“Things you cannot control,” said the old woman. “You run with the Hounds but you have not mastered them. The Hounds will hunt as they wish to hunt.”
“Take care, water witch,” the Owl Boy hissed, “or the hunter will be the hunted.”
She shrugged, unconcerned. “Then a man will die. They die anyway, sooner or later.”
He said, “Your tender concern for that little painter of yours is touching.”
The girl shrugged again. “And is he concerned for the paint and the canvas? He is a tool, nothing more.”
Crow barked in laughter. “You foolish creatures. Kill a man, kill a hundred of them if you can—but it won’t bring your Nightmage back. What makes you think he can come back? What makes you think that he wants to?”
They ignored him. The Woodmage spoke, her voice so low that Crow had to strain to hear it. “There is another way. Another could be found, a new Nightmage perhaps—”
“Ridiculous,” Crow commented. “You’d have to wake the One-Who-Sleeps.”
“—or else,” the Woodmage continued, “another Spiritmage to stand in the east.”
The Drowned Girl spat into the sand. “You’ve been with humankind too long, wood wife. A Spiritmage is no mage at all. Humans can’t be true mages. They live, they eat, they fornicate, they die.”
“They create,” said the Woodmage calmly.
“They destroy,” the Floodmage countered.
“They exist,” said Crow conversationally, “so it’s no use pretending they don’t, or that they’re simply going to go away.”
The Floodmage turned black eyes on him before she remembered that he didn’t exist, not here, not in this circle with them. She turned away, ignoring his laughter, the jingle of bells, the rattle of seeds.
“I hunt,” the Floodmage announced. “The moon will be full; the Hounds will rise. I hunt tomorrow. Will anyone stop me?”
The mountain was silent. The wind died down.
The Floodmage bowed her lovely head, a cold smile on her pale, young face. “Pity. It might have been amusing.”
Crow laughed again, delighted now.
“Poof, go away,” he said to them. And they did, disappearing in a flash of light. Thunder cracked loudly in the sky above. Lightning danced, and the rain began to fall. He jumped to his feet, threw back his head, and he howled as the rain came down.
❋ Davis Cooper ❋
Redwater Road
Tucson, Arizona
The Riddley Wallace Gallery
New York City
December 3, 1950
Dear Riddley,
I apologize. I suppose I was drunk when I wrote you last. These past months since the news of Anna’s death came to me—well, they’ve been hard. You caught me on a bad day. I confess I can’t remember what I wrote.
Today I am sober and contrite. You were always good to Anna in your way, and so of course I know you are not capitalizing on her death by planning a retrospective now. And you are right, it is more important than ever that Anna’s work be exhibited. But you can’t have the Rincon series for the show. You can have all the work through ’47, but the other canvases must remain here. Those creatures belong to the mountain, Riddley. Don’t ask me about them again.
Your words of concern were kindly meant, old boy, but don’t waste time worrying about me. Yes, I drink, so what? Half the poets I’ve known have been drunks, and the other half are dead. I’m doing fine, or at least as well as a man in my position can do. The light has left my world with Anna, and I am learning now to see in the dark. I’m at work on a new collection of poems. I plan to call it The Wood Wife.
Thanks for the tip about Jack’s place but I don’t intend to come back to New York. I have my work. I have the mountain, and solitude. It’s enough. It’s everything now.
Yours as ever,
Davis Cooper
Chapter Ten ❋
Rain and sun shall feed me now,
and roots, and nuts, and wild things,
and rustlings in the midnight wood,
half-mad, like Myrddin, wandering.
—The Wood Wife, Davis Cooper
There were rocks, trees, water, wind, words, the rise and fall of breath, of sounds, of language, of poetry as she crossed the wash of dreams, and climbed up the banks of wakefulness…
Cooper’s bedroom was dark when she opened her eyes. The dream slowly faded. Rain tapped on the roof. The featherbed was warm around her, and someone was whispering in her ear.
“At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.”
“Ummm, Neruda,” Maggie murmured. She pulled Fox closer around her, curled into the warmth of him. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He whispered,
“How shall I touch you unless it is everywhere? I begin here and there, finding you, the heart within you, and the animal, and the voice; I ask over and over for your whereabouts, trekking wherever you take me, the boughs of your body leading deeper into the trees…”
She placed her hand over his on her belly. “Are you quoting Neruda again?” she asked him softly.
“No. Mary Oliver,” he whispered. He kissed her down the curve of a shoulder blade. “I want to seduce you with language, but I don’t have any words of my own. My language, my skill, is all in my hands. A working man’s hands.”
“A craftman’s hands, a musician’s hands,” she murmured, feeling the warmth of his rough, calloused fingers against her softer skin.
“So let me speak to you in my own language,” he said. And then he was silent as he did so, creating poems with touch, and taste, and breath, and his desire.
The second time Maggie woke that morning, the sky had turned a pale peach color, bathing the room in silver light. Her body felt warm, luxurious, every part of it relaxed, in tune. She became aware that Fox was awake beside her. “Have you slept at all?”
“Not much,” he admitted. “I’m too … full? Content? Surprised? I don’t have a word for what I feel.”
She looked at him in the thick morning light. She felt the same. And a little terrified. Of all the things she had come to search for in the desert, on Cooper’s mountain, Fox was the very last thing she had ever expected to find.
She sat up suddenly, startling him. “I think I’ll go make some coffee,” she said. “Don’t get up. I’ll bring it in when it’s done.”
“I can make it,” he offered, his hand on her wrist. She shook her head.
“Make it for me when I’m at your house. Let me treat you to coffee in bed when you’re here.”
Fox grinned, and Maggie realized the unspoken assumption that lay beneath that statement. Her pale cheeks flushing, she belted Nigel’s robe around her and escaped into the kitchen.
As she set the kettle on the stove, she thought about Thumper, and hoped the girl had found a warm, dry place to sleep. Would she come only when Maggie was alone? Or would Thumper permit Johnny Foxxe to see her? Maggie stepped outside onto the front porch. Her feet were bare on the rough wood floor; the morning air was dry and unusually warm for the end of October. The rain had stopped. The desert smelled fresh, spicy, extraordinary. She felt her heart swell like the tall saguaro, filled with wonder like they filled with rain. In the early light, the land was rich with color, the sandy soil pink against the silvery cactus green. Slate-blue hills rose behind the wash, loud with the sounds of the desert birds.
A horrible sound came from Cooper’s side yard, shrieks and growls, the crash of trashcans falling. She edged around the corner of the porch, and stared. Then Maggie ran into the house.
“Fox. Come, quickly,” she said. “But be quiet, or we might scare them away.”
He threw on his jeans and followed her. “What is it?”
“More of them, I think,” she said. “Shhh. Come out and look.”
She took him to the porch. They were still out there, seven of them, with big bris
tly heads, long snouts, standing as tall as her knee. Their bodies were thick, but they moved on tiny feet, delicate little faery hooves; their rough fur was a salt-and-pepper color, and emitted a sharp, musky scent.
Fox began to laugh. He could not stop laughing. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Maggie,” he said, catching his breath, “you are a city girl, aren’t you? That’s a javalina herd. They’re wild pigs. And they’ll go for your garbage cans if you haven’t got your lids on nice and tight.”
“Pigs? There are wild pigs around here? I give up. That’s too bizarre for me.” She was laughing now herself. “What the hell are they doing?”
“Fighting over your old apple cores. Look at this one, old Tusk Face there. She wants it, but the younger one won’t give it up.”
Maggie listened to their loud snarlings and snortings and snappings, and poked Fox in the ribs. “That’s a ‘he.’ That’s male territorial posturing.”
“Nope. These critters are matriarchal. That’s a Big Mama running the herd. Wait ’til you see their litters in the spring—the little ones are so damn ugly that they’re cute.” Then his smile slipped. Maggie knew what Fox was thinking. He was wondering if she’d be here in the spring.
She didn’t know the answer to that one herself. She said, “I’m sorry I got you out of bed. I guess I’ll go make that coffee.”
He followed her. “I don’t mind getting up. It’s a beautiful morning out here today. I love the desert after the rain.”
“It smells like heaven,” she agreed.
They came back out to the porch with their coffee just in time to see the departure of the javalina herd, trotting briskly across the yard, big Tusk Face in the lead. Maggie peered through the cottonwood trees and spotted One-Eye in the wash. She called to him, but he dashed away, shy of her this morning.
“He’s gone to tell my sisters where I spent the night, I reckon,” Fox said drily.
“Wait, he’s coming back. No, that’s not him. That’s Dora coming down the wash.”
Fox rolled his eyes. “At this rate, half of Tucson will know where I spent the night.” He stood up. “I think I’m going to go put on more clothes. I’ll be right back.”
“Fox, wait. There’s something wrong.” She could see it in the set of Dora’s shoulders, even before the woman got close and they could see the black eye and the cut beneath her lip. She carried a painting under her arm, and wore an embarrassed expression.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said quickly.
“My god, Dora, what happened?” asked Maggie.
Dora swallowed. “Juan and I had a fight.”
“Juan did this?” Fox said, startled.
Dora winced. “It’s partly my fault, I guess. I was drunk, and I got angry with him.”
“But that’s no excuse for hitting you,” Maggie said firmly, horrified. “Come sit down. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
The younger woman gave her a smile that was both grateful and apologetic. “I know it’s a bit early. But I didn’t sleep last night, and I remembered that you always get up early…”
“For heaven’s sake, it’s fine. Sit down. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As Maggie slipped into the kitchen, she heard Fox ask, “Did this happen last night?”
“Night before,” Dora told him. “And Juan hasn’t come back since. He didn’t take the truck or the jeep. I’m beginning to get real worried about him.”
“Night before last?” Maggie repeated as she came back out with a mug for Dora. “Honey, why didn’t you call us? Have you been all alone in the house since then?”
Dora nodded her head. “I called in sick to work. It’s just… well, I’m embarrassed. And I thought Juan would come back home by now.”
“Why are you embarrassed?” Fox said angrily. “It’s Juan who should be embarrassed. Or appalled. Preferably both.”
Dora colored, and Maggie put her hand on Fox’s arm. Her glance said: Take it easy.
Maggie said to Dora, “Do you want to tell us what happened? Do you mind talking about it?”
Dora looked up, tossing back her bright hair. “No,” she said decisively. “I came over here to talk to you. I should have done it before.”
“I can go,” said Fox, “if you’d rather just talk to Maggie.”
Dora slipped her hand into his. “No, don’t, Johnny. Stay here and hold my hand. I want something solid to hold on to right now.” Then she told them about her fight with Juan, and the half-fights that had preceded it, and of Juan’s increasingly strange, obsessive behavior over the last several months.
Maggie asked, “What is it that happened several months ago that started all this? Do you know?”
“Cooper died,” Dora said softly.
Maggie stared. “You think that’s related somehow?”
“I know it is. The night Cooper died was the first night Juan disappeared into the hills. I went looking for him. I found him near dawn, lying on the stones by Redwater Creek. He had taken off his clothes…” Dora hesitated, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “… and covered his skin with oil paint. Zigzags and spirals—crazy stuff.” She shot Fox a defensive look. “I know, I didn’t tell the sheriff that when they were investigating Cooper’s death. I guess I was afraid they’d decide that Juan was involved in it somehow.”
“You’re certain he’s not?” Fox asked carefully.
“Of course not!”
“Dora, how can you know that for sure?”
“I can’t,” she admitted. “I can’t prove it. Only, Juan just isn’t that kind of man. You know him, Johnny. You know how special, how good he really is.”
He touched her bruised cheek gently. “But the Juan I thought I knew, he wouldn’t have done this.”
“Spirals, jagged lines,” Maggie mused. They both looked up at her, puzzled. “That’s like Anna’s paintings—”
“Yeah, I know,” Dora interrupted. “Juan is completely obsessed with Anna Naverra. That’s why I’ve brought her painting back. I don’t want it in my house anymore.”
Maggie leaned down and picked up the canvas that rested against the front porch steps. “The Mage and the Midnight Hour,” she read. “Dora, how long have you had this?”
“Since my birthday, last March.”
“Right before Cooper died? Which was when Juan’s behavior began to change?”
Fox said, “I know what you’re thinking, Maggie; but the old man gave away other paintings—to Tomás, to the Alders. There’s one hanging in my cabin. And no one else has been acting noticeably different than they ever do.”
Maggie frowned. “Okay. But,” she turned to Dora, “did Cooper say anything about this particular painting?”
Dora hesitated. “Well, he always called it ‘The Drowned Girl’ like his poem, instead of Anna’s title. And he said a kind of funny thing. He said Juan and I were the nicest people he knew, so he thought that he could trust us with it. And not to give it to anyone else, because the Drowned Girl was … something. Headstrong, maybe? Something like that. He said it might be dangerous if we gave it to someone who wasn’t so sweet as us. It was crazy talk, the way he got when he was drunk. Flattering, but crazy. I just told him I wouldn’t ever sell it. He seemed to be content with that.”
Maggie looked at Fox. “Thumper also said that the Drowned Girl is dangerous. I don’t know who this Drowned Girl is—a mage, according to this painting. I don’t know what a mage is either. But something about the word is familiar.”
Fox was silent, considering this. Then he said, “What’s interesting to me is that Cooper thought the quality of ‘goodness’ mattered here. Remember what you told me Anna said about the land mirroring back at you whatever was inside of you?”
“Sure. What are you thinking?”
“That Anna Naverra had it figured out, way back in fortyeight. That the land and its creatures appear in different guises depending on what expectations we bring to the encounter… In which case, ‘goodness’ would be important, right? It
would render any encounter harmless. Whereas fear would be mirrored by something fearsome, violence by something violent.”
Dora looked back and forth between them. “Would you please tell me what you’re talking about?”
Fox said, “We will. But can you answer me one question first? Are you certain Juan was never obsessive, or angry, or violent before?”
“No,” Dora said definitely. “Not in all the time I’ve known him. He had a temper when he was younger, that’s what broke up his first marriage—but he went through therapy after his divorce. He changed. He wasn’t like that anymore; I wouldn’t have married him if he had been. He’s always been an angel to me.” She sighed heavily. “I mean, he was before all of this.”
Fox met Maggie’s eyes over Dora’s head. She knew what he was thinking. Juan had encountered the Drowned Girl, perhaps because he’d gotten so entranced by Anna’s paintings. And the girl was drawing out something at the core of Juan that he’d thought was dead and buried.
“Look, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” Dora said with mounting irritation.
Maggie looked at the younger woman squarely. “I believe the creatures Anna painted are real, Dora. I’ve actually seen some of them. I’ve never seen a girl like the one in this painting; but I think it’s very likely that she’s out there, somewhere, in the hills, and that Juan has gotten … involved with her.”
Dora looked at her sharply. “They’re real? You’ve actually seen them?”
Maggie nodded. “Real enough to touch. I fed one breakfast in my kitchen—and that’s pretty real, wouldn’t you say?”
Dora looked at Maggie, her eyes narrowed. “All right. If you say so, I believe you. I can’t believe you’d lie to me. I’ve never seen anything like that myself; but yes, I’ve always felt something in these hills. Something … I don’t know, more like Cooper’s poems, or Froud’s paintings … that’s how I’d imagined it. Not like Anna’s paintings. I don’t love Anna’s work, like the rest of you. Her vision is too somber for me; I just don’t see the world like that.” She shivered, letting go of Fox’s hand, wrapping her arms around herself as though the morning air had turned cold.
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