Point Hollow
Page 29
“I’m not quite ready for that, Mrs. Alexander,” he said, knowing full well he would never be ready. That was one promise he wouldn’t be keeping.
“I understand,” she said.
Two weeks later, she sent Matthew a card thanking him for the phone call and the lovely flowers. In the card were two recent clippings from the Hollow County Herald. The first of them was an article about three Catholic priests who had arrived in Point Hollow, intent on “driving the evil from Abraham’s Faith.” The article made no mention of who had sent them, or what was meant by “evil.” It did say that the priests had spent four days on the mountain, and had returned adamant that the “cleansing” had been successful. “This is God’s town again,” one of them stated before leaving. Reverend Parfrey added that Point Hollow had always been God’s town—God’s Footprint, in fact—and that they didn’t need the Catholic Church to remind them of that.
The other clipping—from the following week’s Herald—was more an extended obituary than an article: Kipling Sawyer, Hollow County’s oldest resident, had passed peacefully in his sleep.
Age unknown.
———
Matthew sat on his balcony in perfect darkness, listening to the ocean boom. It was seductive, that sound, like a voice, calling to him alone. He closed his eyes and imagined himself a bird, taking wing and arcing above the crashing waves. He felt the spray in his little black eyes, the cool night in his feathers.
Light crossed the balcony as Angela pulled the blinds behind him. She stood for a moment, naked, always healing, before stepping outside and putting her hand on his shoulder.
“Are you coming to bed?”
It was the first night they would spend together. Matthew had put it off, wanting the nightmares to subside, afraid that he would wake up screaming, crying, and she would see him, like a child, and leave him.
He squeezed her fingers.
“You okay?” Her eyes shone softly in the light. “You want to do this, right?”
“More than anything,” he said. “But . . .”
“But?”
“I have dreams,” he said. His chest trembled as he breathed. “Terrible dreams, and sometimes I wake up . . . don’t know where I am. And scared . . . so scared.”
Angela kissed his eyes. First the left, then the right. She placed her hand on his chest and the trembling stopped.
He followed her into the bedroom, where it was light and kind, and where their bodies were mirrored, like colour on a butterfly’s wing. They didn’t hear the ocean, and there was no need for healing. Afterward, they blinked the world back into their eyes, and Matthew drifted into sleep. The darkness waited for him, an inescapable thing, constantly booming. It reached with hands like black fire and Matthew woke up with a scream rising in his chest. Sweat rolled down his body, thick as blood. He thought he was lost . . . and then Angela was there, her hair on his shoulder, her lips close to his face.
“Baby,” she said, and held him.
Acknowledgements
This is my second novel with ChiZine Publications, and I’m just as thrilled and honoured as I was the first time around. My thanks, then, to my publishers, Brett Savory and Sandra Kasturi, for the faith and support they have shown me over the years, and for the light they have shone on speculative fiction not just in Canada but throughout the world. They are giants in reputation, and it is richly deserved.
I extend my thanks to the entire ChiZine team, in particular my editor Samantha Beiko, whose pen is as just as it is red, and Erik Mohr, who makes every book a more cherished thing.
Huge thanks to my beta readers: Christopher Golden, Tim Lebbon, and Joel Sutherland. Wonderful friends and writers, all. I feel blessed to have had their direction and advice. I’ve always said that showing raw work to someone feels a little like standing in front of them without any clothes on. Well, these guys have seen me naked; they have seen my imperfections, my scars, and my wobbly bits. For this alone, they deserve a standing O.
And of course, thanks in shameless abundance to my family—to my wife Emily, who is a mountain of strength, love, and support. I could climb forever and never reach the top. And to my amazing children, Lily and Charlie. They are new to this world but already wise to the crazy ways of Dad. Hey, kids . . . if you think I’m crazy now, just wait until you’re old enough to read these stories.
About The Author
Rio Youers is the British Fantasy Award–nominated author of End Times and Old Man Scratch. His short fiction has appeared in many notable anthologies, and his previous novel, Westlake Soul, was nominated for Canada’s prestigious Sunburst Award. Rio lives in southwestern Ontario with his wife, Emily, and their children, Lily and Charlie.