Bone Black

by Carol Rose GoldenEagle

  Wren finds herself stopped at the shoulder of the highway, radio still blaring. She can’t remember why she is pulled over or what she is looking for, and in these moments, Wren is not herself. She enters a fugue state again—a place where her actions have a life of their own, without memory, without accountability. When she checks the clock on the dashboard, she sees that a whole hour has passed.

  She wants to scream because of the last thing she heard on the news. Another young girl is dead and the person accused of killing her is free. Wren begins to beat the dashboard, yelling as she does. Raven is gone and there was no investigation. Billy Vespas was violent and a rapist—no one brought him to justice. That old perverted priest was pronounced innocent of his crimes, even though Wren knows he deserved much worse. Now this. No more.

  “Justice will be served,” Wren promises to an empty car. “And your dark filth will be wiped clean with the fresh snowfall.”

  Her thoughts go back to the day Mavis’s body was discovered. She cries as she listens to the news story, it makes her think about Raven again. What if this was a story about her? Wren screams in anger as she slams her fist on the dashboard again. She knows she’ll have to regain her composure soon. She straightens her shirt and pulls her hair away from her face. It’s a good day, like she told herself upon waking, despite the tragic news on the radio. It’s a good day because Lord is coming home this afternoon. He’s been gone over a week and as much as she’s grateful that he hasn’t been home these past days, she also misses him. She’s looking forward to preparing him one of his favourite meals: a slow-cooked beef stew.

  Wren restarts the car and turns back onto the highway. As she reaches the outskirts of the city, she decides to practise breathing techniques learned in yoga class. “Inhale goodness, peace and love,” she tells herself. “Exhale sadness, worry and despair.” It helps to calm her and allows her to let feelings of fury and rage subside. Any plans that she might think of for Myron will come to her later, when she’s alone with her thoughts. She will figure out where Myron Salt lives, where he works, where he hangs out. For now, she has a grocery list that needs her attention and a lovely evening with her husband awaits.

  After she visits the grocery store, Wren checks the time. Lord’s flight lands in half an hour and she wants to make sure she gets to the airport before his plane does. The traffic flow is light at this time of day, which means Wren has plenty of time to find a parking stall. Her early arrival at the terminal means she has some time to look around the airport gift shop, too. There are so many corny souvenirs, like a fish replica covered in bits of fur and a sign that boasts: Saskatchewan lake fish.

  The shop also carries beautiful, handmade jewellery made by local artists, but all the pieces are for women. There are also fresh flowers. Wren buys Lord a red rose. a symbol of their love and an affirmation to herself that she will do her best to focus on the joy in her life, putting an end to dark thoughts and deeds. He has gone out of his way to be patient these past months but she fears his patience might be running out. She misses the days when they used to tell each other that they loved one another. She misses knowing what he ate for lunch. She misses the trust that she’d see each time he looked into her eyes. She misses his touch.

  Now, she has no idea what he might see when he gazes into her face. As Wren absent-mindedly runs her finger down the rose’s stem, she pricks her finger on a thorn. She tunes out as a bright red droplet of blood slowly makes its way from the wound, carrying her thoughts back to the dark place.

  If I Ever

  Wren’s husband is arriving within minutes and she feels as though she doesn’t have the time to plot and ponder, but she is seeing images again. She can’t figure out if they are hallucinations due to lack of sleep, or premonitions from the Ancestors. Am I going crazy? she wonders. Or am I opening up? And if I am, what am I opening up to?

  Wren can hear that raspy phantom voice calling out again as she feels a trickle of blood make its way toward her wrist, staining the white blouse she’s wearing. She travels again to a place unknown and unfriendly. A dream? A hallucination? Whatever the cause, Wren can no longer sit peacefully in the airport foyer as she was doing moments earlier.

  The light in the airport changes and the air hangs like a fog. Wren sees the face of her beloved sister. She is screaming. Filthy hands are clawing at Raven’s neck and grasping her windpipe until her eyes roll back. Her final breath is that of pain. Next, she sees an image of Mavis Blind. Wren has seen her face before on a missing person’s bulletin early last winter. The face of the young girl is wild with fear, the same look that coyote gave when the severed hand of Father Hector tried to pull off its ear. There is nowhere for Mavis to run.

  The scene changes. Now Wren is standing in the farmer’s field, watching as Myron slashes the girl’s neck with a hunting knife. It looks handcrafted with a thick blade and a bone handle. Wren screams for him to stop, but no sound comes from her mouth. Myron cannot hear her words and doesn’t stop his attack. The girl’s neck spurts in violent torment. The blood gushing from the cut makes a hideous sound, like the howling of a wicked wind, and rushes from her body in a torrent. There is no helping her now. Her heart stops. The white snow beside the hay bale turns red and the young girl’s light is snuffed out for good.

  As quickly as she left, Wren is back in the airport waiting area. A young man with a guitar strapped to his back has noticed Wren’s erratic breathing. From a bystander’s point of view, Wren looks to be in pain and he gently places his hand on her shoulder for comfort.

  “Ma’am are you okay?” he asks gently.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, sorry. I must have dozed off for a second. Insomnia.” Wren sits up straight and attempts to regain her composure.

  “I know all about sleeplessness,” he says and smiles. “Been on the road for weeks now with my wife. Both musicians.” He stops and smiles at Wren again. There is concern on his face. “Her flight is coming in. Are you meeting someone special, too? I can’t help but notice the rose.”

  “The most special,” Wren replies. “My husband’s been gone for the past week. Can’t say I will ever get used to him having to travel so much for work, but I can say that every time I see him again, it’s like the first time we met.”

  “Lucky man,” he says before quickly turning his attention toward the escalator carrying passengers from Arrivals. “There’s my girl.” His enthusiasm weakens Wren’s anger as she watches the young man rush toward his wife and into an embrace. Wren looks down at the rose in her hands. Lord’s return home is comforting, signalling a return to cherishing present moments and turning her attention to what is good in her life.

  She considers the idea of simply forgetting about the images she has just seen in her imagination. She can try, she thinks, to erase those horrifying thoughts of murder, and with them, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to consume her.

  Breathing New Life

  Wren sees her husband descending on the escalator and greets him with a rose and a smile. Lord puts his hand on her cheek and gives her a short but affectionate kiss on the forehead. When they get out to the parking lot, Lord holds back Wren’s long hair so it doesn’t fly loose in her face as she opens the trunk for his carry-on.

  After a moment, Lord looks at Wren with a deep and sensuous stare, announcing, “I have decided to take a ‘stay-cation’ next week. I’ve missed you so much these past days. We need to spend more time together.” Then he kisses her, long and hard, before suggesting, “I can drive back home if you like. Maybe we’ll stop off somewhere on the way and get an order to go.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she says. “I’ve already picked up the ingredients for one of your favourites, which I will be slow roasting at home soon. I’ve missed you, too, Lord. I am so happy you’re back.”

  Wren touches Lord’s hand on the steering wheel as he makes the turn north and toward busy Lewvan Drive in the direction
back to the valley.

  “If you want, though, we can stop off somewhere and pick up a nice bottle of wine for dinner,” suggests Wren.

  “I’ve already got one of your favourites packed away in my suitcase. Found it at a specialty shop a couple of days ago. Another great variety from the Okanagan.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Wren replies and turns on the radio.

  She changes the station from news to fm Radio Two. It’s classical hour and the music is soothing to match the couple’s mood. They haven’t made any plans yet for a trip to a sunny destination, but Wren is happy that Lord will be staying home for the next several days.

  Once back at the farmhouse and through the front door, Lord is greeted by a delicious aroma: Wren has made an apple and berry crisp. Wren comes in seconds after and starts unloading the groceries she bought for a nice, hearty stew. She starts to set the butcher block island which they use as a table. She stops, however, when Lord suggests he build a fire in the stone fireplace in the living room.

  “We can set up on the coffee table and spend the evening doing something a little more special,” suggests Lord from the other room.

  She likes the change in plans and takes her pottery plates out of the kitchen and into the living room as Lord unzips his carry-on to retrieve the bottle of Ehrenfelser, a peach, pear and anise wine, one of Wren’s favourites.

  It’s a peaceful and romantic scene, allowing Wren to momentarily forget what went on in their home while Lord was away. She had worried that some residual negative energy might stick to the walls and ceilings, the way spiderwebs do, but nothing of the kind lingers. As the fire crackles, there is tender conversation.

  After the meal, Lord turns on some music and invites Wren to dance, “Right here in the living room,” he says. “We can spend the whole night by this fire.” He holds his wife close in a slow waltz, inviting Wren to melt into his embrace. He slowly unzips the zipper along the back of Wren’s dress. She lets it fall to the floor.

  Happy Wife, Happy Life

  The couple never did make it up to their second-floor bedroom that night in front of the fire. They slept on the living room floor, directly in front of the mantel, holding each other and covered by the warm, knitted afghan that is usually draped at the edge of the couch.

  The sun is already up when Wren is awakened by the sound of the coffee machine brewing in the kitchen and the sounds of Lord chopping wood outside. As she watches him through the kitchen window, she can’t help but think of the ways the axe has been used while Lord was away, ways only she will ever know. She makes a conscious decision not to ruin a perfectly beautiful start to this calm, sunny day and she banishes the thoughts of severed limbs from her head just as quickly as they arrived.

  Coffee is ready and Wren detects a hint of chicory among the freshly ground beans. It makes her smile to know that Lord likely picked up this special roast at the same specialty store where he found last night’s wine. As she pours herself a mug of the hot brew, Wren figures that if her husband is chopping wood outdoors, it will be a bit of time before he comes back in, so she decides to surprise him by making a nice breakfast.

  As she sips, she reaches for a cookbook on a shelf that Lord constructed between two windows. Wren glances back towards the living room; it fills her with a deep sense of joy to have spent such time with her husband, joy Wren hasn’t felt for a long time because such worry and turmoil has surrounded them these last months.

  Things Wren couldn’t tolerate. Lies, harm and mayhem all aimed at women just like her, brown women. It’s a poison that spreads and grows like alkali choking out the land. Now, however, Wren feels a sense of satisfaction knowing that she’s done what she can to stop it, secrets between her and God.

  Wren smiles again as she looks at the afghan, now just a lump on the floor in front of the fireplace. Wren makes a mental note that she’ll tidy up in that room later. For now though, she’s decided that a quiche will be what greets her husband when he comes back in from chopping logs. The rose that Wren brought for Lord at the airport is already displayed in a vase and sunlight streams in through the kitchen window.

  As the sweet aroma of caramelizing onions fills her kitchen, Wren runs her fingers across the amethyst pendant Lord attached around her neck last night before handing her a glass of wine. She’s always loved the purple stone, even more after reading that its healing properties include purifying the mind and clearing away negative thinking. That’s not the reason Lord purchased the gift, though. He’d just seen it in a shop window in downtown Winnipeg and thought it would look nice on his wife. He is also well aware that Wren loves gifts that come from Mother Earth.

  One reason Lord decided to take a few days off this coming week is because he wants to help Wren get ready for a new show where her work will be featured. It’s a special time for any artist to have their own solo exhibit. He said he could see that the outdoor kiln was fired while he was away and says he’s proud of her for working again. Splitting logs this morning is his way of saying that he’ll be there for her, to help feed the fire and get her new pieces ready for the show.

  “Wow, smells great in here,” Lord exclaims as he comes through the door.

  Wren is popping the shrimp, cheese, asparagus and onion dish into the oven. Before taking off his boots, he grabs her from behind to give her a satisfying hug.

  “But what smells even better, is the scent of you. You were wonderful last night,” he whispers into her hair.

  Wren closes the oven door then turns to share in his embrace. “Oh, my love, you are all sweaty,” she says and giggles. “We have forty minutes before this properly bakes. Maybe you want to take a shower first,” she suggests, caressing his jaw.

  “Maybe you want to come with me,” he says.

  “Oh yes, you insatiable, handsome man. That can be done.”

  Lord takes Wren by the hand and leads her up the stairs toward the master bathroom.

  “You’re still wearing your coat. Here, let me get that,” Wren says as she seductively unzips his navy jacket.

  “And you are still wearing your apron.” Lord runs his hand along the ponytail his wife always wears while cooking. “Let me get that.” Lord turns on the shower and the couple step in. They are naked, vulnerable, in love.

  This is how it should be, Wren thinks. Trust and tenderness. She squeezes a dab of lavender-scented body wash in her palm, then caresses her husband. While sweat is rinsed away, their passion provides more heat than the cascading droplets of water. “You are so beautiful, Wren,” Lord whispers.

  By the time they return to the kitchen, forty minutes has long passed, and the quiche is a little overcooked, but neither of them notice. They sit contentedly at the kitchen island where they have a view of sunlight gleaming off the fresh snow outside. A perfect start to a new day.

  Unveiling New Works

  These past days have been good for Wren, allowing her to focus on her marriage, to focus on her art. Lord has been her constant and affectionate companion since he returned from his latest business trip. His idea for a stay-cation was a good one. They’ve spent more time in bed than even in their early days of courtship. He’s been with her in the studio each afternoon, even venturing into creating his own works, and feeding the fire for the outdoor kiln. They’ve been firing dozens of pieces, preparing for what will be an exciting show and pottery sale.

  “I am digging this new style,” Lord says, studying a vase. He doesn’t know the piece has been finished with bone black ash, the very ash that used to be the skinny roofer. “This is different for you,” he continues, picking up another. “The designs you’ve painted remind me of the ancient Egyptian pottery that was used to adorn the facades of tower entryways.”

  Lord is especially interested in a gargoyle image that Wren’s thrown together using the ash of Father Hector. “Kind of maudlin but I like it,” Lord says, running his fingers over the face of
the wretched beast. “And, it’s interesting because this type of work is exactly what the market is demanding again.”

  He talks about early architecture and how artists were as much a part of creation as the builders themselves. Wren already knows something about it because there was a similar discussion in one of her university classes. She doesn’t stop him, however, finding comfort in listening to the sound of his voice, no matter what the subject.

  Wren ponders the history of what she knows about gargoyles. The Catholic Church believed the grotesque figures would ward off evil. The figures were often placed above doorways and gateways offering parishioners a sense of safety and protection within the sanctity of the church. But what safety did that church bring to those touched by the hand of Father Hector? Wren wonders, drawing the conclusion that a sense of safety comes from within the soul and not from within a building.

  “Yes, I thought I would try something different,” Wren replies once Lord is finished with his history lesson. “But I think of this as more of a garden ornament to scare those aphids away from eating my lettuce,” she says and giggles.

  Wren tells her husband that Kohkum used to place old, glass powerline insulators around her garden, explaining that the glass carried a memory and had the power to remind bugs to stay away. Her garden was always abundant, though she never figured out how to deal with the potato bugs underground.

  It brings a warm smile to Wren’s face to think of the moment Kohkum started swearing in Cree one autumn when the potato harvest was ready to dig up. Wastakac is a word that means “damn it,” something Kohkum had never said before. It was the only profane word Wren ever remembers hearing in Cree. It’s a phrase that she’d repeat, as a girl, anytime anything bothered her. Like when a schoolyard bully would make fun of her brown skin. Wastakac!