We began to move around the cottage, looking at every little thing, picking papers up off the floor and replacing them. We were silent and tense. It felt cruel and awkward to be wandering around the mess, adding to the destruction instead of fixing it. I tried hard to concentrate, to emulate Frances as she employed her trained powers of observation to pierce the secrets of that room.
Ironically, it was I who found the picture, curled up under the table as though flung there and dismissed as unworthy of consideration. It was a photograph of Oona and Frieda, taken very recently by the look of both women. I thought it was odd that Oona had kept it or even posed for it. She didn't like images and she certainly seemed to have lost a great deal of her affinity for Frieda. Although, I reminded myself, there had been many new contradictions in Oona's behaviour, and perhaps this was one of them. For no reason other than curiosity, I turned the picture over, and in black pencil, etched into the silvery white paper of the photo, was the drawing of a scroll.
Chapter 34
When Edgar arrived in the hallway, May was huddled in Alain's arms, leaning against the wall. Through the open door Edgar could see the doctor and two nurses working around the bed, leaning over Oona with machinery and urgency, and his heart sunk. Poor Oona, he thought, after all this suffering, she isn't going to make it.
Alain nodded and shook his hand. May didn't turn her face toward him, but her hand too, reached out and squeezed his. Edgar couldn't help but feel a spark of jealousy, seeing in the close unit of these two people something that he wished to have with Frances.
Just then, the doctor came back into the hall. "She's stable again," he said, his voice abrupt and business-like. "But I must tell you honestly that I don't know how long she'll be that way. She's very tentative." He gave a nod that simulated some understanding and strode away.
The nurses finished straightening the sheets and making Oona comfortable once more before they took their leave, giving far more sympathy and support than the doctor had. Oona's face was tight and pale, her long dark hair with its shots of silver, framing her contorted, lined skin. She was no longer twitching. Her lips were closed and dried with spittle. Even her breath barely raised the sheets that covered her still body.
May let out a whimper of anguish and clutched at one limp hand that lay motionless at Oona's side. This woman had been her model, her strength, her guide. May put her face down on the bed and wept, while Alain stood close to her, his hand on her shoulder, connected to her grief through his love.
Edgar stood at the window, feeling helpless and angry. The world went on below them, cars parking, trucks delivering, people walking, running, talking. He didn't know what sound made him turn back to the bed, but when he did so, he witnessed Oona's body as she jerked upward as though pulled by an unseen hand or a spring pushing from underneath. A tortured breath dragged through her pleading mouth, then expelled again as she dropped to the mattress. May had stood up and all three of them stared in fear and amazement.
Once more, a surge of oxygen seemed to force itself into Oona's gaping mouth and then her chest began to rise and fall, her face filled with lifeblood, the lines of her countenance held outlines etched with animation instead of demise.
In front of a stunned audience of three, Oona Nabigon opened her eyes.
Chapter 35
Somehow, we kept coming back to the tree and the circles. Oona had provided the messages—for whom, we weren't sure—and we had to figure them out. Perhaps the message wouldn't have been so cryptic for someone else, but Frances and I were confused.
I called Langford on my cell to fill him in on what we'd discovered. He was less than comfortable with my involvement.
"Emily, isn't this for the police? Shouldn't you step aside now?"
"We're not doing anything dangerous, honey. Honestly." Later, I would certainly wonder just how honest I'd been, or whether I had truly just been very naive. "We're checking out territory that's already been scoured by the police—just looking at it from the perspective of this new information. Frances won't let me stay if she thinks it's going to get dangerous."
I could tell that he thought this last, at least, was true. "Okay, my love, keep me in the loop. I'm still in the studio. It's going well. Angel's sound asleep. I think you really tuckered the poor little thing out."
I laughed. "You should have seen her! She ran and jumped and sniffed all morning. No wonder she's tired out. I promise I'll keep calling, Langford, but not too much. Get those paintings done. I won't be long." Famous last words, indeed.
Martin Michano had arrived with his equipment, Frances and I headed out on foot toward the tree and Bahswaway Pond, which was a relatively short distance away. The sun was still very high in the sky, continuing its pleasant assault on the hidden bits of snow and frozen ground. Our feet stuck into the mud in places, but we happily ploughed through, our inner child excited by both the adventure and the promise of spring.
There wasn't much to see at the tree any longer. The message that Oona had left had long since been obliterated. We circled it nonetheless, not speaking much, both of us busy with our own thoughts.
I wasn't entirely comfortable with Frances yet. Her changeable nature and various moods were still difficult for me to understand. I had to admit as well, that I was used to being the one in charge and I was having trouble keeping my opinions to myself. Thus, I was a little quieter than usual.
I followed Frances as she headed around the pond and into the woods, biting my tongue from asking all the same questions over and over again. Why had Oona wanted the twentieth legend to be read? Was the message about the scroll or about Walking Bear or both? Who was Walking Bear? For whom had the message been written? Why had someone killed Frieda and Victor and tried to kill Oona? Where was Agnes Lake?
Luckily for Frances, I kept repeating these mantras in my head only. She was preoccupied, her eyes wide, her mind busy translating everything that she was seeing, trying desperately to unravel the mysteries.
We weren't far into our trek when we got the biggest message of all—one that would lead us into a situation that neither of us was prepared to handle. Hidden under a bush, scarcely out of sight, we found the bear headdress.
"This has not been here very long," Frances said, as we gently pulled it out into the open. "I'd bet several hours at most. Somebody wanted it to be found."
"I agree. A message, without a doubt. But what's it supposed to tell us?"
"Good question." Frances straightened up. "I'm going to call in reinforcements." She grinned, the witty young woman shining through for a moment. "Just like in the movies." She listened at the cell phone for a moment, but she had not called the person I'd expected. "Chief Dan. Emily and I have found another bear headdress. We need your expertise." She was silent for a moment as the Chief spoke. "Sure. Bring them along. We'll meet you at Oona's cottage."
The diadem was a lot heavier than it looked. I wondered how anyone could walk around with a headdress like this one over their shoulders for hours at a time. Between us, with several rests, Frances and I lugged it back to Oona's and set it on the tiny doorstep.
Luckily, Martin Michano was still there. He began to snap pictures immediately after Frances had filled him in.
Deposited there in the sunlight, the headdress was displayed for more careful scrutiny. Once again, I was staring at a large brown bear's head and shoulders, a round opening for eyes and part of a face. Long white and black feathers with red and yellow tips circled the diadem. A small piece of leather with an ink-drawn emblem, but this time, it was also covered in leaves and twigs. The emblem drawing was of a bear and fish. This must be Bird's headdress, I thought. Other differences were spots of sticky stuff and the small stubs on some of the twigs. The little nubs looked familiar and I wondered where I'd seen them.
As we waited for the Chief, Frances and I drank the bottles of water Marty had so thoughtfully brought along. He had completed the photography and quickly left to make his way home at last.
&nbs
p; Frances and I sat on opposite sides of the diadem, in thoughtful silence, enjoying the sunshine. It was beginning to disappear over the trees, and knowing fickle nature, I wondered what we might expect for tomorrow's weather. That was when my hand began to itch.
Thinking it was simply time to put on more cream, I glanced down at my hand and was shocked to discover that the irritation had spread. My entire hand seemed to be pink and throbbing. The rash was heating up my skin, ready to break out in the little red pimples. I couldn't help but exclaim, "Holy shit," whereupon Frances looked over and made the same exclamation when she looked at my hand.
"What the hell is it?" she asked.
"It's an allergic reaction called dermatitis," I told her. "Doc said I must be allergic to something I touched recently that…" I was silent for a moment, suddenly struck by the memory of a tiny stub sticking out from a twig.
"What?" Frances prompted.
"I think I know where I got this allergy," I said slowly, walking back to the diadem and pointing. "See that little stub? It looks like the twig has a thumb or something?"
Frances looked down carefully. "Yes, I see it." She squatted and brought her finger close to, but not touching I noticed, the small gnarl of wood.
"Well, I just remembered where else I've seen one of those. The Smallwoods' yard. I've never seen any tree quite like it. Doc said I probably touched something unusual, some plant or tree that's not common around here. And it was the day after my visit to Peter and Ellie's that I broke out in the first rash." As I spoke, I was frantically reaching into my pants pocket and spreading the cream all over my hand this time. "Plus, do you think that sticky stuff could be sap? Because if it is, there is a damaged tree in their yard that was oozing it yesterday."
This time, Frances touched her finger to the sticky substance and sniffed at it. "Could be," she said. "It doesn't have much of a scent, but does smell a little sweet."
"Do you think Peter could have taken the headdress?" I asked her, because I was busily jumping to conclusions.
Frances rubbed her chin thoughtfully, probably scratching in sympathy with the ministrations I was going through as we talked. "I have no idea. But it sure looks that way from this bit of evidence. We could be jumping to conclusions,"—little did she know, that's exactly what I'd already done—"and I don't like to do that. However…" I could tell she was really mumbling to herself, uncertain about what this turn of events could mean.
Just then, Chief Dan drove up in his big black car with Bird and Basil. I had no knowledge about cars, but I did know that the Chief changed them often. They were always large and shiny. Bird leapt from the back seat and ran to the headdress. Frances barely kept him from pulling it into his arms.
"That is mine, Officer Petapiece," he said, sounding petulant and angry.
"Okay, Bird, but calm down, we need to be sure, and as it might be evidence in a crime, we have to be careful. You know that, right?" Frances put her hands on his shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes.
Grudgingly, he nodded his agreement, so Frances dropped her hands. "Now, Bird, walk around the diadem and tell me how you know it's yours and if you see anything different."
Bird did as he was told, while the rest of us looked on, silent. He walked around the headdress, carefully scrutinizing it. I noticed that Frances had taken out her little notebook.
"I know it's mine by the emblem," he said slowly. "The feathers are pretty much the ordinary kind we use. But most of the twigs look like the ones I used." He squatted and pointed, careful not to touch it. "However, some of these have been added. You see, my grandfather had worn it so often that a lot of the original twigs and leaves had fallen off, not to mention what's died since then. I replaced a lot of them last year, but they had grown brown and dry. So these green leaves and these twigs are new." I noticed that he pointed to the twigs with the tiny stubs. "And it's got some kinda gooey stuff on it. I hope they haven't ruined the fur."
Frances finished off her notes. "Okay, Bird, thanks. I'm going to ask the Chief to lock it up for now. It'll be safe and probably not used in court, but you never know. I don't want to take chances. I have to be thorough so not only will we catch whoever is doing this, but also get them punished for it." She was stating the obvious, I thought, but Bird's face was still suffused with anger and petulance, and Frances needed to be clear with him.
Bird's countenance showed very obviously that he wanted to argue, but felt cornered. Basil, who'd been unusually quiet the whole time, helped him to reluctantly load the headdress into the massive trunk.
Chief Dan stayed with us.
"I don't think you should do anything else about this," he said to Frances. "Maybe you should wait until Edgar returns."
I could tell that this statement was the wrong thing to say to Frances. Her body language immediately showed her irritation. "I'm an officer of the law, Chief Dan. I think I can operate without consulting Edgar each time."
The native leader obviously didn't understand her statement in the context in which she'd said it. "There is somebody very dangerous and very clever doing all of this," he went on in his formal, thick-tongued way, which, right now made him sound patronizing and condescending. "They have made good use of legends and of beliefs that our people have held for many years. They are causing the legends to come true. If that is so, there will be more bloodshed. I do not wish it to be yours. You should have Edgar here. He will know how to handle this."
He turned on his heel and left, leaving Frances blushing as though she were a child who'd been scolded. I would have found her reaction funny, except that I could tell she was really quite angry. I realized that Frances had to deal with this kind of attitude on a regular basis. She was a woman doing a largely male-dominated job.
"He didn't mean it in a condescending way," I said quietly. "He's really very kind. He's just being protective."
"He wouldn't dare say the same things to Edgar, Emily," she retorted, her demeanour formal and authoritative once more. "Would you like me to take you home? I'm going off to the Smallwoods', and I certainly would agree with the Chief that, for you at least, this might get dangerous."
I remembered my promise to Langford, but the memory was a lot less insistent than my curiosity. "I'll go with you, Frances. I can show you the tree with the nubby twigs and the maple tree with the sap. We can see if Peter and Ellie are home again. I don't think there should be anything dangerous in that."
At the end of this
long day, something
has stirred in me, some
huge sadness walked
across my body.
Water across pebbles holds
more substance than all of me,
even the smell of water is
recognizable, I am that raw.
Chapter 36
The woman's breath was becoming shallower. In the recesses of her mind, she knew that she should force her lungs to expand, to take in the oxygen, to continue to receive the life-giving air. But the nights had been too long and the days too torturous. She no longer wanted to live.
The mice had raced over her face and hands and feet, their little claws feathery and light, their fur brushing her skin and causing it to itch. A spider had crawled into her hair, wiggling and tying its threads from her to the wall. Sometime during the night, an animal had dug its way into the hut, from a window or a hole beneath, she was not sure. It may have been a raccoon or a rat, but she could feel its malevolent presence in the hut. It did not come near her, but she could hear it moving in and out, building a nest or amassing weapons against her, she did not know.
Her hands and feet had ceased to tingle. She had no feeling in them at all. She could not rock back and forth on the hard bench. She lay still and defeated, trussed like a load of wood, just as stiff and inanimate.
Her lips had swollen and the skin was puffed and cracked. She had no more liquid inside her mouth to ease the tightness. Her tongue was heavy and engorged inside her throat. She was not even concerne
d about the pain now. She felt limp, hopeless, numb. All that remained was the breathing, in and out, even when she tried to suppress it. Shallower now, ragged, but automatic, still there, continuing to make her poor heart beat, her body to suffer the heat, the cold, the insects and the animals. No real thought entered her mind now, but before that, she had prayed. "Just let me die," she had whispered to the night.
Chapter 37
By the time we got to the Smallwoods', the sun was beginning to disappear, and a chill had set in. I was glad I'd worn layers of clothing, because by now I had everything on—sweater, jacket, and even gloves. Frances threw on her police-issue jacket and some dark leather gloves as she got out of her car and headed up the walk. She was still quiet, but I thought it was more in thought than in anger, as her shoulders were not as stiff, and her colour had gone back to normal.
Most of the villagers seemed to be ensconced in their homes. Children had been called in for dinner, and very few people were still walking the streets. It was a soft time of day, muted and calm, resting before the shadows of darkness enclosed everything. There was an air of regret. Our beautiful spring-like day was almost over and who knew if that gift would be offered again soon?
Peter and Ellie's home remained the same as before, deserted and dark. Once again, I was struck by the size of the yard, by the immensity of the trees and shrubs that crowded out the house and one another. I showed Frances the maple, its angry scar with the trace of sap beginning to push from the bark. I pointed out the gnarled branch that had shoved its way over and under all the other branches and trees, its little nubby fingers twisting and turning and even escaping through holes in the fence. Frances had no idea to which tree the branch might belong either. It was difficult to trace through the jungle and the twigs did not resemble any tree that was familiar to us. Convinced that this was the source of the misery of my itchy hand, I didn't go near it.
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