This River Awakens

by Steven Erikson

‘Where? It’s the middle of the winter. We’d freeze our butts off at the farmhouse.’

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere.’

  ‘Well, you think of somewhere and let me know. Only, we have to time it right, so I don’t get pregnant. You’re right, the candles are making it warmer.’

  ‘Let’s go back down,’ I said.

  Jennifer grinned. ‘Got you going, eh?’

  I went to the passageway. ‘Can you blow out the candles? You know, my mom puts an ashtray in my room, for when you come over.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So. It’s weird, that’s all. It just feels weird.’

  Jennifer moved from one candle to the next. The room slowly dimmed.

  It was then that we noticed the reddish glow from outside, from the window facing the front yard. I walked over. Something was burning, beyond the trees, lighting the skyline. Jennifer leaned beside me.

  ‘That’s the candle factory,’ she said. ‘It’s going up.’

  ‘Is it ever.’

  * * *

  There would be no saving it this time. Fire trucks lined the side of the highway. Traffic was backed up as policemen in buffalo hats and mitts directed the vehicles, one lane either way. Every car or truck that rolled past was bathed in a red glow. The black-and-grey smoke towered over the factory, swelling and bulging, climbing ever higher. The air was acrid, reminding me of the garbage heap at the Yacht Club.

  We stood on the other side of the highway – as close as they’d let us get – watching the firemen running this way and that, watching the water rip out from the hoses, rise up and disappear into the second-floor windows. Water poured down the building’s face, made a lake on the ground out in front. Smoke tumbled out of the main-floor windows and the open doorway. Things crashed down inside, sending out dazzling sparks that spun and whirled against the black sky.

  Every now and then, the heat rolled up and swept over us, but for the most part the bitter cold air embraced us, making the scene in front of our eyes seem unreal, dislocated, as if we were watching a movie at a drive-in.

  ‘Look,’ said Jennifer. ‘They’re worried about the school. They’re concentrating on that side.’

  ‘There’s no wind,’ I said.

  ‘I think they’re just making sure. Too bad, eh?’

  There was a flare beside me as Jennifer lit a cigarette. A sudden feeling struck me and I almost gasped – something about the flame from Jennifer’s match, so close beside me. It had been as if the two fires had reached out across the distance between them, then touched, and all at once we were all connected, woven together.

  The wheel turned, alight with that furious red, and I imagined the wall giving way around it, the wheel rolling as it came down, a roar of sparks like a thousand voices, the flames sweeping and spinning. A concussion, hammering through the earth, radiating out in waves until the world went still and listened, filled with terror and awe, waiting for the next shifting beneath their feet, the next trembling wave of uncertainty. It’s coming, it’s coming.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Jennifer said.

  I saw the crack now, zigzagging its way down the building’s ravaged face. Firemen were yelling, pulling back, splashing and sliding as they ran. The crack widened, one whole section tilting, separating as it shifted to one side.

  I’ve seen all this. I just saw it.

  ‘It’s gonna come down,’ Jennifer said.

  Sirens wailed from the police cars. The traffic on the highway had been stopped at both ends, the cars trapped in the middle being frantically waved on, making a gap, a widening space.

  We stood on the shoulder opposite that gap, unnoticed.

  ‘There’s Lynk,’ Jennifer said, not sounding surprised.

  In astonishing silence, the wall and part of the corner fell away. The wheel spun for real this time. Sparks billowed out from the exposed insides, followed by a gush of flame, roaring, that drove a wall of heat against us. The inside of the factory raged bright.

  The wheel turned, as I knew it would.

  It shattered when it hit the ground. Water and steam engulfed it for a moment, then slowly thinned to reveal a jumbled pile of cracked, blackened limestone. The firemen with the hoses trained the water on the new opening, but it was hopeless. Everything was crashing down inside. The second floor had already collapsed, and the factory was just a shell now, holding within it a firestorm.

  ‘Hey, you kids!’ A man’s booming voice made us look down to see a policeman jogging our way. In his buffalo hat and mitts and the long coat he looked monstrous, bestial.

  ‘We’re all right,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Move back across the ditch,’ he ordered. His face was bright red. ‘Is that a cigarette?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Did you see the fire start?’

  ‘From my house,’ I said. ‘Down by the river. We were having supper and we saw the glow.’

  The man removed his mitts and pulled out a notebook. ‘I’d better take down your names.’

  ‘Did someone start it?’ Jennifer asked.

  The man didn’t answer. He simply asked for our names, addresses and phone numbers. I pointed out that we’d been at my place since the afternoon. He just nodded.

  I looked around, but Lynk had disappeared. I think Jennifer and I were both thinking the same thing – from the look she gave me after the cop walked off.

  The flames were falling back. Nothing left to burn. I was chilled, and I stamped my feet, but they’d gone numb. ‘Let’s go,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sleeping over tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  She grinned. ‘In the guest room. Don’t worry, my mom knows. Your mom called her.’

  ‘And it was okay?’

  ‘She knows. She didn’t say anything. She can’t talk yet. They’ve just taken the wires off her jaw. She had a broken jaw.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A broken jaw. The words lodged in my mind.

  II

  Christmas morning broke clear and cold. Fisk drank down a hot cup of coffee, marvelling at the crispness of the scene outside the kitchen window, then he went into the bathroom and shaved.

  The ritual calmed his churning stomach, freeing his thoughts to wander from the pain and sickly feeling that had plagued him the past few weeks. He resurrected the memories of other Christmas Days – with Dorry, the two of them closing together on that special day. Always a sadness, an undercurrent of regret that they freed themselves to share. No children, the house all too quiet. Never a celebration, but at least a kind of sharing, a kind of comforting. At least that.

  He’d cut himself. Not surprising. It’d been a while. The blood turned the shaving foam under his jaw a frothy pink. He ignored the cut for now, began working under his scarred chin.

  The sound of a truck coming down the driveway startled him. He worked a little faster, the razor tugging at the bristles.

  Doors slammed outside, boots crunched on the snow covering the porch steps. The door thumped under a fist.

  ‘Come on in!’ Fisk yelled.

  There were two of them, stamping snow from their boots. Bill’s voice echoed through the house. ‘Hodgson? Brought some Christmas cheer! Sig’s with me. Sig Fraser.’

  ‘Hello!’ came another voice.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ Fisk answered. Then get the hell out. ‘I’m shaving. Be a couple of minutes. There’s coffee.’

  ‘Thanks! Where’s the tree?’

  Let’s not get sentimental here, fellas. What am I supposed to be celebrating? He heard the two in the kitchen, talking in low tones, then footsteps heading back into the living room. The blood trickled down his neck. He grabbed a towel and wiped it away. Almost done. Shit, another one. Goddamn it. He finished up, then washed his face with cold water, until his cheeks went numb. The second cut only needed a dab of toilet paper, but the first one required a butterfly bandage as well. He sighed, studied his flushed, aged face in the mirror, then left the bathroom.

  The
two men sat on the sofa, cups of coffee on the low table in front of them. Sig looked as robust as ever, a big man, almost as big as Fisk himself, with a farmer’s hands – Fisk had seen him before, but they’d never spoken. On his forehead ran the permanent line from his cap, everything beneath it grey and weathered, but still strong, and above the line, pale, freckled skin, greying hair slicked straight back, military cut around the sides and back, his left ear clipped along the top. Bullet, or shrapnel, from the looks of it. What had he been? A pilot, maybe – the old bastard still doesn’t need glasses, and he’s got a bombardier’s eyes, cool and sharp, quick to narrow down, each blink carefully timed.

  Fisk sat in his chair, his gaze on Sig. ‘RCAF?’ he asked.

  Sig’s grin displayed a mass of wrinkles only hinted at before. ‘Nope.’

  Bill laughed. ‘Sniper. A killing machine, was old Sig here. A Kraut-killing machine.’

  ‘All over with now,’ Sig said, shrugging.

  ‘Got that right.’ Fisk leaned back.

  ‘Hey!’ Bill exclaimed. ‘Merry Christmas!’

  ‘Same to you both,’ Fisk said. ‘Can’t complain about the weather.’

  ‘You ain’t been outside yet,’ Bill said. ‘Damned awful year, if you ask me. I’m sure Sig here’d agree, eh, Sig? Goddamned drought, then killer storms, finally an early snow and it’s been dumping ever since. Sure hope next year’s better, eh, Sig?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Bill swallowed a mouthful of coffee, then sighed, his eyes on the table. ‘We lost one a while back,’ he said quietly. ‘Walter Gribbs. Sig knew him better than I did. He was like you, Hodgson. Never came down to the hall, never one to jaw much. Was in the navy, right, Sig?’

  ‘Done his duty,’ Sig said with a smile.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Fisk answered once he realised that Bill waited for one. ‘Of course, we all got to go some time.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Sig said.

  Fisk understood Sig’s smile. It was a sad one. Fair enough. The man’s settled with himself. One of the lucky ones. Fair enough.

  Bill pulled out a small wrapped present. ‘We all tossed something in,’ he said. ‘From the boys, every damn one of them.’ He handed the present to Fisk. ‘Merry Christmas, Hodgson.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Fisk said, a tightness in his chest that he didn’t want. ‘That’s kind of you. I, uh, I didn’t expect any company today – if I’d known, I’d have got you something—’

  ‘No problem,’ Bill said, still leaning forward. ‘Listen, Sig here’s come with an invitation. Now, they eat ham, not turkey, but what the hell, eh? It’s a feast. I’ve seen the layout. A feast.’

  ‘Be glad to have you,’ Sig said.

  ‘That’s a generous offer,’ Fisk said, still holding the present, which looked tiny in his hands. ‘You might not believe it, but today’s a day I still spend with … with Dorry. I know, it sounds silly—’

  ‘No it don’t,’ Sig said, his eyes bright.

  ‘I’d feel like, well, like I was abandoning her – alone in this house. I couldn’t do that. Your offer touches me, Sig, it really does.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sig said. ‘I hear you.’ He rose, reaching down to tap Bill on the shoulder.

  Startled, Bill looked up, then slowly climbed to his feet. ‘Sorry to intrude,’ he said gruffly. Then he grinned. ‘Of course, if we hadn’t, you might’ve bled to death – that razor cut needs some ice and pressure, Hodgson.’

  ‘Damn,’ Fisk said, smiling. He reached up and felt the blood. ‘Well,’ he said, studying the stains on his finger. ‘I’ve seen it before, right, Bill?’

  ‘I bet you have. You take care of that now, okay?’

  ‘Sure thing. Anyway, you didn’t intrude.’ Fisk rose. He wiped the blood from his hand, held it out. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said as he shook hands with both men, in turn.

  Sig zipped up his parka. ‘Be all right if I dropped off some leftovers tomorrow?’

  ‘That’d be nice, Sig.’

  The man nodded. I like him. He’s not living in the past like Bill. He’s not trapped in a war he won’t let end.

  They pulled on their boots and headed out, Fisk smiling as he closed the door behind them. He stayed in the dim hallway, listening until the truck drove off, then he went back to the living room and sat down. He unwrapped the gift.

  It was a watch. A Rolex. On the back was engraved Fisk’s battalion and company, along with his name and all the medal acronyms, then the Legion number and the hall that had presented it.

  A goddamned watch. A Rolex. Time unending, time going on for ever. Christ, Bill. Christ.

  He stood, tossed the watch down into the chair where it bounced on the cushion. Blood dripped from his chin, dropped down to the faded carpet. Fisk rubbed at his eyes, then headed for the bathroom. Some cotton. Then it’s back to bed. Christ.

  * * *

  He lay under the covers, shivering. Shaving had been a mistake, the ritual proving empty, a lie. There’d be no changes, nothing crossed over. All he had ahead of him was time, ticking away, round and round an implacable, meaningless face. He was bound for hell. He knew that. He’d welcome the change. But even that seemed a thousand years away.

  He’d lied to Sig, and he regretted that. There was no Dorry for him, not on this day, not on any day. His dreams of her had become nightmares, racked with shame, all twisting up inside with guilt. He wasn’t the man she married, wasn’t the man she loved. Without her at his side, he’d gone the wrong way. The field out back told him that, every spring. No more flowers around the maypole, and it was just a pitted and scarred and wholly dead rod of metal. She was gone. He’d abandoned her, years ago. It was far too late.

  This year, in the spring that was coming, he’d let the field take him. Anything was better than this.

  He closed his eyes. The pain in his stomach was back. He took deep, controlled breaths – something he’d been taught to do in Recovery, when they’d weaned him off the morphine. Control the pain, narrow it down then rub it out, like a smudge under an eraser. Feel each breath, follow it down, follow it out. Imagine it coming out darker than it went in, dark with all the pain. Let it loosen the knots, let it carry you away. I think I’ll visit the cellar tonight.

  III

  ‘He snatched me away,’ Sten said as he stumbled down the hallway from the dining room to the living room. ‘Snatched me away.’

  Elouise sat in the kitchen, listening to her husband’s endless mumbling. He snatched me away. Hallowe’en night. He snatched me away. I screamed, but no one heard. No one heard. He’d been saying things like that since the first day of November, and each time the words slipped out, he seemed to get duller, his skin losing a shade of life, becoming greyer, like wrinkled paper.

  He spoke loudly, alone in the living room. ‘Do you remember? The old Christmases? You’d tie me down on the log, there up on the pile of sticks. What a bonfire that was. I remember how my blood boiled, how my skin went red and split and smoked. Like a suckling pig. And you’d dance with all the other women. Wallflowers no more…’ His voice fell away to muttering.

  Elouise could hear Jennifer upstairs, the music loud, her occasional footsteps creaking through the kitchen ceiling.

  ‘Christmas Day!’ Sten laughed, the laugh turning into a hacking cough. ‘I forgot the presents. I’ll get some. I promise. Just a few days late, that’s all. A few days.’ He coughed again. ‘It’s beer, that’s all. I’m not drunk. No, not any more. I don’t need your goddamned pity!’

  There was a loud crash and a thump. Elouise rose and went to the living room. Her husband was lying on the floor, the coffee table on its side, a pile of magazines splayed out over the carpet. His blurry eyes looked up at her. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I hate this day. It’s torture. He’s in my head, now. Since Hallowe’en, he’s been in my head. I’m sick. I feel sick. I can’t stop shaking.’

  It’s all him. He’s the world, the entire world.

  She heard Jennifer c
oming down the stairs. A moment later her daughter stood beside her.

  ‘Christ,’ she said, staring down at her father. She righted the table and set a present on it. ‘This is for you, Dad. Open it when you can. Me and Mom are going out.’

  Sten’s eyes widened with fear. ‘What?’

  ‘We deserve better,’ Jennifer said. ‘We’re visiting friends. We’re going to have a real Christmas. Your version sucks. We don’t want it any more.’ She came up to Elouise and took one of her arms. ‘Come on, get your coat on. It’s not a long walk.’

  Elouise shook her head.

  Jennifer’s face hardened. ‘We’re getting out of here.’ She pulled her mother into the hallway, then hissed, ‘We don’t deserve this!’

  Elouise tried to pull away. She didn’t want to meet anyone, she didn’t want to go anywhere. It’d be an awful intrusion. Worse, it’d be embarrassing, stinging her pride, to be the objects of pity. She kept shaking her head and trying to pull her arm free. But Jennifer wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t back down.

  ‘We’re going,’ she said, pulling her coat on, then taking Elouise’s coat and dressing her mother like a doll, like a child.

  A shopping bag sat filled with presents beside the front door. More than had been under the tree, some in wrapping paper she didn’t even recognise. Jennifer had planned this, but had given no warning. She hadn’t let Elouise have the time to think about it, to find ways to tie herself here. No time for elaborate excuses. It was all too sudden, too overwhelming, and before she realised it, they were on the road outside the house, walking towards the river.

  It was cold. They had to walk quickly to stay warm. Sundogs mimicked the sun in the crystal-laden blue sky. The air burned in the lungs, but it was all beautiful – so clear, so brilliantly there.

  They came to a tree-lined driveway, to a lot that went down to the river. Many years ago, Elouise recalled, there’d been a family living there, very rich, treating the place as a summer home. It wasn’t big, compared to the houses on either side, but that left more room for the yard. Majestic, frost-rimed trees relieved the monotony of the lawn, which was under a yard and a half of snow. Too much shade for a vegetable garden, of course. This was a place that had been stately once. Maybe forty years ago. Now it was quaint.