Bone Black

by Carol Rose GoldenEagle

  “Oh, good to hear. Which ones?”

  It isn’t amazing that Wren is able to cite Proverb 3:9–10. “Honour the Lord with your wealth, with the fruits of all your crops; then your barns will be filled to overflowing, and your vats will brim over with new wine,” she says.

  This particular proverb is one Wren read while waiting in line at the gas station the other day. As is so often the case, customers don’t come into the gas station just to purchase something, they also come to visit, which means polite conversation about grandkids, what’s on the stove for supper tonight and, of course, the weather. It can mean that a quick trip can turn into having to wait around awhile. While she was waiting the other day, Wren picked up one of those community news bulletins which lets everyone know important things like recycling days and so on. Proverb 3:9-10 was printed on the back of the bulletin. Wren liked the message, so she committed it to memory.

  She likes to remember phrases and sayings, believing it keeps the mind sharp. For that reason, she’s always enjoyed a good game of Scrabble and other word games that help to expand the vocabulary. Like the word sluggard. It brings Wren a momentary bit of joy as she remembers the last time she and Raven played the game. There was almost a fist fight because Raven thought Wren made up the word sluggard until Wren pulled out the dictionary. “See, there it is!” she yelled, hardly able to stop laughing. “It means ‘habitually lazy person.’” Eleven points!”

  “That proverb is one my grandmother used to read to me,” explains Wren.

  Wren is convincing and the explanation seems to soften the heart of the old priest, who finally agrees that it is proper to use Kohkum’s old rosary and Bible. There will be no need to make a trip to the seniors’ home after all.

  Any anxiety Wren feels at her own impending plan is quickly erased as she glances at her passenger. She notices he’s rubbing his hands together while he looks out the window. It sickens Wren to know what those hands have done. What they still do. She can’t help but think it’s like watching a fly rub its filthy legs together.

  Turning Point

  Wren tries to ensure the conversation with Father Hector stays amicable during the half-hour drive back to the farmhouse. She talks about the baby and how she’s looking forward to teaching the child how to skate, how to ride a bike, how to swim and how to collect frogs in the stream that runs through the property. As they turn down Wren’s long driveway, Wren announces that she doesn’t see her husband’s truck as expected. Another lie. She feels like she is shaking but hopes she displays no visible signs of discomfort. She invites the padre into her home. The smell of cinnamon and apples still lingers in her kitchen.

  The morning sun catches the sparkle of brown sugar granules that garnish the apple crisp she baked earlier this morning. The dessert was set out to cool on the counter. She offers a piece to her guest.

  “I have some thick cream as well. That’s how I always eat my crisp,” she says. Her visitor accepts the offer and Wren begins to spoon some of the sweet dish onto a plate.

  Father Hector has no way of knowing the dessert has been laced with sleeping pills. Wren ground up four in her mortar and pestle, adding the powder before popping the crisp into the oven. The ingredient was strategically placed in the left-hand corner of the pan. She serves him a generous portion from that corner. As the priest gobbles up the sweetness, he can’t help but comment on Wren’s collection of pottery displayed around the kitchen.

  “I love working with clay because it comes from the earth,” Wren explains. “There is something that’s comforting to me about knowing we share our meals using a plate that’s been created from a part of nature.”

  “Interesting-looking piece of pottery,” Father Hector remarks, referring to the vase with the bone black finish. Wren looks at it and pictures Billy Vespas burning in the kiln. “It reminds me of an artifact from those historical recreations of the Bible seen in film,” continues Father Hector.

  “Ancient Egyptian pottery,” Wren agrees. “It’s something I’ve been experimenting with. Telling stories of hunting and gathering. Death and destruction using petroglyph images. There are clues to the past in each of the crude drawings.” Catching herself becoming distracted by the priest’s conversation, Wren pulls back. “I’m glad you like the pottery design,” she says, thinking of how he, too, will soon be burned and turned into a similar piece. By the time Wren finishes her sentence, old Father Hector has fallen off his stool. His head hits the hardwood floor with a thud and his nose begins to bleed.

  “I’ll tell your story, too, you sick fuck. Never again will your filthy hands bring harm. You murderer. You killed my auntie’s spirit. You made my kohkum’s heart sad. You raped those girls,” Wren says to the unconscious man on the floor.

  Wren bends over the man’s limp body and checks his pulse. It’s slow, but still there. For now. She checks her image in a nearby mirror, a tile experiment Wren undertook when Lord brought home some leftover materials of broken tile and glass. Maybe it is a lack of sleep or a guilty conscience, but for a split second, Wren feels a sense of terror. Is her mind playing tricks on her? Wren is certain that in the reflection of that mirror, she has seen the face of Lord’s mother, a woman she has never met, only seen in photos. Most notably, the photo of her corpse laying in the coffin. The photo she’s hidden in the upstairs guest bedroom. Suddenly, Wren thinks she hears a whisper. More like a rasp. It’s that same voice she remembers hearing from Scarecrow in her dream the other day.

  “It’s got a disease. Kill it, burn it, remove it.”

  The image reflecting in the mirror is visible for less than a few seconds, the time it takes for a shooting star to be seen. Wren goes to the sink to pour herself a glass of cold water, splashing some of the liquid on her face.

  “What am I doing?” she asks aloud.

  “Bury that dust speck. Make it disappear,” the raspy voice replies.

  As if in a trance, Wren makes her way up the large staircase to the upstairs bathroom. She retrieves another vial of Lord’s insulin. He’s just had his prescription renewed so probably won’t miss it. She goes to the spare room where she keeps her craft supplies. The same room her grandmother used for the same purpose of making beautiful things with her hands.

  She digs around in the basket of ribbons and pulls out a clean syringe. Almost floating, Wren returns to the kitchen, the loaded needle in her hand. She feels no remorse as she injects the heart-stopping serum into the old priest’s abdomen. “A missing person you will become,” she proclaims, standing over the body. “You will sin no more. Ashes to ashes, asshole. Do you think the rcmp will ignore your disappearance, too, like my sister’s? Do you think anyone will notice you are gone?”

  Wren injects Father Hector in the belly three times, knowing that soon he will be no more. He will harm no more. It is time to stoke the fire in her outdoor kiln again.

  Before exiting her kitchen, Wren removes one of Father Hector’s winter boots. Size eight with a leather design. She figures she’ll paint it indigo and prop it up on her fence post. Even though she’s never thought of herself as a collector of trophies, it seems she has become one. Father Hector’s boot will hang in plain view where everyone can see but no one will ask twice about.

  There Are No Quiet Moments

  Lord is gone for another few days. Some type of “rejuvenation of a historic building” in Winnipeg this time. Good. No one other than God needs to witness Wren straining her back as she drags the dead body of the priest toward her outdoor kiln. His dragging feet leave a trail in the snow, which no one will see other than that coyote who watches from a distance. He’s showed up again and Wren wonders what stories he tells when he returns to his pack each night. Is he looking for food?

  For a second, Wren ponders that she might undress the body and leave it in the gully instead of firing it in her kiln. The coyote pack will take care of disposal she’s sure. She decides it’s too risky
. Instead, she elects to mutilate the body as Father Hector so insidiously ravaged those of countless children. Wren takes an axe into her hands. She swings at the priest’s elbows, then in two bone-crunching swipes, Wren severs his hands.

  Wren abandons the corpse, carrying the butchered parts toward the area the coyote has been pacing. She’s careful not to allow any drops of blood on her parka. Blood splatters cover the snow, but she’ll pile more snow on the stains later. Ultimately it will absorb into the ground. She thinks of the pink rosary still hanging around her neck and asks for her kohkum’s forgiveness. An eye for an eye? A profane diatribe comes from Wren’s lips as she hurls each limb toward the snow-covered coulee at the edge of her property. The rest of his body will meet the flames in a few hours. That’s how long it will take for rigor mortis to set in, making it easier for Wren to push a stiffened corpse into the mouth of the kiln.

  Wren adds more wood to the kiln. She will fire it up once the body is inside. It has been the better part of a day so far—stalking, lying, luring and lacing the old man’s blood. She decides to take a break and enjoy a bonfire in her firepit located at the east side of her property. The house blocks any view of traffic travelling along the highway. All that can be seen from that vantage point is an idyllic view of an old farmhouse surrounded by cascades of fresh snow.

  Wren decides she wants to dance. As the bonfire sparks to life, she opens the large door that leads to her studio. She turns up the volume on the stereo and selects the Andino Suns’ “Weichafe” again. Wren sets the song to repeat. She turns it up loud so the music can be heard outdoors by the fire, where she will dance freely. A ceremony. Wren grabs a bundle of sage she picked earlier in the summer. Now dry, she’ll offer it to the fire: to spirit, to say prayers and swear her benevolence that what she’s done was the right thing to do. Wren will pray for Father Hector’s soul, that he returns to his maker and is made to repent.

  With the sound of music piercing the cold air, Wren moves to the rhythm, dancing around the fire as the stiffening corpse lays in wait. The coyote comes to take the hands and limbs offered to him. Wren watches as he disappears behind the bush that extends to the edge of the lake. As Wren moves, offering sage to the fire, she enters a trance-like state. She can see images spark from the flames. Scarecrow. She sees the smiling face of Raven on the last day they saw each other. Her kohkum, sitting quietly in her farmhouse kitchen and knitting a pair of warm socks. The coyote. Wren sees light as she waves her hands toward the sky. Tears are streaming down her face. The crackle of fire, the sound of revolution in the music and the crunch of snow under her feet brings Wren long-awaited peace.

  “You will harm no more!” she repeats, shouting at a cloudless sky. Wren drops to the ground and instinctively begins to flap her arms and move her legs in a large sweeping motion. For some reason, she feels compelled to make a snow angel. To mark the spot. To mark the day. “You will harm no more.”

  Wren passes out in the snow. The bonfire is nothing but red coals when she awakes. Her muscles ache as she feeds pieces of wood to her kiln. She’ll hoist in what remains of the old man once she regains her strength. Wren decides to go back in to the farmhouse, wiping the snow from her leggings as she walks through the open door. It occurs to her that she’s hungry, that she hasn’t eaten all day.

  She checks the refrigerator and sees the makings for a sandwich, but instead of reaching for the ham, lettuce and mustard, her hand goes toward a basket of strawberries. She remembers her kohkum telling her that eating strawberries cures heartache. The shape of the sweet fruit resembles the shape of a human heart and the many seeds on the berry are a reminder that planting good seeds will grow love, hope and magic. Something Wren desperately needs. Love. Hope. Magic.

  And forgiveness.

  Healing the Heart

  Murder is exhausting, Wren thinks to herself as she pulls on a long fleece nightgown. It is red with white snowflakes and very warm. She decides to turn in for the night, even though it is much earlier than her usual bedtime. The smell of death still lingers outdoors. She’s already pushed the old priest’s body into the kiln and fired up the wood. The smell of burning hair and bones turns her stomach. To help force the smell away, she dabs a drop of lavender oil under her nose. She’s always been told that its sweet scent will help her sleep.

  Wren closes her eyes but restful slumber is not where she goes. It is a nightmare again. The coyote is there. She hears the searing of flesh from inside the kiln—like Spam in a frying pan, sizzling and spitting under intense heat. She hears the coyote crunching the bones of one of the priest’s hands. There is blood, which doesn’t gush but instead oozes from torn flesh like molasses.

  The coyote yelps as the priest’s other hand reaches up and grabs the animal by the ear. The flesh on that rogue hand has already started to rot but it pulls hard on the coyote’s ear until the canine runs into the bush. Then it grips the snow with bony fingers, pulling itself closer and closer toward the farmhouse. Scarecrow is watching and lets out a sinister cackle. They are coming for her. For Wren.

  Wren’s nightmare changes. Now she sees Kohkum standing in front of her doorway. Kohkum holds the pink rosary in one hand and a braid of sweetgrass in the other. Raven is standing next to her. Kohkum says a few words in Cree. Mahti sipwehte kisewatisiwin ochi. Leave now with kindness. It is spoken with both the reverence of a prayer and the authority of a command. Scarecrow disappears, turning to ash and disappearing into the fresh snow. The hand continues to advance until Raven picks up the axe leaning against the house and brings it down with one hard blow, almost severing it in two.

  The coyote runs from the darkness of the bush and grabs the hand. It flops on the ground like a fish out of water until it’s crushed in the strong jaws of the hungry animal. Kohkum makes the sign of the cross and both she and Raven disappear into the night. Like the tail of a shooting star, a light ascends toward the heavens, making Wren feel safe. Nothing bad shall be allowed to cross over her threshold.

  Whatever has been done needed to be done. As Wren awakens from sleep, she too makes the sign of the cross, lifts her arms toward the sky and bids her grandmother good night. “Kisakihitin Kohkum. I love you Grandmother and thank you. Raven, I miss you. Kinanaskomitin.”

  It is important to Wren to speak in the old language, the language those in the spirit world will understand. She wipes a tear from her eye and in the dark, says another prayer for forgiveness.

  No News Is Good News

  Wren has done her best to make sure no clues are left behind, other than boots on the fence post and stories in petroglyph images on her bone black pottery. Ashes of the dead. It’s been three days since she put that old man in her kiln. He’s ash now. Burned him up so that God won’t even recognize him.

  She knows Father Hector left his car in the parking lot of the strip mall where she’d been stalking him. She figures that eventually the car will get towed away and put into the police impound where someone can purchase it at auction at some later date. But surely, she thinks, someone is bound to notice he hasn’t returned to the seniors’ home, or that he no longer goes to the coffee shop to order a day-old muffin?

  Wren sees nothing in the newspaper, which she peruses while standing at the gas station. She’s going to head to the city again with a grocery list. As she turns on her ignition, news radio comes to life. She wants to know if there’s a story about Father Hector, but there is nothing on the news about a missing priest. This surprises her, considering the coverage of his recent acquittal.

  Wren wonders if no one cares about him, thinks that maybe others secretly wondered if all the testimonies were true. Wren supposes that someday soon, people will notice he’s missing. But then, people go missing all the time. Wren pauses for a second, realizing the irony of her own thoughts.

  None of the news really interests Wren. The newscaster talks about a decline in home sales, a union somewhere planning a strike. She is just about
to change the station when a story comes on that makes her blood boil.

  “A verdict has been reached in the case of Myron Salt.” the news anchor announces. “Minutes ago, the judge presiding over the case found him not guilty in the death of Mavis Blind, the fifteen-year-old girl found deceased in a farmer’s field near Southey over a year ago. We have a reporter at the courthouse.”

  Wren listens to the familiar details about the girl’s disappearance. The reporter goes on to say that the young lady left a house party around midnight in the city’s North Central area last year. Young Mavis didn’t have enough money to cover the cost of a cab ride to her home on the George Gordon First Nation near Punnichy, deciding to hitchhike instead.

  It wasn’t until the following spring that a farmer discovered her body while he was out seeding. Her half-naked corpse was found stuffed under a round hay bale. The not-guilty verdict was reached because there was no forensic evidence and there were no eyewitnesses. The reporter ended the update by explaining that the twenty-one-year-old accused of the crime was pronounced free and led out a back door of the courthouse as the Blind family was left in the courtroom, visibly shaken.

  It’s too much for Wren. Too many real-life stories about evil men causing destruction and seemingly never taking responsibility for their actions. Wren feels like she hears stories like this every week and all she ever hears anyone say is that it’s tragic these things happen. They never offer a solution, always figuring the answer lies somewhere else.

  “Not this time, Myron Salt,” Wren mutters while wiping away a tear.