NG: “Us”?
FP: Today I have seen the Dragon …
NG: I’m having difficulty following, Mr. Pullman.
FP: I seen it. I seen the thing inside her.
NG: What do you mean? The thing inside who?
FP: The thing inside your little girl.
* * *
If Brooke Bluebell shook the hive, Lisa Willoughby was a fist straight through it. Like Brooke, Lisa was a Penrose native, but the animal responsible was still local. Because the body had been exposed several days, a species still could not be determined, but more baffling was the continuing lack of tracks. Tracks tell a story. They tell the story of who this animal is and what it wants and how this is interwoven with the fabric of its ecosystem. An animal of this size leaves tracks, it tells its story, it has no choice. But nature abhors a vacuum, and loose tongues were once more ready to fill it. Fear is a communicable disease; it comes out in the sweat and passes from host to host. Fear is an incendiary agent; it combusts with stupidity. An escaped circus animal, an escaped lunatic, Sasquatch, a secret alien experiment, a secret White Tower experiment, werewolves. Shelley Godfrey.
On November 5 Roman caught two boys tormenting his sister in the ninth-grade locker section. She was sitting on the ground with her head between her knees moaning and drooling miserably as a crowd watched the boys leaning over her. Who tasted better—Did you do it fast or slow—Who’s next—Who’s next—
Roman elbowed his way through the Sworn twins and there was a hush as he stood, his green Godfrey eyes were hard candy. The boys backed into the lockers, vainly and stupidly protesting their innocence. Roman looked at his sister on the ground. Her head was still bowed forward and her massive humped shoulders were shaking. He looked into the eyes of the second boy and in a tone striking for its reason said, “Kiss him. Kiss his pretty little mouth.”
The second boy took his friend and drew their lips together. The first boy sent an indignant fist to his suitor’s ear. Roman braced one foot against the lockers and helped Shelley up as the two boys wrestled on the ground, the first a flurry of knees and nails against the other’s unyielding advances. Shelley and the lights above her flickered asynchronously.
As recess closed, Roman approached Peter, who stood at the side of the building humming a current R & B chart hit and carving a lewd glyph into the brick face with a razor appropriated from bio. The news of the second girl had come as no surprise to him, only the length of time it had taken to come out. He knew now what was happening, or at least enough to know how much he’d rather think about just about anything else, but of course that would now require shaking the upir from his tail.
“Powwow,” said Roman.
The bell rang and they went to the basketball court and sat against the chain-link fence, sending several pigeons in flight.
“Are you … sure it wasn’t you?” said Roman.
“I never go out on an empty stomach,” said Peter.
“You got any grass?” said Roman.
Peter dug a joint from his pocket.
“It wasn’t me either,” said Roman.
“I know,” said Peter.
Roman masked his dejection at not remaining a suspect. He pointed to the pavement, indicating the ground, underneath the ground. “Do you think it’s—”
“No,” said Peter. “That’s something … weirder.”
“Weirder how?”
Peter shrugged and lit the joint. Roman knew he knew more than what he was saying and Peter took some pleasure in allowing the moment to stretch.
“Vargulf,” he said.
“What?” said Roman.
“Vargulf,” said Peter. “A wolf will only attack if it’s hungry, or provoked. If it’s normal. A vargulf is a wolf that’s gone insane.”
“Insane how?” said Roman.
“Doesn’t eat what it kills,” said Peter. “It isn’t the way. It’s a disease.”
“You’re sure that’s what this is?” said Roman.
Peter passed the joint to Roman, nodding. He had sensed it the first moon and the latest came across its scent station but could not make hide nor hair of the discovery; it was unlike anything he had ever encountered; it communicated nothing of the other wolf’s sex or intentions, it just smelled … angry.
“Is it someone you know?” said Roman.
“I never knew any others except Nicolae. But this is a strange town. You can feel it in your balls.”
Roman nodded. He tilted his head back and exhaled smoke.
“So I guess now we find him,” said Roman.
Peter didn’t follow. “Who?”
“The vargulf,” said Roman.
Peter didn’t follow. “Why?”
“To make him stop,” said Roman.
Peter laughed.
“Do not laugh at me,” said Roman, meaning it more than any other thing he could say.
“Sorry,” said Peter.
“He ripped a girl in half,” said Roman.
Peter was quiet. And?
Roman was reluctant now, how best to explain. “Have you ever heard of the Order of the Dragon?” he said.
Peter looked at him. This better be good.
“It was a group of knights from the Crusades. My mom used to tell us stories.”
Peter looked at him, but more so.
“I … I’ve always wanted to be a warrior,” said Roman.
Peter came to the silent conclusion that this conference was about to jump several echelons of his Hierarchy.
Roman flicked a pebble and it skittered just short of the foul line. He silently counted the parallelograms formed by the overlaying diamonds of the opposite basketball net. It was difficult for him, admitting it. He’d never talked about it, even with Letha.
“Have you ever attacked anyone?” he said. “As the wolf?”
“No,” said Peter.
“Have you ever … wanted to?”
“I’ve never had a reason to.”
“I’ve never believed in God,” said Roman in the too-fast blurt of an illicit confession.
“And Nicolae to his dying day didn’t believe that squirrels don’t hatch from eggs,” said Peter, using calculated glibness as a derailer. He was not comfortable with this degree of intimacy. He did not like where this was going. The layers of outer affectation peeled away to reveal the other boy’s inner need. His need that he thought Peter could somehow meet. The only thing that scared Peter off more than other people’s needs was a cage, though in the end what was the difference?
Roman continued heedless. “I see things sometimes,” he said. “I see these … shadows that I don’t always know if they’re real or not.”
So there you had it. Behind that aloof and mercurial façade was a battle, and he had to decide the outcome: Was he the hero or the villain? And so what could be more black-and-white than a quest to slay the monster that was terrorizing the countryside? Wow. Peter didn’t want to touch that with your dick.
“Roman,” said Peter, “maybe this is the kind of thing you should be talking about with the guidance counselor.”
Roman didn’t say anything for a while.
“Do you think you could leave me alone now?” he said.
Peter stood and walked off the court, glancing behind him once at Roman’s thin back against the distended fence.
A Very Hirsute Young Man
After school Peter lay shirtless in the hammock, idly listening to his iPod and stroking the dark hair under his navel. He felt uncharacteristic stirrings of remorse. Of course it would be the nobler thing to offer the upir some kind of support, but Peter was generally suspicious of his nobler impulses. And though he regretted the pain this vargulf was causing, and would continue to in all likelihood before its inevitable self-termination, pain was as much a part of this life as the summer and the winter and the rain, and there was no greater asshole than the one who believed you can cure it. That you ought to. Peter did not consider himself a defeatist, but Nicolae had taught him not to
scratch where it doesn’t itch, and he had a highly evolved sense of what was and was not his problem.
He heard the sound of tires on the gravel lane and looked up to see the approach of a sheriff’s cruiser. He removed the headphones and got up as it parked in the drive and Neck and Nose emerged from the car, followed by a petite black woman in jeans and a turtleneck. Not a cop. She appeared as blandly unwelcome as a juvie shrink or any of the social workers who were no stranger to the Rumanceks’ door. But there are frogs deadlier than sharks and she smelled no less sweet than a brewing storm like trouble.
“Peter Rumancek?” said Nose.
“Hello, officers,” said Peter in a friendly voice loud enough for Lynda to hear inside and dispose of anything better disposed of.
“Having a nice nap there, young Peter?” said Neck.
“Yes sir,” said Peter.
“That’s the life, nice little afternoon nappy-poo, isn’t it, Pete?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, we’ll try not to take up too much of your time here. Just a little word, if it’s not imposing.” He drew out the syllable pose in a faux British intonation.
“Yes sir.”
The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. Peter was below average height for his age, and she barely came to his chin. She glanced at his torso.
“You’re a very hirsute young man, aren’t you?” she said.
“You’d have to tell me what hirsute means, ma’am,” said Peter.
There was a flush inside and then Lynda appeared in the doorway. Peter glanced over and gave a discreet head shake not to worry. Yet.
“It means, forgive me for saying so, furry,” she said.
“Oh. Guilty, ma’am. We Rumanceks generate very healthy amounts of testosterone.”
Neck snickered.
“That’s good,” she said. “Peter, my name is Dr. Chasseur, and I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”
“Well gee, ma’am, I didn’t realize I was that hairy.”
Neck guffawed.
“No, no,” said Chasseur. “I just … well, hello.”
Fetchit was rubbing up against her ankles with amorous insistence. She lowered to his haunches and scratched his ears.
She looked up at Peter from the crouch. “I’m here regarding the animal attacks.”
Peter’s balls twitched.
“Any theories yourself on that score?” she said.
“No ma’am. But I’ve heard some good ones.”
“I bet you have.” She rose and regarded him amiably. “I suppose you aren’t by any chance a werewolf, Peter?”
“Beg pardon?” said Peter. Some of the old tongue’s more imaginative curses flashed behind his eyes.
“When the moon is full, do you walk in the skin of a wolf?”
“No sir,” he said. “Ma’am,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Now that’s settled.”
“Could I possibly ask … why, ma’am?”
“Do you know Christina Wendall?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
“And you know she was the one who discovered Lisa Willoughby.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Can you think of any reason she might have to believe you were a werewolf, Peter?”
Peter thought fast. “Because I told her. Ma’am.”
“Was there a particular reason you told her?”
“Well … because she asked.”
“Was there a particular reason she asked?”
“My middle and index fingers are the same length.” He held out his hand palm forward. Neck whistled.
“And this is an attribute of werewolfism?” said Chasseur.
“I thought it meant you were a lesbian,” said Neck.
“I believe you’re actually referring to a greater discrepancy between the length of the index and ring fingers in homosexual women indicating higher levels of androgen,” said Chasseur. Back to Peter: “So this means you’re a werewolf.”
“She seemed to think so, ma’am. But I’m not really an expert on your whole werewolf/lesbian situation.”
“Then you continue to deny all werewolf allegations?”
“Yes ma’am. There’s no such thing, ma’am.”
“And you really believe that, Peter?”
“I thought it was scientific fact, ma’am.”
“Proving a negative is a misuse of both the terms science and fact, Peter.”
He pinched his fingers. “I thought it was just this close to scientific fact, ma’am.”
She nodded. “Have you ever heard the term clinical lycanthropy, Peter?” she asked. Every time she used his name it was putting a pat of butter on a slice of botulism.
“No ma’am.”
“It describes a condition that causes the subject to believe he or she is a werewolf—and act accordingly.”
“It takes all kinds to make a world, ma’am.”
“Did you know either Lisa Willoughby or Brooke Bluebell?”
“No ma’am.”
“What were you and Roman Godfrey doing at Kilderry Park the night of October second?” demanded Nose.
“We were catching fireflies, sir.”
Nose glowered, but a quick glance from the woman censured his natural retaliatory bullying instinct. Peter, who had been in his day a person of interest to an assortment of law enforcement agencies, wondered (among other things) what gave a specialist from the Fish and Wildlife Service such a calmly confident and dexterous technique in the questioning of a human person.
“Does Roman Godfrey think he’s a werewolf?” said Chasseur.
“I don’t have his power of attorney,” said Peter.
“Hazard a guess.”
“I would guess not.”
Fetchit began toying with Nose’s shoelace and Nose glared down at the sass from this quarter.
Peter scooped the cat in his arms.
“Cat person?” said Chasseur.
“All creatures great and small, ma’am.” He kissed the cat to rest his case and it squirmed from his grasp, having more pressing things to do than receive freely offered affection.
After the conclusion of the interview Peter waited until the crunch of the cruiser was well up the lane before going inside, slipping on a sweater, and telling his mother not to wait up. She said to pick up some bread and some cigarettes and to watch himself. He said, “I will.”
A Few Other Adjectives
Godfrey House was a massive and utilitarian Georgian Colonial that overlooked the river on the summit of the highest hill in town, the province of management, and had the appearance to those below of a squat, blunt, and obscurely disapproving tusk. The property was enclosed on three sides by a forest of red oaks containing a population of occluded and vaguely horned shapes calling a low and sporadic hoo hoo … hoo hoo … In the circular drive was Roman’s Jaguar and a black Ford F-150 pickup truck. A light was on in the attic. Peter rang the doorbell and Roman’s mother answered. She was wearing a white robe and her hair was damp and she moved and also stood still like milk being poured under the full moon, and though she would have had neither time nor purpose to apply cosmetics after bathing, her lips were a shock red that in their present purse of distaste caused within Peter’s privatemost circuitry a sudden and confusing crossfiring at how arousing and simultaneously dick-shriveling this apparition was. He tried to envision Shelley Godfrey emerging from … that. Nicolae had told him the world of the upir was a strange and confusing one to a simple wolf man. Peter could think of a few other adjectives.
“Yes?” said Olivia in a tone suggesting he ought to be grateful she had not perforce closed the door on his nose. But it was not yet outside the realm of possibility.
“Is Roman here?” said Peter.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Peter. We’re in the same English class.”
“May I ask in regard to what?”
“Study group,” he said.
“Mm.” This
syllable communicating her internal debate over whether to notify her son or the authorities.
“I’ll inform him,” she said. A moment’s consideration. “You can come in.”
Peter waited in the foyer as she withdrew down the hall. On one wall was an aged and chipping painting of a grotesquely fat cherub, layered rolls of dimpled fat, wings comically small, and smiling mouth smeared with chocolate. Maybe chocolate. On the other was a large framed photograph of an engorged and multi-hued hermaphrodite’s vulva. Peter’s eyebrows knotted. No—it was a flower, a close-up image of the stamen and stigma of a flame tulip. Peter was still entranced by this intricate arboreal obscenity when Roman appeared alone.
“Yeah?” he said, with the cold aloofness of a scorned woman.
“Powwow,” said Peter.
Roman led him to his room, which was nearly the footage of Peter’s trailer. On the door was a picture of a crucifix with a serpent wrapped around it. The serpent’s tail was in its mouth. Otherwise there was an almost total lack of decoration, except mounted to the wall a train car coupling link, an old oblong of warped and rusted steel. Which despite its meager appearance Peter immediately knew without being told was the most valuable thing Roman owned.
“Well?” said Roman, with the cold, aloof satisfaction of a scorned woman to whom you’ve come crawling back.
“Development,” said Peter. He described to Roman the afternoon’s encounter.
Roman evaluated the story with a noncommittal expression. “So? The Wendall girl totally flipped out. They can’t be taking it seriously.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Peter. “This woman is what she says she is like a Mexican hates fireworks.”
Roman nodded, what insult he may have felt about their earlier meeting losing traction to this new intrigue.
“What is she?” he said.
“She’s a digger,” said Peter.
Roman shrugged. What of it? “The only people who really know what you are are your mom and me.” He grew defensive. “And I know how to button up.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” said Peter, lying: half his reason in coming was to keep the upir from running off at the mouth.
Hemlock Grove Page 6
