“Well,” Kimiko explains, “I found it outside the door and I didn’t think you would appreciate Pearl’s little offering.”
“And you picked it up with your bare hands?” Sabrina says, horrified.
Everyone seems satisfied with the explanation, but I’m not. “How did you get so dirty?” I ask her out of the blue. She hesitates, but not for long. “Oh, I was digging a little hole for the mouse. You know, so Pearl wouldn’t find it again and bring it back inside.”
“Could you please just get rid of that thing?” Sabrina says, sneering. “And soon?”
Kimiko looks at the mouse, shrugs, and sends it sailing into the nearby bushes.
The others wander off, but I stay frozen in my spot, watching Kimiko.
“What?” She takes a step backwards.
“Your face,” I say. “You have something on your face.” I point to a tiny red drop of what looks like blood at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh!” she says nervously, rubbing the spot furiously with her finger. “It’s probably just strawberries. I found a little patch up there.” She points up toward the trees.
“Oh,” I say. “Nice.”
Strawberries in March? Does she think I’m an idiot?
She squats down and pretends to retie her already-tied bootlace. I catch a whiff of her hair. It smells like smoke.
Chapter Eleven
I don’t tell anyone about the fox in the woods, or the wolf in the night, but they are all I think about. When I casually ask Peter if there have ever been foxes on Vancouver Island, he says no, but if there had been, they’d most likely be left over from fur farms that were here in the early 1900s. Okay, maybe, but what about the tails?
I want to ask more, but I’m not stupid. The last thing I need is for everyone to think I’ve lost my marbles. So I shut up and let them keep thinking that the smoking tree on the beach was the result of a random lightning strike, even though Jack and I know that’s not what went down. Not by a long shot! I know it better than anyone. That’s what makes me so nervous. I touch my abalone necklace for reassurance that I’m not losing it—for a little tangible proof that I’m not living in some half-baked, Hannah-constructed, imaginary world. But it’s hard to concentrate, and twice during the evening when we’re supposed to be writing in our work journals, Jade busts me for zoning out.
The next morning, Peter and Jade tell us it’s going to be a “study” day—we’ll be updating our environmental notebooks and cataloguing some of the things we’ve found in the debris.
“But we have to make a run into town first,” Peter says. “You guys want to come along?” Of course I jump at the chance to go; a little diversion into civilization is just what I need.
Kimiko enthusiastically opts to stay back at the lodge and make everyone sushi. When she starts assembling the ingredients on the kitchen counter, Jade goes over to investigate. “Yum. I love sushi!”
“Sticky rice, too?” Sabrina asks hopefully.
“Of course,” Kimiko says, her nose twitching. She turns to me. “Do you like sushi, Hannah?”
Yeah. I like sushi. I’d also like an answer to what’s going on around here.
“Sure,” I say. “Can’t wait.”
Kimiko looks worried. “You can’t? But it will take me at least two hours!”
I blink at her, trying to decide whether or not she’s being sarcastic. But no, she’s totally earnest.
“It’s just an expression, Kimiko,” I say. Has this girl been living in a cave her whole life or something? I mean, her English is really good, so it’s not like there’s a language barrier thing going on.
While the truck is warming up, I snitch a tiny bit of salmon from the counter, and carry it out to Jack. He’s sitting calmly on the concrete birdbath, facing the woods, so I take great pleasure in sneaking up behind him. But when I jump at him, he hardly even flinches. Instead, he zooms in for the fish, snatching it from me and shaking it dramatically before swallowing it in one gulp.
He cocks his head and stares at my hand, hoping there’s more where that came from.
“Let’s go, guys,” Jade calls out, climbing into the front seat of the truck beside Peter.
Sabrina gets into the crew cab, smoothing a blanket out on the seat before she sits down. “Dog hairs,” she says. “They’re everywhere.”
“Speaking of dogs,” I say, “can Norman come?” Norman is watching us from the red front steps, wearing his very best sad puppy face.
“Ew,” Sabrina says. “Really?”
“Fine by us,” Peter says.
Norman launches himself into the crew cab between Sabrina and I. But he doesn’t settle, and I have to hang on tight to his collar—he keeps trying to crawl over Sabrina every time he sees something interesting out her window.
We drive through thick stands of Sitka spruce and cedar, and then past some western hemlock, all covered with grandfather’s beard lichen. Salal and giant swaths of sword ferns cover the ground, making the forest appear almost impenetrable. Wow, the woods up here are intense!
Peter and Jade tell us about some of the people who live up here, like Codfish Joe and Millicent, a couple that used to be fishers, but who now sell hats on eBay, and Stinky Tom, the seventy-two-year-old retired lawyer who lives in a tree house and makes giant insect sculptures out of recycled scrap metal. Rumour has it he also barters goods and services for the 100-proof moonshine that he makes in a still on his property somewhere. I guess every town has its quirky residents. It gets me to thinking about Riley and Ben, Cowichan Bay’s most infamous oddballs. And thinking about Cowichan Bay gets me thinking about our probable move to Victoria. What if it’s true? What if Dad and Anne really did find a house near Beacon Hill Park? I’d hardly ever get to see Riley or Ben, or hang out at the Salish Sea Studio, or tease Ben’s parrot, Sadie. I sigh, deciding I need to talk to my father soon and find out what’s going on.
“You girls could grab a bite at the Driftwood Diner for a bit if you wanted, while Jade and I shop. Best fudge brownies on the coast.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Sabrina looks at Peter as if he’s lacking in the grey matter department. “Do you even know how many calories are in the average brownie?”
Peter laughs. “Well, these brownies are anything but average, so they probably have twice as many.”
“I’m down,” I say. Chocolate is always a good idea. I open the door and Norman walks over me and jumps out of the truck with a grunt.
“Junk food will catch up with you one day, you know, Hannah.” Sabrina says, stepping gingerly out of the truck and dramatically sidestepping a mud puddle. “One day you’re totally going to wake up and discover that you won’t be able to buy your jeans at Hollister anymore.”
“I don’t buy them there now.”
She gives my thirty-dollar jeans the old classic “up, down” stare. “Yeah. I can see that.”
When we open the door of the Driftwood Diner, we’re greeted by that wonderful smell that you find only in diners: the one that’s equal parts coffee and french-fry grease. Awesome.
Sabrina, in fuchsia leggings, black boots and a fake-fur bomber jacket (which she says is seventies retro, but which I think is just seventies ugly) sticks out more than anyone else in the diner. But even I have to admit she can pull it off. She could pull off a paper bag if she wanted to. It’s pretty annoying.
We sit down in a corner booth and a moment later our waitress appears wearing a waist-apron and a T-shirt with the Driftwood Diner logo on it.
“Hi there,” she says, digging a pen out of the apron. “What are you guys having?”
I reach for the laminated menu wedged between the sugar dispenser and the napkin holder on the table. “I think I’ll have some Earl Grey tea, please?”
“Sure,” the girl says. She looks over at Sabrina. “Same for you?”
“Coffee,” Sabrina says, studying the menu.
“Anything to eat?”
“Well, we heard the brownies are awesome here,”
I say. “You heard right.”
“Okay. I’d love one, please.”
“One for you, too?” the waitress asks Sabrina.
Sabrina puts the menu back. “Are you kidding? No.”
The waitress flips the cover on her pad and heads into the kitchen. “Okay. Suit yourself. Back in a sec.”
“And can you make sure my coffee is extra hot?” Sabrina calls after her. Several people in the diner turn around to look at us, and I want to sink through the floor. The thing is, I don’t think Sabrina has a clue that she’s being a cow. She’s always been this way, even back when we were little kids in kindergarten.
She starts blabbering on about a notorious cat fight that’s gone viral on YouTube—a snippet from some Real Housewives TV show. But I listen with only one ear; I’m too busy catching snippets of random conversations from other tables. It’s something I learned from my dad. He’s always scribbling down bits of other people’s conversations in his writer’s notebook. It’s not really like eavesdropping. Well, maybe it is, but writers seem to be able to get away with doing things like this, in the name of the craft.
A sudden screech of tires in the street makes me jump. Out in the road, a truck brakes hard to miss hitting … Norman! In a flash, I’m out the door, only narrowly escaping our waitress who is balancing our order on her tray.
When I get outside, the car has pulled to the curb and Norman is standing in the middle of the road, calm as a proverbial cucumber. He wags his whole back end when he sees me, and trots over to lean against my leg.
A man climbs out of the beat-up blue Honda, shaking his head. “Jeez … I didn’t hit him, did I? Crazy dog was just standing in the middle of the road!”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. He’s not my dog, but I—”
“Hey, no worries. I have a psycho-mutt back home myself. I’m just glad I didn’t smoke him!” He squats down beside Norman and strokes his ears. Norman licks the man’s face, most of which is hidden by a big beard, and then sniffs at his T-shirt, which has some First Nations art on the front—an orca.
I grab hold of Norman’s collar. “I’m really sorry he got in your way.” That’s when I notice a red-spiralled tattoo on the man’s arm, peeking out below the sleeve of his T-shirt. There’s something very familiar about it.
“Well,” he says, “look after the mutt, and have a nice day.” He gets back into the Honda, drives across the road, and pulls into the diner’s parking lot. I decide that Norman has had enough excitement for now, and take him back to the truck.
“You better chill out here, Norman,” I say, trying to sound stern. He looks at me with his big soulful eyes, then joyfully rediscovers an old bone on the floor behind the driver’s seat and starts to chow down.
When I get back to the diner, the guy with the tattoo is sitting at the counter, fiddling with his camera. Sabrina is eyeing my brownie with avid concentration, her fork hovering in the air just above the plate.
“Go ahead.” I say, sitting down. “Have some.”
“Well, I guess one bite wouldn’t kill me.”
“Pretty sure you’re safe.” I pick up a knife and split the giant brownie in two, pushing one half toward her.
Sabrina’s eyes threaten to jump out of her skull. “What are you doing? I said only a bite!”
I shrug, sinking my teeth into the moist and chocolaty awesomeness while I watch Tattoo Guy at the counter. Peter was right, the brownie tastes even better than it looks, and it looks good! I try to savour each bite, but even so, it isn’t long before my half is gone.
“Why do you keep staring at that guy?” Sabrina says suddenly. “Do you know him or something?”
“Oh,” I say. “I was just looking at his tattoo.”
Sabrina narrows her eyes and studies the guy’s arm. “Kind of a boring tatt, if you ask me.”
Boring or not, I’m intrigued. Tattoo Guy’s sleeve has ridden up a little, and I can see the whole design on his arm now. There’s a Japanese character that sits above the red spiral. That looks familiar, too! “I like it,” I say. “Maybe I’ll ask him where he got it.”
“Seriously?” Sabrina rolls her eyes, and licks chocolate icing off her finger. I notice that her half is gone now, too. “Like you’d ever get a tattoo, Anderson. Don’t make me laugh.”
“I might one day,” I say.
But she’s already lost interest, and has picked up her menu again to study it with renewed interest. “Holy crap! Did you know they list the caloric content of every single item on this menu?”
“No.”
“Well, they do. And that brownie had over 400 of them!”
While Sabrina is immersed in her menu, I pull out my phone and discreetly scroll through the photos I’ve taken since I arrived. I find a close up of the glass ball necklace and zoom in until it fills the screen. I look up at Tattoo Guy at the counter and then back to my phone. I’m pretty sure the Japanese character on his arm is the same one that’s on the glass ball. I have to get a better look.
When I slide out of our booth, Sabrina looks up from her menu with surprise. “You’re not seriously going to talk to him are you?”
But I just shrug and walk over to the counter.
“Hey again,” Tattoo Guy says when I sit down on the stool next to him. “The girl with the dog. What’s up?”
I feel my face grow warm. “Hi … I’m Hannah.”
Tattoo Guy smiles, and waits for me to go on. I suddenly feel self-conscious. I hope he doesn’t think I’m some kind of freak or anything.
“Um …” I begin. “Don’t think I’m weird or anything, but, well, it’s just that I saw … I mean—”
“Nice to meet you, Hannah,” Tattoo Guy says, coming to my rescue. “I’m Marcus.” He dips his teaspoon into the pot of honey in front of him, then holds it over his mug and waits.
I try again. “It’s just … it’s about your tattoo. That one.” I point to his arm.
Marcus pulls his T-shirt sleeve up a little and looks at it as though he’s just noticing it for the first time. “Oh. Right. Got it about six years ago.”
“Cool,” I say. “It’s just that I think I’ve seen that spiral design and the Japanese character before, on a glass ball. I was just wondering what it means.”
“Really?” Marcus says, continuing to stir the spoon in his mug. “On a glass ball? No kidding!”
“Yeah, I think I saw it in a movie or something,” I lie.
“That makes sense.” He points to the black character above the red spiral. “This,” he says, “is Japanese for kitsune.”
“Kitsune?”
“Yeah. The Japanese spirit fox.”
Chapter Twelve
A chill travels through my whole body and my heart begins thumping in my chest. I look over at Sabrina who, thankfully, is still reading the menu.
“Why did you get that tattoo?” I know questions about tattoos are personal, but I ask it anyway.
“It’s kind of a cool story,” Marcus says. “You wanna hear it?” Do I want to hear it? Um … yeah!
“Sure!” I say.
Marcus leans back and stretches his arms in front of him, the honey spoon still in his right hand. “I travelled a lot in my early twenties, and when I finally got to Japan I bought myself a motorcycle so I could explore some of the mountains. There are some crazy ones there. Anyway, at the end of my trip, I decided to rip down Mount Rokko through the twisties, you know, hairpin turns, knee-dragging corners, stuff like that. But I came around a corner and BAM! Had to brake really hard to miss a fox. She was just standing there, right in the middle of the road! Kind of like your dog friend out there. Needless to say, I skidded out and went down.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Nah, only my ego. A few dings and scratches on the bike, but nothing serious.” Marcus shifts forward on his chair and finally puts the spoon on the napkin next to his mug. “So anyway, this fox doesn’t move. She just stands there, looking at me with these crazy golden eyes.”
“What did you do?”
“I got up and picked up my bike, but I stared right back at her the whole time. And that’s when I notice she had something in her mouth—a glass ball with a red spiral on one end. Just like the one you see here.” Marcus points to his arm.
“Whoa! It sounds like the glass ball I f … I mean the one I saw in that movie.”
“It was her star ball. Her hoshi no tama,” Marcus says.
“What’s that?”
“That’s what holds all the Firefox power,” Marcus explains. “Kitsunes carry it with them at all times, and if they become separated from it, they lose power. And if it shatters, a kitsune can grow weak. Sometimes they can even die.”
My head swims! This is pretty “out there” stuff. “What did you do?” I ask.
“Well, just like that, the fox turns and runs off. Just disappears. I didn’t think much of it, not until I started up the bike again, that is. Barely got going around the first corner— couldn’t have been doing more than 20 kilometres an hour when I had to stop again and just shake my head.”
“Why?”
“Because I would have been toast; a massive rock slide had filled up most of the road. If I hadn’t braked for that kitsune, I’d have kept going at a hundred klicks an hour, straight into that turn.” Marcus shakes his head. “I would have ridden right into those rocks. Game over. Literally.”
“That’s terrifying,” I say.
Marcus stares off into space for a moment, clearly reliving the entire event. “The way I see it,” he finally says, “that fox had my back. I was lucky. She must have been a Zenko kitsune—a benevolent one. Probably trying to earn another tail.”
“Excuse me?”
“Zenko kitsunes are good kitsunes. They have to earn their tails. When they have nine of them, they’re just about as powerful as they are going to get. That’s when their fur turns white.”
No. Way.
Even though it’s hot in here, and the windows are all fogged up from the deep fryers, I shiver. My head starts to swim a little, and I grab hold of the counter to steady myself.
Hannah and the Wild Woods Page 7
