The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq

by Jack Dey

  *~*~*~*

  By the time the Deputy Clayton Jackson arrived from the Sue’s Bridge Sheriff’s Office, Cutter and Mother Teresa were sitting around the guard’s desk, laughing about the mix up. Everyone knew Cutter as Cutter and no one knew his real name. Nancy Jessop was no exception and she apologised profusely when Cutter rang to clear up the misunderstanding.

  The guard had been so enchanted by Cutter’s charismatic stories that he forgot to cancel the call for help to Sue’s Bridge police and Deputy Jackson was just a little ticked off when he arrived.

  Jackson eyed Cutter suspiciously and thought, Since when does a minister ride a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy, tattooed on both arms and wear a cut-off denim jacket and well worn black denim jeans, looking more like an escapee, than a minister of religion?

  Something in his appearance was familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, even after questioning the man. As Deputy Jackson turned his squad car for home, the haunting feeling wouldn’t leave him but whatever it was about the man stayed buried in his deep subconscious.

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 51

  As the boom gate lowered behind him, a knot tightened in Cutter’s stomach, once again feeling the foreboding, institutional walls gather about and close in, trapping him into a memory... a nightmare memory.

  A stab of insecurity shuddered through him as he remembered faces and names of rabid prisoners determined to settle a score, even after he’d met the Lord, been forgiven and cleaned up his life. But through the glasses of hatred and evil, these faces chose to overlook the changes in him and only became more determined to finish him off.

  Prison for the impressive biker was a constant round of survival fights, forced into a fight-or-flight mentality while every dark corner hid a new lurking threat. The Lord had sheltered him under His powerful wings and taught Cutter to love and not hate in return. Eventually the rabid faces lost interest, thinking the biker had lost his nerve and to some degree, left him alone. When he’d learnt the lessons he had been incarcerated for, Jesus released him from prison back into civilian life; and a different round of prejudice began in earnest at the hands of people who should’ve known better.

  In the years it took to readjust to civilian life, the Holy Spirit became Cutter’s closest, constant friend, encouraging and teaching him Jesus’ ways and how to react to the trials his new life threw at him. As a result, Cutter acted as the Spirit led, sometimes seemingly foolishly walking where angels feared to tread, but always the consequences were incredible and life-changing for those the Spirit touched through the eccentric man.

  Before Cutter was released from prison, he had studied divinity through an online Bible college and after his release, was reluctantly accepted as a graduate pastor and assigned to Sue’s Bridge Community Church.

  A movement behind him shook the memories from his mind and he concentrated instead on the image of the guard, Mother Teresa, reflected and waving in his wing mirror. In an appreciative response, he lifted his hand above his head and waved back in a friendly gesture to his new found friend.

  Accompanied by a wall of noise, Cutter coaxed the Fat Boy along the paved and kerbed driveway, bordered on each side by rich green pasturelands and adorned with a row of sprawling trees on each side, shading the road from the morning heat. Through the trees and as the Fat Boy gained speed, Cutter could see the flickering image of an imposing three-storey, red brick building filling his view as the distance grew increasingly shorter.

  The road suddenly inclined sharply and turned back on itself in a tight hairpin leading to the hospital car park. The unexpected incline required a burst from the Fat Boy’s throttle–announcing to all, Cutter’s arrival, with a stuttering galumph from the engine–at the same time rattling the institution’s windows in an apocalyptic decree and disturbing the uneasy silence surrounding the sombre building. Three animated throttle-ups further rocked the building and drew dazed attention from the windows behind him. The flick of a key silenced the impressive machine, causing the exhaust to complain, crackling in the silence as the shiny metal cooled.

  Cutter dismounted the Fat Boy, staring up at the monolithic building blocking his view while he removed the dog-bowl from his head and threaded his fingers through his wavy red hair, trying to straighten the indents that were normally left by his unusual helmet. A figure in a green hospital gown, waving enthusiastically from a third floor window, caught Cutter’s eye. He smiled and gesticulated with a hearty wave back, causing a beaming grin in return almost audible through the window, just before someone ushered the figure away.

  *~*~*~*

  A small, stern woman in a white uniform stared up at Cutter’s unusual attire, big exposed arms and distasteful tattoos, challenging his very existence with menacing hazel eyes. The sterile clinical surrounds, guards and booming doors punctuated by jangling keys and stubborn locks, created a numbing effect in Cutter until the woman spoke.

  The high pitched threatening whine seemed out of place coming from a human being, but the voice meant business and what it articulated demanded complete obedience.

  “My name is Rita Cavalier–Doctor... Rita Cavalier–and I am the superintendent of Bairnsworth, Mr...?”

  “Cutter... my name is Cutter... Associate Pastor Cutter.”

  The questioning gaze from the woman held his with the intensity of a microwave receiver, searching for signs of treachery and if the glare detected even a fleeting indication of a perceived misdemeanour, the hazel eyes would hone in and take the owner to task.

  “I will assume, Mr Cutter, that you have a civilised name and not just a pseudo-acronym hiding a jaded life of less than conducive activities and experiences.”

  Cutter’s eyes were twinkling with delight at the disciplinarian and when she caught the mischievous glint in his eyes, a warm softness pervaded her body and she had to fight hard to regain control of a rogue smile that threatened to dethrone her stern demeanour.

  “I will remind you, Pastor... Cutter, this is an institution for the criminally and mentally unstable. You may interact with the patients in the television room and nowhere else, but you will not leave the area without express permission from me and should the unlikely event of an incident arise, you must leave Bairnsworth immediately. I might add, you are in a position of trust, as your chosen vocation would indicate. So what happens inside Bairnsworth, stays within Bairnsworth. Do you understand me, sir?”

  Cutter’s gaze locked onto the purposefully hard hazel eyes again, but this time there was no sign of compassion and seemingly she had regained her stone facade, eager to keep it firmly in place.

  The biker just nodded down at the small woman, acutely aware of why the board had chosen her to be superintendent.

  “Allan!” the squeaky voice demanded.

  Soon a large male arrived, dressed in white tee shirt and long white trousers. “Yes, Doctor Cavalier.”

  “Pastor Cutter, this is Allan; he is one of our many... moderators. Allan, please take the good pastor to meet the patients in the TV room and also explain the hospital routine. One last thing, Mr Cutter, every room is monitored by closed circuit cameras.” The woman pointed up to the ceiling at a dome and then continued, “My eyes are everywhere, Mr Cutter; we can only assume your presence here will not cause us any difficulty.”

  The threat was devised to invoke total obedience from her subordinates and Cutter understood her full meaning.

  “I am here to offer assistance and the love of Christ, Doctor Cavalier, not challenge anyone’s authority.”

  The twinkle was back in Cutter’s eyes but this time, Doctor Cavalier looked away, avoiding another disarming confrontation and turned on her heels to leave.

  *~*~*~*

  The green pastureland gave way to an array of untidy buildings on the outskirts of Sue’s Bridge, a part of town Deputy Jackson knew well and visited often in his duties as a law enforcement officer. Bairnsworth’s urgent alarm call had interrupted the daily routine at the county sheriff’
s office and sent stretched police resources scuttling to cover the emergency. Jackson could still hear the panicked voice of the dispatcher fending off a verbal attack as the sheriff bellowed in his ear, blaming him for the waste of resources and mistakenly carried across the police communication air waves, after Jackson reported in the false alarm from Bairnsworth.

  Deputy Jackson felt unsettled at his inability to place the face and description of the biker, but somewhere in the deep places of his memory the biker was familiar and the frustration only mounted by the absence of recognition.

  It wasn’t long before the entrance to the running track passed by Jackson’s police car window on his way back to the sheriff’s office, causing his mind to drift back to Bayer’s disappearance. It had been three days since Bayer was last seen and forensics had been tight-lipped over the evidence, citing a leak to the media as reason for their secrecy and it seemed that the sheriff was the only one with knowledge of Bayer’s case and he was tight-lipped too. Jackson knew that the dispatcher, Miles Cleaver, was the leak but Jackson wasn’t asked for his opinion by the powers that be, so he kept his mouth shut, trying to shield a colleague for their impetuousness.

  The only information Jackson had was that the running track would be closed for several days while an investigation team set up an unofficial crime scene and scoured the area, searching for clues. Even though Kirt Ballard relentlessly hassled the police for information, nothing had been released formally and most of the town’s folk treated his news reports with the usual hilarity.

  Jackson’s mind jolted as he tried to recall the description given by a victim of an attack on the running track the night before Bayer went missing. Suddenly he was in a hurry to confirm a suspicion and as he drove into the police parking lot, he shoved the automatic transmission into park before the vehicle had come to a complete stop, causing the vehicle to rock on the transmission’s parking pawl; then he threw the car door open and hurried into the office looking for Cleaver and finding the dispatcher with his back to him, he excitedly began his speech.

  “Hey, Cleaver, what was that description given by the running track victim?!”

  Cleaver turned to face Jackson with a telephone pressed to his ear, trying to hold a conversation while silencing Jackson’s interruption with a stern finger held in the air.

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 52

  As he turned the piece of paper over and over in his hands, a turbulent electric current surged through Jaimon’s brain and lit a feverish fire in his emotions, burning out of control and flashing into his stomach and chest while constricting his heart and stealing his breath away. Monette had cornered him on the way to his final class for the day and handed him the address. He couldn’t get the image of her wanton smile out of his mind and the way her graceful body filled his senses, teasing him with her allure and the promise of something more.

  The last class of the day was a total loss trying to concentrate on normality as instead, he found himself tripped up by the unabashed flirting of a temptress. Every direction he turned an image of the smiling girl pulled at his imagination, making his temples throb and his head ache with each pounding beat of his heart, cascading and stimulated by Monette’s soft voice and clear brown eyes burnt indelibly into the recesses of his young brain. In the confines of his adolescent mind, a battle between decency and possibility raged, consuming his thoughts. One moment rationality reigned and he screwed the piece of paper into a tight ball, intent on disposal and then in another, a powerful surge of animal lust forced him to retrieve the crumpled instruction and iron out the creases with a violently shaking hand.

  It was as if a storm of voices argued, competing for his consciousness: one laced with a whispered warning, but overpowered and drowned out by a louder, more imposing tone, pulling and igniting his mind into a fantasy of disturbing passion. Monette had lured him and now she was setting the hook firmly, ready to lead him into a harrowing place of darkness where anything was possible, but escape was impossible.

  Although he knew she was way out of his league, he felt powerless to fight the siren’s pull and the schoolboy desires she had ignited in him. Tingling pulsed up and down his body, craving her touch and desperate to own her, zealously excluding every other human being from occupying even a moment of her time. The overpowering urge only heightened as he recalled her shameless flirting aimed directly at him, mesmerising him with her big, hypnotic brown eyes, perfect white teeth and dazzling red lips. Drawing him into her web like a lamb to the slaughter and helpless to resist.

  Jaimon stared blankly from the back row of his English lesson, watching the teacher opening and closing her mouth in a steady monotone but he couldn’t hear a word she was saying. His emotions and boy-like imaginings were on a rollercoaster ride and hormones further fanned the flames of adolescent desire. His heart raced again and he began to sweat as he held Monette’s note concealed in the palm of his hand.

  The final war siren suddenly warbled across the high school campus, alerting students and teachers alike that the day had finally exhausted itself, spilling weary students into echoing hallways and filling the exits with chattering, homebound escapees. Jaimon waited for the classroom to empty, feeling giddy and sure that his unchecked desires were in plain sight for all to read.

  Then an unwelcome voice broke into his fantasy world with the subtlety of a thunderclap, causing him to crumple the note in his hand with a reflexive, protective reaction.

  “Are you feeling alright, Jaimon? You look awfully red,” the voice called from the front of the room while she meandered along the vacant row down towards his desk in the emptying classroom.

  Embarrassment began to gnaw at his conscience, assured the older woman could see his unrestrained thoughts and he answered her with a guilty stutter, “Y..yes, just feeling a bit hot that’s all; I’ll be alright in a minute.”

  Charged with confined, explosive passion and his safety valve boiling dangerously, Jaimon jumped from his chair before the teacher could draw closer and knocked it backwards with his hasty movements, grabbing at his school bag at the same time and then bolting for the door and freedom. He didn’t want to explain the real reasons for his appearance and the closer the adult woman drew, the more repulsed he became with his thoughts and her unwelcome intrusion into his private, sordid world.

  In a hurry to escape the woman, he almost ran over the top of Salena waiting patiently in the corridor for him and knocked her heavily to the ground.

  “Whoa, dude, what’s the hurry?!” she complained, her voice strongly miffed by his actions but trying to act calm, untangling her feet and hands from her school bag while Jaimon grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her from the floor, back to her feet.

  Salena was just the catalyst he needed and her unattractive appearance melted away the strong emotions and distracted the bubbling fantasy that Monette had set in place to torment him all that afternoon. Jaimon turned to face the classroom door, searching for the teacher. Satisfied she wasn’t anywhere in sight, he dragged Salena, protesting bitterly, along the deserted corridor and swiftly towards the exit.

  With the powerful memories of Monette disabling his logical mind he needed some form of clarity, and Salena’s advice on Monette’s invitation was the wisdom he searched for. After all, his best friend was a girl and she would understand how they think.

  *~*~*~*

  Salena perched her skinny frame on the fallen tree, still nursing her bruises but amused at Jaimon’s agitated pacing. With her small index finger, she forced a ginger lock from obscuring her deeply freckled face, hooking the itinerant straw behind an impish earlobe and prohibiting it from blocking her cloudy view of the gibbering boy.

  She tilted her head to one side, reading the directions written neatly upon the crumpled paper while a crooked smile broke out across her face, revealing a set of brown, decaying teeth. The small figure had to measure her thoughts and form her words fastidiously before allowing them access to the ears of her pacing companio
n, still in awe that a basic tactic could deliver such a grandiose reaction.

  The surrounding bush offered complete obscurity from passersby, but their voices still carried into the protective enclosure, prompting a cautious whisper from Jaimon until the threat had dispersed.

  “Well... what do you make of it, Salena?” Jaimon‘s impatient question demanded an answer.

  “What do you want me to make of it, Bob?” Salena’s dry response confounded the agitated boy.

  Jaimon sighed loudly, not impressed with her explanation. “You’re a girl; what does she intend by this? Does she like me or is she just...?”

  “It’s not what she intends, dude, it’s how you interpret it,” Salena replied, watching the tormented boy.

  The vacant, glaring response told her Jaimon hadn’t a clue and that the next phase of his education would be swift and brutal. Salena sighed a knowing sigh. The oldest trick in the book was to place a siren in front of an unsuspecting male, give him a bit of a suggestive provocation and the response was always typically the same. She wished, just once, that the schmuck could see through the trick and call the siren’s bluff.

  “Listen, dude, I would say by the way this Monette dumped Rositer, she is curious as to how powerful you really are and if you have anything she can use.”

  “Use...?!” Jaimon retorted.

  “Yeah, dude, use!” Salena sounded almost incredulous and annoyed, aware she was walking on thin ice and that Jaimon’s player was listening, but at the same time, sure Jaimon hadn’t understood her meaning.

  “Look, Bob, the note is inviting you to a party at Monette’s place. It’s up to you whether you go or not. A word of advice: if you intend to go, just remember the player will want some action and he will be very unstable and unpredictable, so forget trying to control him. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but there may be other surfers at the party too and they may have more powerful players looking for a showdown.”