooster brings wisdom. Men who become animals are even more rare, and men who become white animals are the most powerful men of all.

“Your great-grandfather was a white dog. He was a great hunter because he could sniff out prey where other hunters had to rely on their eyes. He was loyal and kind, but also fierce when he needed to be. When he was young, he learned to read and write, even though plenty of boys did not learn such things at the time. He went hunting with his father. His mother taught him which plants he could eat and which would make him sick. At night, he roamed for miles and miles. He scavenged through the woods and made friends with the wolves who lived there. The wolves hunted at night, and your great-grandfather helped them find food. He knew how to get into the barns of his neighbors and where the chickens roosted. The wolves ate well every night, and every morning, the people in the houses with the barns and the chickens would be angry about the stolen livestock. The men put heavy doors on the barns to keep out predators, but still their animals disappeared. Some nights, all the men would agree to keep a lookout and to kill any predators who trespassed onto their land. On those nights, your great-grandfather warned his wolf friends and they stayed far away from the men with the guns.

“One night, one of the men decided to stay up through the night and keep an eye on his livestock. He decided to keep his plan a secret, because whenever the men discussed their plans as a group, the predators did not come. This man, a smart man, had figured that the predator was not an animal, but one of the men who lived in the village. This man loaded a gun and sat in the darkness of his barn, waiting for the door to open and for the thief to show himself. Night came on and the moon, which was no more than a sliver that night, rose up into the sky. This man waited, quiet and patient. He had already decided he would wait for as many nights as it took to catch the thief.

“When the night was as dark as it would ever get, the door of the man's barn pushed open. The man aimed his gun, but he was so surprised to see a white dog in the doorway he barely noticed the pack of wolves coming in behind. The eyes of the white dog seemed familiar to the man, and the beast had somehow opened the barn door like a human. The dog looked the man in the eyes, saw the gun in the man's lap, and began to howl in warning. The wolves streamed out of the barn, their jaws packed with all the chickens they could grab. The man regained his senses and aimed the gun at the howling dog. He shot as the dog turned and ran away. The bullet hit the dog, hit your great-grandfather, in his right leg. He howled in pain, and a white hawk, the largest hawk the man had ever seen, flew down from the sky and carried the white dog away.

“When your great-grandfather awoke the next morning, a man again, his leg throbbed where the bullet had hit him. The hawk was no longer a bird, but a woman just about the same age as your great-grandfather. She told him she had plucked the bullet from his leg with her sharp beak and packed the wound with healing plants to stop the bleeding and ease the pain.

“Because of the bullet, your great-grandfather always walked with a limp, but he didn't mind, because the bullet brought your great-grandmother to him. At night, when he was a dog and your great-grandmother was a hawk, they would travel as far as they could together and as they traveled, they played a game. Your great-grandmother would find beautiful limbs high in the trees and she would drop them into the woods. Your great-grandfather would fetch the limbs and run ahead until morning. During the day, your great-grandfather carved the limbs he'd carried the night before into sturdy, straight sticks. Together they placed the stick in the ground, and they would travel in whichever direction it leaned. After many, many nights, one of the sticks stood straight up. It did not lean to the east or the west. It did not point to the north or the south. On that day, your great-grandparents knew they were home. They built a house and soon they had your grandmother. Your great-grandfather continued to carve the branches from the trees. He lived to be a very old man, and the limp from the bullet grew worse as he grew older. He used the sticks he carved as walking canes during the day. At night, he still became the white dog but he no longer roamed. He stayed by your great-grandmother's side, loyal and true. And she stayed with him, always protecting him from danger.”

Liam looked up at his father like he expected more. “That's it,” Obi said. “That's the story of your great-grandparents.”

The rain poured. The ground beneath the tent was turning to mud. It was the middle of the day, but it could just as easily have been night. No sunlight broke through the dark sky.

Liam scratched a mosquito bite on his ankle. “No,” he said. “I don't think that's true.”

Obi laughed. “And why not?”

“Because sometimes I dream about the white dog and he doesn't limp at all.”

Liam reached for a sleeve of crackers and a jar of peanut butter. He dipped one of the crackers into the jar and brought it to his mouth. Crumbs scattered across his chest and onto the sleeping bag. “Tell me something else,” he said. “Something true.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

Geneva listened to the rain splat against the pavement outside. Even from the motel bed, she could see it was going to be a gray, dreary day. No light shone through the window. Atul slept beside her, one leg kicked out from under the thin, cheap sheets. He looked like a child. Hard to believe he was the same man who'd pinned her last night. Hard to believe there was a side of Atul she hadn't seen before. What other surprises was he hiding? She would never know. Their time was up. Already she'd stayed too long. Pisa told her to go straight home, and now it was a new day. Dread, that was what she felt. Dread for what was coming, and for everything she didn't know.

*   *   *

She should have listened to her father. He'd told her Bruce was not a man worth marrying. He said she'd regret it. How she hated it when other people were right. Still, even though their life together was one disappointment after another, when she learned Bruce was dying, she felt something vital ripped from her gut. When the doctor laid out Bruce's long list of illnesses and said he might not live a month, she lashed out at him. “What do you know? There are bigger forces working here. You can't predict everything with your medicine.”

The doctor admitted he didn't know anything for sure. “Then stop spreading lies,” she told him. “I have witnessed miracles. I won't be a slave to your science.” Now it was nearly a month later, and Bruce was still alive. Nothing about the month felt miraculous.

This is what the doctor told her: Bruce had cancer in his lungs and liver, emphysema, coronary atherosclerosis, high blood pressure, diabetes, and a few other things she couldn't recall. She hadn't even known he was sick until she found him collapsed by the shed, that dreadful shed. She hadn't wanted to know.

She slipped from bed and closed herself into the tiny bathroom, where she scrubbed her face with a rough cloth and a bar of soap that smelled like lemon drop candy. She ought to head out this instant, before the rain picked up and before Atul decided to try to keep her here against her will. Also, she really didn't want to get involved in Chandra's problems. Geneva didn't trust the girl. Chandra played innocent for her father, but Geneva recognized a streak of deception in her. No telling what really happened by the river. Better to keep out of it, let Chandra deal with her own problems.

The door to the bathroom creaked loudly when she pushed it open. “Come back to bed,” Atul said.

She slipped her feet into her sandals, bent to straighten a strap caught under her heel. “I have to get home.” She avoided his eyes, not wanting to see the violence bubble up again.

“You said you would help me. You said you knew that man, the sheriff.” Atul's voice rose in an annoying whine that put Geneva in mind of mosquitoes. Would he sting her next? Take her blood? Probably.

“I'll take you to the sheriff, but then I'm gone. You can't keep me here, Atul.” No one can keep me, she thought.