Darkshine

by R. D. Vallier

  I felt a pang of guilt. Sam was probably sick with anguish and sleepless with worry. Then again, hadn't he done worse? My teeth chattered, but thinking of Sam and his young lover made my blood simmer. Maybe my predicament scared him, but so what? He had betrayed me, lied to me, tore out my heart and spat on my dignity. I had spent a total of thirteen years enduring the ebb and flow of his emotional tides, loving him at his worst and not causing waves. In return he had dragged me out to sea like a riptide, choking out my life. I scowled and kicked some snow. To hell with him. He's why I am freezing to death. Some suffering of his own won't kill the bastard.

  Wind rattled the treetops. Ice creaked on the branches. My stomach growled and I had no food. I thought about the last time I had eaten. A feast of ham and cranberries and stuffing. Even my sugarless pumpkin pie sounded like heaven right now.

  Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Had a wife and couldn't keep her. He put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well. A train whistle shrieked in the distance. Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Had a wife and couldn't keep her.

  The nursery rhyme repeated in my head as I watched the darkness—a darkness which seemed solid enough to push against. Or crush me. As if it wasn't nothing, but some thing. An entity, its own creature. I shivered, wondering what watched me back.

  Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Had a wife but didn't need her—

  I needed light. I needed warmth. I needed fire.

  I tried to remember survival techniques from my six months of Girl Scouts, but recalled only quilting, cookies, and aloof girls whispering behind my back. My knowledge gained from movies needed to suffice. I found two sticks and ripped off some hair for kindling, grimacing as I realized my survival depended on Hollywood. I matted the hair into a ball and set it on a stone outside the shelter. I placed the tip of one of the sticks into the middle and ran the other stick fervently along its side. (Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Had a wife but didn't need her. He put her in a woodland hell.) I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and never made smoke. The sticks didn't even feel warm. The only fire was in my knuckles exposed to the cold. My eyes darted from the useless sticks to the darkness. Both promised death.

  Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. Had a wife but didn't need her.

  I growled and threw the sticks aside, then shoved my claw-like hands into my pockets and marched in place, hoping to stamp out the pain in my joints. The crunching snow sounded thunderous in the night, a signal to any predator seeking prey. I stopped, and started to shiver.

  Where are you, chickadee? It had promised me help. It promised! I snuffled, the train's reek of dust and filth lodged in my nose. Tears chilled on my cheeks. I bit my tongue to keep from wailing, fearful of attracting predators whose teeth hadn't sank into enough meat this long winter.

  Then I saw it. Greenish-gold orbs flickered in the darkness, dancing between the trees. A huge weight floated off my shoulders, and my body flushed with warmth. The chickadee succeeded! Two faerie protectors had arrived to save me. Two Tinkerbells lit up the gloom.

  Then the lights blinked and I realized my stupidity. It wasn't dancing faeries. It was eye-shine, watching me from the darkness. My mouth went dry and tasted of fear. The hair on my arms prickled. The eyes belonged to something close. Something big. My first thought was wolves, but wolves had been extirpated from Ohio generations ago. Of course, I might not be in Ohio. I had no idea where I was.

  Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. Had a wife but didn't need her. He forced her to a woodland hell, and that was where her cold corpse fell.

  I dove into the mine, my muscles stiff and stabbing. I heard snuffing outside, and the crunching of snow beneath heavy paws. The moon lined the beast's rear haunches in silvery light. Not a wolf, I realized. A coyote.

  More snuffing, then the copper scent of blood. The coyote's silhouette loomed like a sentinel in front of the mine's entrance, a gourd-shaped shadow swaying beneath its jaws. My pulse pounded in my ears. I grabbed a branch beneath my rear, knowing I was crouched too low to swing. Should I slink deeper into the mine? Will I drop off a ledge in the dark?

  The coyote poked its head inside; a small female turkey hung limp from its teeth. I held my breath, every muscle tense. The coyote's eyes flashed green, then she dropped the turkey and wagged her tail.

  A peace offering.

  My fingers uncurled slowly from the branch. "Did the chickadee send you to watch out for me?" I asked. The coyote yipped and licked my face, her warm breath steaming in the cold. I wiped the slobber off my cheek with my sleeve as she nuzzled the turkey with her snout. My stomach rumbled, and although not enough to make raw turkey appetizing, I refused to waste a valuable gift. I crawled from the shelter, eyeing the coyote in fear she'd lunge for my throat. The coyote sat and watched me, tail thumping, eyes glinting green. The turkey was still warm. I buried it in a nearby snowdrift, then crawled back into the mine. The coyote crawled in after and nestled beside me. I lay stiff, breathing shallow to lessen the rise of my chest. It's not every day a wild dog beds down with you, with just their lips separating your throat from their teeth. But her body-heat soon stopped my shivering. My muscles relaxed. Both of my legs fell asleep, but the warmth was a worthy exchange. I snuggled against the coyote, resting my ear on her front paws. She approved of becoming my pillow, and lay her chin on my head to make me into her's. She smelled like every dog I ever knew, a mixture of earth and musk and adventure.

  Branches snapped outside in the darkness. I stiffened. The coyote lifted her head and sniffed the air. Wind whistled through the trees.

  Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. Had a wife but didn't need her.

  I laid my head back on the coyote's paws. "I hope you are safe, chickadee," I whispered into the night. "Please hurry back."

  The night swallowed my words and made no promise.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A campfire burned outside the mine's entrance. It had not been there when I fell asleep.

  I lay motionless on my bed of pine boughs, watching the small flames pop and lick. The pulse in my neck fluttered nervously against the back of my hand. Whoever had laid the stone circle, piled the kindling and started the flames, had not disturbed the coyote stretched alongside my stomach, dreaming her coyote dreams. Has my faerie guide arrived to save me?

  I crawled out of the mine, then stood up and steadied myself on the outside stone until the world stopped spinning. My hands trembled, and I long gave up debating if it was from the cold, low blood sugar, or anxiety. The coyote roused and stretched, then leapt out of the shelter. She circled the campfire, tail in the air and nose to the ground. The flames were low and the logs were graying. It has probably been burning since dawn. I squinted through the snow glare, scanning the woods for twinkling wands and gossamer wings, but found only prison bars disguised as trees.

  I huddled on a large rock beside the campfire and fed sticks into the flames. The heat on my face was exquisite. My boots squished in the mud from the melted snow, and firelight glinted off my bracelet, transforming its silver heart into gold. The weather had also warmed. Green poked from the snow in patches along the ground. Water dripped somewhere inside the mine and I wondered if it joined an orange stream somewhere to poison the world. One hour passed, then two. My fire-faerie never appeared. Snow melted off nearby branches in a steady pip ... pip ... pip. At my feet, a brown spider webbed the gap between two stones in the circle. Spiders can fight wars, but are they capable of fires?

  I coughed as smoke swirled into my face. My stomach growled and my throat longed for water which didn't crunch. It had been nearly three days since the chickadee had left me in the forest, and all I had eaten were a handful of pine needles, a piece of bark (most of which I spat out), and an acorn I had found outside the mine, bitter with tannins and hard on my teeth. Now, however, I had a fire to roast a whole turkey keeping in a melting snow drift. Thank you, spiders.

  I dug out the bird from the snow and started plucking feathers. And plucking. And plucking. And plucking
. I never realized how many feathers a turkey had. Brown and white feathers eventually blanketed the whole front of the mine, tumbling in fluffy currents through the trees. I found a thick piece of shale to cut the body as a train howled in the distance.

  The coyote munched on a patch of green grass peeking through the slush. I gutted the turkey and tried to make a decision. At night I heard a nocturnal world of yips, howls, hooting, shrieks. Creatures with teeth and talons and stomachs famished from a long, hard winter. It was possible the chickadee was like the turkey in my hands, killed for a feast. Or maybe the chickadee has betrayed and abandoned me. Like Sam.

  Cheater, cheater, marriage eater.

  I forced a thick stick through the turkey and propped it over the fire like a gruesome marshmallow. The smoke and sunlight bounced off the snow, making my eyes water. Should I continue waiting for the chickadee while the darkling closes in on my scent? Or should I follow the train tracks to civilization? Maybe even hop a train again. I shuddered. Either way, I refused to wither to my death in the forest.

  By the time the turkey was ready to eat it was late-afternoon. The meat was charred because I was paranoid it wouldn't cook long enough and infect me with salmonella or a parasite. I gave half of the bird to the coyote and tore off a chunk of thigh. I sighed with pleasure as the meat slid down my throat like a stick of chalk. Dry and burnt and tasting like coal, the meal was more satisfying than a thousand Thatcher Christmas dinners.

  I chewed slowly and decided I needed to leave at daybreak. If the chickadee had found me once, it could find me again. If the chickadee was still alive and helping me, that was. My other choices risked my life and safety, and I had never been a gambler.

  I stuffed myself with turkey and dozed off. While I slept, the sun set and darkness came. The coyote woke me with a yip, alerting me the fire was dying. I threw in sticks until the flames stretched, then hugged my knees to my chest, grateful for a light in the darkness. A swollen moon crept across the sky, and smoke coiled around me. I stared at the embers waving oranges and yellows and reds, but it was the charcoal I found mesmerizing. Dark and still, yet somehow as brilliant as the flame, its hidden heat capable of being as destructive as the fire illuminating its blackness. But what if the fire isn't illuminating the charcoal? I wondered. What if the charcoal's dark shines in the light? These ideas felt on the edge of something greater. I rubbed my eyes, too exhausted to think anymore.

  Thinking was never your strongest gift, my mother clucked inside my head.

  Ain't that the truth, Sam's voice agreed.

  "Shut up," I mumbled and tossed a branch into the fire.

  Cheater, cheater, marriage eater.

  Night passed at a crawl's pace; even the bloated moon rusted. The coyote lay at my side, chewing on a turkey bone. In the distance a barred owl hooted a continuous hoo-huh-hoo-huh-hoo-huh-huh-hoooo. My mind clung onto Sam, asking questions with answers impossible to know. Was he late on lasagna night because of him? Was his continuous forced overtime a convenient excuse? What about all those fruitless hunting and fishing trips? The bar time with friends? Had this affair been going on for weeks? Months? The length of a marriage? Was this his only other relationship? How many were there?

  Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. Had a wife but didn't need her.

  My stomach tightened around my meal, sitting like a cannon ball inside my gut. The smoke stung my eyes. I watched the charcoal—watched its dark shine inside the flames—then dropped my head to my knees and cried.

  The coyote nipped my calf. I sprung to my feet. "Hey! What was that for?" The coyote nipped at my ankle, then hopped back and lifted her brow as if to say: The bastard isn't worth your tears.

  Hoo-huh-hoo-huh-hoo-huh-huh-hoooo.

  I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. "It's the smoke," I said, feebly.

  The coyote yipped and ran in a tight circle. I snorted, amused. "Sorry, girl. I am in no mood to play." She stomped her front paws, then lifted her head and howled. The hair on my arms prickled. She raised an eyebrow at me, then howled again. I snorted. "Oh, what the hell?" I lifted my head and howled with her. The coyote shifted her pitch to harmonize with mine. I howled longer, louder, my chest lightening with each note.

  In the far distance her cousins answered. "Ahhhhrrwoooooooooo!"

  Chills ran from my toes to my scalp. The coyote dropped her head and stomped her paws, enticing me to play. I flicked her ear. She batted my leg. I playfully hopped away. Bat, hop, bat, hop. Fire pumped in my blood as we leapt around the camp ring, grinning, the flames dancing just for us. Laughter replaced the hollowness inside my chest. The corners of my mouth ached from smiling. And right then, despite what the future held, despite knowing I might die alone and cold and never found, I felt happy. Genuinely happy. I was lost in the woods, but I had found a piece of the real me. It took nearly twenty-eight years to taste adult freedom, which was not flavored with peace and contentment as the self-help books had always insisted. Nor was it the calm after a dreadful struggle. Freedom was feral. And primal. And made the blood pound in my veins like a war-song about my right to exist exactly as I was created. For the first time since childhood magic buzzed along my skin. I have no reason to suffer, I realized, then spread my arms to embrace the world and howled like a wild woman at the moon. "Arrrrrhwooooooooooo!"

  "Ahhhhrrwoooooooooo!" the coyote responded.

  "Arrrr—" A moth landed on my forefinger. I shrieked and slapped my hands together, guts and powder splattering my skin. My heartbeat raced; my body became rigid. Nothing moved in the woods but the shadows. Nothing sounded but the crackling flames.

  The coyote stood stiff, eyes glinting in the firelight. She began to whine. "It was just a moth," I told her. "The weather has warmed. They are coming out now, attracted to my fire." I swallowed hard. "It-it was just a moth."

  I wiped the moth's guts off on my pants, the bark of a tree, the outside wall of the mine. I scrubbed my hands with snow, but like the sap on my fingers its eyes stayed on me. Everything had changed with the flutter of its wings. Should I flee now? Or am I being paranoid? Night had fallen. I could trip and impale myself on a fallen branch, or break an ankle, or freeze to death. But such fates might be mercies compared with what lurked in the shadows.

  The fire that had fed and warmed me now lit up my campsite like a prison spotlight, transforming me into prey. Shadows spiked up the trees from the traitorous flames. My heart jumped with them.

  Stop freaking out, Miriam. It's just a stupid moth.

  Branches snapped behind me; I wheeled around. The coyote's ears pricked and the barred owl quit hooting. Winter coiled up my pant legs, prickling the hairs and making me shiver. My finger-joints ached from the cold. Will I ever know warmth again? Will I—? My stomach jumped into my throat. I'm beside the fire. My hands should be toasty, not covered in gooseflesh.

  The coyote crouched, hackles raised and whining. She then leapt into the woods and disappeared in the gloom. "Wait!" I pleaded. "Come back!"

  In the dark crept something darker, and I knew it wasn't just a shadow. I yanked a branch from the fire and held it like a baseball bat, embers flickering on the tip. My chest heaved. Warm breath deserted my lungs. The stars paled and the flames dimmed, as if the darkness gobbled up the light. For two minutes I heard only my shallow panting and the campfire's crackle. Then snow crunched in the darkness. Sticks snapped. Yips and howls volleyed in the woods. The racket grew farther and farther away until it became a rustle, then a whisper, then nothing. The branch shook in my hands, jingling the silver heart on my bracelet. White ash fluttered around me like a swarm of moths.

  My shadow danced wildly along the snow and trunks in the firelight, a demoniac possessed with fear. Wind soughed through the needles of the white pine trees. I strained to see the coyote in the forest or hear a see-me-I'm-here to know everything was safe. A moth flittered over the campfire, then disappeared into the darkness. A clump of spiders scurried out of the mine to chase after it.

  I peered into the night, tee
th chattering, eager to glimpse the darkling lurking around my campsite. Yes, it was dangerous. Yes, it could kill me. But it was also the first magical creature I knew of outside of the chickadee. Its existence proved I was not crazy or a liar or a woman lost to dreams. I had the insane urge to chase after it, to race through the woods like a barbarian, thorns tearing at my clothing, my blood pumping and my spirit free. I wanted to catch it, study it, learn its dark secrets. Whatever it happened to be.

  My shaky breath steamed in the frigid air, abandoning me for night's siren. The branch was slippery between my palms. How is it possible to sweat so much in this cold? I clawed at my memory for every self-defense move Sam had taught me in our kitchen. I hoped it would not come to that. I hoped the coyote had torn the darkling's throat out. How many hours until daybreak? Would a day's worth of hiking keep me ahead of the hunt?

  Ice water seeped into my marrow, welling up to fill my bones. I wheeled around to the mine and faced a solid shadow. I gasped, stumbling backwards. The shadowman stood six feet tall, its sword-like body cutting a grim silhouette in the firelight. I swung the burning branch. It whizzed through the darkling's featureless face and jarred my shoulder as it struck the ground in a flash of sparks.

  Darklings aren't solid. Relief washed over me. Whatever a darkling is, it can't hurt me physically.

  Then the darkling yanked the branch from my hand and hurled it into the trees, the embers hissing when it struck a patch of snow. Shadows coiled off its body, absorbing into the surrounding darkness like mercury. A man of starlight flesh now stood before me, his clothing and feathery hair as black as murder. I backed away, fists raised. The stranger matched my pace, moving as if he had stepped from a world of mink and violins and brimming decanters.

  "Hello, Miriam." The stranger's voice was as soft and dark as murmuring owls. His eyes shone on his pale face like two blood moons. "My name is Delano. I am excited to find you alone."