"There are more descriptions of the land and the animals and how everything may be able to return to the rules of balance and protection. Although it's all written as a prediction of the future, it doesn't foretell what happens in the end. Walking Bear could be successful, or he could not. And…"
At his hesitation, I prompted him. "What?"
"Either way, before everything is finished, there will be bloodshed."
I thread myself one hour to the next,
sorrow riding me like a pack of wolves.
Chapter 30
She used his pain and his guilt to probe his mind. He saw clearly what she was doing, but he allowed it to happen, having no idea where it might go, except that the suffering had to end. She could feel him, at last, put himself in her hands. His head bowed toward her. He listened with his heart.
"I will lead you to the scroll," she whispered, her tongue dry against the inside of her mouth, her words slurred with thirst.
"Why?" He wanted to be able to explain it to them, she realized, for he was far too weakened to be able to convince them on his own any longer.
"I cannot allow more death or suffering. I do it in exchange for life."
He nodded, knowing this was something the man would believe. He went to the door and gave the code. When it was opened, those cold, hard eyes almost unhinged him, but he straightened his shoulders and reminded himself that he was a fairly good actor. Those days in the summer theatre could carry him through…
"She wants to show us where it is," he stated, his voice louder than he'd commanded it to be.
"How did you do it?" The man's eyes had flickered momentarily with greed and hope, and he knew the man was hooked, even though the look had become guarded and icy once more.
"She's sickened by the death and suffering," he said. "I described it all to her. I told her how she would be responsible for more. She doesn't think a piece of paper and even some land is worth more of the same." He was whispering now, the door slightly closed to prevent her from hearing. "She's been taught to preserve life, after all. I knew it was just a matter of time before she was worn down. I told you I could do it."
The man's composure, that thin film of civility and humanity that was painted on him like a showy layer of varnish, melted with lightning speed. Suddenly he was a wild, ferocious, untamed animal whose only desire was to rip his prey apart. Though the other man was taller, rage made the aggressor appear gigantic and much stronger. He grabbed the cowering man by the shirt collar and pulled his face down so that they were almost nose to nose, close enough for the spittle to spray between them when the man spewed out his anger.
"You weakling bastard. You'd better be telling me the truth and you'd better come through, or I will take such pleasure in tearing you and the women apart slowly and painfully. Understand me?"
It was not so much the words, as the power of wrath that made the victim tremble and break out into a sweat that ran down his back like fingers on a piano keyboard, ringing out a song of disaster.
Chapter 31
Chief Dan, Joseph, Basil and I all looked at each other, fear crossing each of our features by turn.
"The bloodshed has already happened," I said. "Does this mean that the rest of it has come true too? Everything about Walking Bear, the secrets, and the land has already taken place? How does it all fit together with Oona?"
"And Victor Reeves and Frieda," Basil added. "Not to mention Evan Fobert."
"Evan Fobert?"
"He went to the museum," Basil answered me.
"Is that why you went and looked at Bird's legend book too?" I queried, unable to help myself.
Basil was silent for a moment. "Yes. I saw him enter the museum. I waited and then gently got Bird to tell me what he had been scrutinizing. Ever since Henry had the fight with Victor Reeves, I have been overwhelmed with a terrible feeling. I started following all of them, Evan Fobert included. I kept thinking that something was going to go horribly wrong for people I have known and loved, and now it has. The legends told us so. And somehow, I just know those contractors are at the root of it. I…" He hung his head for a moment, and we all waited, breathless. "I guess I was hoping that it really was Walking Bear come to rescue us." Basil looked, at that moment, embarrassed and ashamed.
My mind began to form imaginative connections. The subdivision fire. Did Basil's shame mean something more? Was Chief Dan somehow involved, to protect his own gold? Evan Fobert. Victor Reeves. Oona, Frieda. How did they all fit together?
The incredible, stinging itch of my hand forced me to stop my wild ruminations. I had to see Doc.
I thanked Chief Dan and Basil, said good-bye to Joseph, and with Angel happily following at my heels, I headed over to Doc Murphy's place.
When we first moved to Burchill, I was amazed to find a true country doctor living in the town. Ron Murphy was a skilled, well-informed physician who chose to stay in the village even though he could easily have had a more lucrative position in the city. As they said here, he was Burchill born and therefore loyal to the community. He worked well with the Aboriginals, incorporated a great deal of the wisdom of the elders and the medicinal practices of the Ojibwa into his methodology. I just hoped he wasn't too busy today to see me without an appointment.
Doc Murphy lived on Brock Street in a house referred to by the locals as Mill's House, dating back to the 1800s when the family who owned the mill built it and lived in it for many decades. Coincidentally, his nuclear family home, which was also previously owned by the same family and known as Mill's House 2, was still occupied by his mother, to whom he was very devoted.
Doc's wife and two sons seemed very happy to have their home melded with the doctor's office, perhaps because Ron was always near no matter how many hours he worked. Maire often helped out with the clients and the paperwork. In fact, it was Maire who opened the office door to admit me.
She was a tall, large-boned woman whose beautiful eyes and smooth, pale skin did not betray her age. Maire still had the melodious Irish accent behind her words and when she was happy to see you, her eyes smiled, just as the song says.
"Emily!" she greeted me. "Come in. How are you?"
She opened the door and I entered the waiting room, where the comfortable chairs were all empty.
"I was actually wondering if I could see Doc," I told her. "I've come up with some kind of rash and it's driving me nuts. I'm sorry I don't have an appointment."
"You came at a really good time, as you can see, Emily," Maire laughed. "Ron is just getting caught up on some research he has been doing and hadn't scheduled any appointments for the next hour, and there haven't been any emergencies."
I started to apologize. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I could make—"
"No, no, he'll be glad to see you," she interrupted. "Come on in."
Maire walked ahead of me and opened Doc's office door. He was sitting at the desk, head bowed over a huge textbook, nodding off in the sunlight that poured through the large side window. His wife put her hand on his shoulder and laughed softly.
"Looks like you need an interruption, eh, Ron?"
Doc looked up, startled, blinking his eyes at us, embarrassed. "This is such boring stuff," he admitted, chuckling. "Emily, how nice to see you. And you are right, honey, I badly needed a distraction. I absolutely have to get through this and maybe a break is what I need to get my batteries recharged. Have a seat, dear patient."
He patted the big leather chair next to him and I obediently sat. Angel curled at my feet, tired from all the walking and running and sniffing.
"How about a coffee and a cookie to distract both of you?" Maire asked. "I have a fresh batch of each. I might even have a dog biscuit handy."
All three of us responded in the affirmative, so Maire disappeared through the connecting door into their home.
Between cookies, deliciously spiced coffee, and a few soft barks and tricks from a little dog satiated with treats, Doc looked at my hand. He pulled a giant medical book from his shelf, and
hummed and hawed over the predicament.
"Have you ever had dermatitis before?" he asked me.
"I have to admit I don't even know what that is, so definitely not," I answered.
"It's a skin rash that's usually the result of an allergy," Doc explained. "Since you've never had it before, I'd venture a guess that it's something you've been in contact with recently that you've never touched before. It usually takes a day or two to break out, depending on how severe the allergy is. When did it start?"
"I think just this morning," I said, trying hard to remember the exact moment my thumb began to itch. "But as to what I could have come in contact with, well, considering all the places I've been in the last few days, I couldn't really say. What sorts of things would cause it?"
"Well, most common at this time of year would be some sort of tree, or plant, or bush. Trees would be the best guess, since most plants and bushes are kind of hibernating right now."
I thought of the trips through the woods that we'd made recently, but the timeframe seemed wrong. Doc was still looking at his book.
"People have different kinds of allergies, but I'd say it must be something that's not very common around Burchill. Otherwise you'd probably have come down with this shortly after moving here. You're so often outdoors, not only with Langford, but with the school kids."
I thought of trips to the museum, the reserve, the craft store, the woods and the canal. Could it have been something in the museum? If so, why hadn't I caught it before this?
"The good news is that the rash can be controlled with medicated cream. I'll write out the prescription for you and you can go home and put it on right away. I know the itch is probably driving you crazy."
"Any way of finding out what I'm allergic to, Doc?"
He turned and smiled a little grimly. "Hate to tell you, Emily, but aside from sticking you with needles to test for everything under the sun, the best way will likely be when you touch the thing again. The second flare-up will probably happen almost immediately and be somewhat worse."
"Oh. Great."
Doc laughed at the expression on my face. "Don't worry. This cream will do the trick the next time, too. You'll see. Thanks for waking me up though."
I laughed. "You're very welcome. Glad I could oblige. I'd wager you'll have a good fifteen minutes before your head's down on that desk again."
Angel and I left Doc laughing. We trotted down Main Street to the drugstore and were soon armed with cream and instructions for use. I immediately slathered my aching hand with the cool substance and sighed as it reached through the rash and soothed the raging itch. We were heading home, tired and hungry, when Frances pulled up in the patrol car.
"Emily. Just the person I wanted to see. I've got a hunch," she said, holding the door open.
Angel and I hopped in, with no idea of what was to come.
Death is the major strength
with which to emerge from this cocoon of bondage.
We say "forgive us our trespasses"
forgetting that death lurks at every opportunity.
Chapter 32
She wanted to let go. The cool breeze had beckoned her and she saw and heard the sea beyond, calling to her. The small birds sang, and the sun warmed her skin, her loved ones smiled. She knew it could be so easy. She would simply lie back, sink into the feathers, be enveloped in soft arms, breathe without pain.
She had looked into the eyes of Charles Nabigon, welcoming, dreamy and affectionate. She whispered to him, "Running Wolf, I come to you once more, I put my searing body in your cooling embrace, warm my cold heart in your love, die to live in your circle forever." He nodded, his smile broadening, the lines of his last illness gone from his handsome face, his hands strong and open to her again. Beside him, the children were alive, they could walk and talk and respond. They reached out for wife, lover, mother. She let the life go from her body.
It ploughed into her like a punch, the fist strong and powerful. The breath surged inside her once more, forcing her chest to expand and her body to jerk upward from the bed. She tried to fight it, to resist, to return to the quiet and the sea and Charles. But when she saw through the cloud that surrounded her, when she tasted the breath whose strength poured through her, she turned instead to the other face, the other arms that pulled her by the hands and forced her upward. It was not peaceful or welcoming or silent. It was a rough and torturous path, but she knew she had to do it. She even willed her own muscles to respond to the call. She had to do this.
She opened her eyes.
Chapter 33
I couldn't help but laugh, though it was more from relief than mirth. "Frances, you won't believe this, but I was going to rush home and call you."
"As a matter of fact, I would believe it. I really think there is something to this cosmic intelligence thing." Frances cleared her throat, as though she'd revealed too much, and changed the subject. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about Oona and Frieda. What about you?"
I told her about the visits to the museum and the craft store, about the missing pieces of the legend. "I seriously think that Oona was leaving a message when she ran around the tree and pointed to the twentieth legend. There is something that we have not paid enough attention to. I think we should go look at Oona's place again."
"Great idea. I'm supposed to be off duty today, so let's go exploring. Oona still hasn't said a thing, so all I'm doing is mulling everything around in my mind until I feel obsessed."
We dropped Angel off with Langford, who, although not keen on my driving away with Frances, didn't try to dissuade me. I pulled on rubber boots and a windbreaker and I was ready for an adventure.
We decided searching through Oona's small house was a priority. Since the cabin was never locked and Oona invited anyone to visit at any time, we knew we'd have no problem explaining our presence if anyone ever asked. Although it had already been searched, and it was a very small space, we both had an intuitive feeling that there was some clue we'd all missed. Armed with the information about the secret scroll, we agreed that it should be looked at with a different perspective.
The sun had continued fingering any snow or ice left under crevices and behind trees. As it melted, the water made little rivulets everywhere, causing me to be happy I'd put on my hiking boots. Through the hush and sway of the breeze in the woods, we could hear birds tentatively heralding spring.
The little cottage looked sad and abandoned, even from the outside. Normally, there'd be a puff of smoke rising invitingly and often, the sound of Oona humming or singing along with her old radio. I felt a rush of grief and sent a prayer to whatever spirits controlled her life.
"I keep thinking positive thoughts for Oona," Frances said as we headed for the front door, startling me with her perspicacity. Maybe she was right about cosmic intelligence. "Even though I don't know her well, I admire May so much. I don't want May to suffer."
"Ditto," was all I was able to say, touched by the feeling in Frances's voice.
The cabin door was firmly shut, which looked so unusual that it gave the whole frontage a different appearance. The shack was now forlorn and dark and abandoned. Frances strode confidently ahead and pushed open the door, which swung inward on creaky hinges. I followed her petite frame into the cottage and heard her shocked gasp before I saw the reason for her reaction.
Although I knew from past experience that Oona didn't have much in the way of material things inside her tiny home, I was also aware that everything had been neat and clean and that all things had had a place. The disorder and mess into which I stepped was shocking and disgusting. Tea bags, boxes of cereal, sugar, salt, sauces, catsup, spices and other kitchen items had been turned upside down and emptied all over the floor, the counter, the table. The single cot had been upended, its mattress sliced and its insides strewn about like a box of cotton.
Frances and I stood still in the middle of the room. The rays of the sunshine picked out the vandalism the way a magnifying glass would highlight the di
rt on a windowpane. I sucked in my breath through clenched teeth and felt my heart begin to pound. I knew what this kind of violation did to your soul. I was briefly glad that Oona would not see her little shelter desecrated in this way.
Frances's voice was clipped and hard. She was every inch the police officer once more. "Obviously they want something from Oona," she said, getting out her cell phone. "Marty, I'm at the Nabigon cottage. Can you send someone out? I'm going to search around a little and then leave. I'll try to get in touch with Edgar too, but in the meantime I'd like one of the volunteers to get out here and bag up anything interesting. Probably not much use dusting for prints, but they could do that here and there too." She paused and listened for a moment. "But won't you be putting in a double shift?" She smiled. "Got it, Marty. You're the best." She hung up. "Marty's almost finished his shift but he doesn't want to trust this to any of the police volunteers. He's an amazing guy. I think he'll fit very nicely into Burchill once we get him full time."
"Do you think that will happen?"
"Depends on how the subdivisions go. If there are more people, we'll need more help." Snapping on gloves, Frances began to move around the hut, her eyes bright with observation. She handed me a pair of gloves. "Look at things, Emily," she said to my unspoken question about what I should do, "and then you can pick them up if you think there might be something underneath. Just try to memorize where they were and put them back as close as possible. It's not like the murders were committed here or anything, so you don't have to be too precise. But Marty will want to photograph the place when he gets here."
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