by Star, Amy
“Not yet, but I left it with Chris. I guess… it’s not the most reliable piece of equipment,” she said, and stood up. “In the meantime, I thought I’d try and take care of the garden… you men really don’t have much of a green thumb, do you?”
He stepped through the gate and gave the garden a pitiable expression. She saw his look and giggled under her breath, and he approached her and wrapped his arms around her stomach from behind, nuzzling his face against the top of her head. A sweet smell lingered, some sort of flower, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what that flower might look like. He was worried, for a moment, that she might flinch, or try to escape his embrace. Not too long ago, she had been confused, distant and aloof, all emotions he knew too well, and all predicated on their marriage.
But she only sighed, and seemed to relax against his chest, even as his hands trailed over her belly, pulling her closer into him. He felt her straighten her back and push her buttocks against his groin. He made a grumbling sound that was half-way a laugh and slipped his fingers an inch under the rim of her waistband on her shorts, causing her to giggle.
“Careful, Chris might hear us…” she said, and then corrected herself, “or… me, anyway.”
“Let him,” he whispered into her ear,. “He knows full well what is expected of us. If he didn’t hear us the first time, he certainly won’t hear us this time.”
“He’s awake this time,” she japed him, “and this time it’s in the daylight.”
She twirled in his grasp until she was facing him and wrapped her arms around his head but instead of kissing him, she merely stared at him, matching his eyes to hers. He felt suddenly naked, more naked than he’d even been, as she gazed at him, into him, as if puzzled by something she had caught on the periphery of her vision. He reminded himself that people usually couldn’t hold eye contact for more than twelve seconds and began to count down, but by time he’d reached fifteen, he knew there was something more.
“What is it? What are you looking for?” he teased her coyly, but kept his eyes fastened to hers.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, “some way to make sense of what I’m feeling. It’s hard…”
“Hard?”
She bit her lip and finally broke contact, dropping to her knees again to pick up the wicker basket. “What am I to you? I think that’s what I’ve been wanting to ask… but it sounds so… stilted, so artificial, so day-time-drama, to actually ask it out loud,” she laughed at her own analogy, “and I know you’re going to feel stupid answering it.”
“I…”
“But,” she interrupted him quickly, putting a finger to his lips. He shuddered at her touch. “… I don’t want you to answer this without thinking. I think… I think if you’re not careful, the answer will really hurt me. Which is okay, if it’s the truth… but…”
“Sarah,” he said. How to explain what he himself had no words for? His fist clenched and the pectoral muscle for that hand suddenly tightened. “Okay. I’ll think… I’ll wait. But I already know the answer, even if you won’t let me speak it now.”
She smiled at his stubbornness and took a step toward him, her small breasts gently scraping against his chest through her tank-top, and she angled her head toward him and kissed him lightly on the mouth. As she pulled away, it was impossible to conceal the pained look in her eyes, which were also at once full of a kind of pity that unnerved him. What does she pity about me, he wondered. That I was forced to make a choice between so many women, and chose her? That I have to suffer the consequences, the danger I’ve put her in now that she’s here? Or is it something simpler, something we both share in common – a loss of orientation, a compass without a bearing?
He lowered his head and said no more, even as she turned back to her work in the garden, shoving her hands into the soil’s dark complicity of worms and humus, as if he hadn’t been there at all. Disgruntled, but also shaken by her ultimatum, he walked inside and splashed cold water on his face. From the other room he heard a series of rattling curses. No doubt Chris trying to get the satellite phone to work.
Even if they could get a signal to the mainland, there was no guarantee that help would be sent quickly. He looked back out the main window and saw Sarah through the smudged pane, kneeling and plucking weeds from the garden beds. She was doing everything she could to keep busy, and in keeping busy, she was averting that circular pattern of thinking that had condemned Dylan. Smarter than me, he observed. He needed to keep himself busy, too.
He looked back out at the open acreage. If the poachers returned, they needed to be ready. Time to put some of that hard-earned training to use, he decided, and slapped another splash of cold water onto his face.
CHAPTER SIX
Arthur idled the small outboard motor at a steady pace. Sitting in the front of the boat with his rifle slung casually over one shoulder, Kyle had his camo jacket zipped to the neck and the hood thrown over, probably more to hide his scowl than to protect against the spatter of ocean that occasionally threw up over the side of the boat. But he came, nonetheless, Arthur thought to himself, hunched down with one hand on the rudder. Up ahead, the island loomed in the dying of the light. Already his trawler, the Pygmalion, would be half-way back to the mainland by now with Sean at the controls. He let his thoughts drift with the gravity of the situation back to Kieran, his son.
The cuffs of his shirt under his jacket were now dry with Kieran’s blood, and he prayed to whatever god was left to him that he’d make it through the night. The son of a bitch bear had nearly disemboweled him, and even if Kieran did survive, in what capacity? He’d have a hell of a scar, in any case. You just do what you gotta do and live, he thought to himself, trying to will the words in his head to reach Kieran telepathically, or else by some method of connection that tied them through a common blood. You live, and I’ll make sure the bastard that done you pays, he thought, muttering the last bit aloud under his breath.
The splashing of waves and the roar of the engine drowned him out, so he whispered it to himself again, louder, but not enough for Kyle to hear him. It became a kind of mantra for him, a way to fuel his anger, keep it burning as hot as the bullet he intended to put between the old grizzly’s eyes. The very one who had – no, he mustn’t think that way – killed his only son.
He grit his teeth, felt the enamel wearing down under the pressure, and spit viciously into the ocean. Up ahead, Kyle turned back, a bored look on his face, the kind that belonged to men who had experienced the weather too long, and now merely huddled under it, offering small silent prayers for its mercy.
“Comin’ in,” Kyle barked, “you wanna make for that north shore? Looks sandy enough… I don’t fancy getting ripped to shreds on those cliffs, not before we’ve finished this fool hardy mission of yours.”
Fool hardy yourself, Arthur wanted to snap back, you didn’t have to come. But Kyle would have anyway. It wasn’t so much that he shared Arthur’s taste for revenge, it didn’t even wholly have to do with some misguided sense of loyalty or sentiment. No, there was another layer to Kyle that he was hiding under the veil of an obligatory duty to Arthur.
Both of them had seen the bear Arthur shot – and then, the muscular naked man it had become when they arrived on shore. Since Sean and Kieran had departed, he had taken a chance and whispered to Kyle about the rumors of shifters, creatures in Native lore that could change their shapes at will, becoming animals or trees, even rocks, or the very waves they were sailing over.
Kyle scoffed at the notion, as Arthur figured he would, but he’d come along anyway. Incredible legends and make-believe monsters heard over campfires were one thing. But when you actually came upon such a fable, in the flesh, it was time to reevaluate what was possible in this world. Kyle was going through a metaphysical crisis. Let him, Arthur mused, I’m past that now. Just let me see the bastard… bear or man, or both… that cut my boy, and I’ll skin the fucker with my bare hands if I have to.
The promise of revenge in his ima
gination tasted bittersweet. For him, it was a kind of duty, something that he equated, on a primal level, with his own perception of manhood. There was nothing particularly pleasant about the notion of revenge, for him it was more about justice. A balancing of opposing forces, some imaginary status quo. At the same time, he couldn’t deny another basic instinct, a kind of giddy preoccupation with the hunt, with looming vantage that power gave him.
He nodded at Kyle’s suggestion and gently turned the outboard toward the sandy shore. The waves increased as they neared, and he saw Kyle grip both sides of the boat to support it. Already the light was dying, and instead of stars, he saw only a blurred halo where the moon was perfectly bisected. Cloud cover was marching in, a thunderous black cohort, and he swore to himself. The only thing that could spoil revenge was rain.
Kyle hopped out into the ankle deep water and hauled the boat up on the sand, even as Arthur stepped out as well and burdened himself with the dark green backpack. They’d have to make camp soon, preferably somewhere near the giant pinnacle of rock and vegetation that was the island’s highest point. From there, it would be a perfect base to reconnoiter the island.
“Kyle, keep your ears sharp. We don’t want to surprise them, not before we have to,” he glowered, slinging his own rifle onto his back, “and let’s hide this boat for Chrissakes.”
For as long as he’d known him, Kyle had always been an astute hunter, an even warier person back in the throng of civilization. He lacked the sort of leadership mentality that Arthur attributed to himself, which was more a mixture of charisma and intimidation that forced those around him to do his bidding with a kind of wordless awe and muted contention. No, Kyle was not a leader, only because no one ever seemed to follow him. He was a loner, but of a caliber that set him apart from other loners, because he was able to survive it.
“Aye,” Kyle said bluntly, lugging one end of the rope over his shoulder and struggling without complaint up the shore, the outboard coughing over the rough sand and gravel.
When they’d finally marched through the dark thicket to the base of the outcrop, it was quite dark, and a fine rain had started in, sparking on the leaves and turning the pathless wilderness to a mire. Finally, inside the cramped canvas tent, the two men dumped their gear, save for their rifles.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, in the middle of the night? I’ve done night hunting, Art… it’s not pretty, and less than successful. Animals can hear you a mile off, even in the rain.”
“We’re not hunting just animals,” Arthur reminded him grimly, which shut Kyle up.
Reluctantly, the younger, skinnier man followed him out into the rain which was increasing, leveling with a head-wind that was spiraling from the north, adding an extra chill to its grip. Both men ducked their heads low, cowed by their hoods, each blanketed by their own private fantasy as they trudged downhill; for Kyle, it was vodka in his favorite bar back in Vancouver, for Arthur, reliving the moment of his revenge again and again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dylan let out a long breath and looked out the window of the kitchen. Rain hard started to pitter-patter against the shingled roof, giving it a sort of cotton sound, not the sharp ping he was used to on metal roofs back at the estate with the others of his kind. Through the dimness, he could make out the small palisade of sharpened poles that lined the acreage. It was a crude makeshift, but he hoped it would give them somewhat of an advantage, should push come to shove. Behind him, Chris was wincing, his good arm slung over Sarah’s shoulders as she helped him across the room to the couch. More of Chris’ famous herbal tea was steaming on the wood stove, and it filled the small room with a root-like aroma that was half-chlorophyll and half-spice.
“Give me some of that,” Chris huffed, pointing toward the stove. Even at this distance, Dylan could feel the heat coming off of him, and he curled his lips in worry. The fever was still present, working its way out of his system, seemingly like molasses. I hope there’s no stray bullet fragments left in there, Dylan thought, glancing at the bandages.
“How’s the radio?” Sarah asked anxiously.
“Still bothersome… you can imagine with this storm, it won’t do any better,” Chris grumbled, and leaned his head against the back of the cushions. “How’s your defenses, Dylan? I heard you all day hammering and sharpening stakes. I’d be out there with you, bud… if I could only…”
“Shush,” Dylan said, “you did more than enough.” He wound his way around the couch and sat down on one of the big sofa chairs that angled in towards the couch and fireplace and sighed. The strain of his efforts was plain to see.
Sarah handed Chris his tea and came and sat down, cross-legged, in front of Dylan’s legs, much to his surprise. She had that distant look again, a wandering sort of gaze that was only partially here. He desperately wished he could go with her, to wherever it was her thoughts took her in these late hours, when the sun had perished and the bear in her had started its slow waking from hibernation.
He reached down and stroked the top of her head, and averted his eyes from a piercing glance that shot at him from Chris across the room. The older man grinned to himself and buried his face in the tea, wincing at the heat as steam rolled up his broad cheeks.
“You two are adorable,” he finally breathed under his breath, making both Dylan and Sarah turned at him with accusing eyes. As if he’d uttered something so obvious that it became distorted by stating it so blatantly, and both of them blushed.
Sarah regained her composure first and buried her head harder against his knees. “You’re drunk on pain, old bear,” she sniffed at him. “Shouldn’t we be planning something else? I mean, a contingency plan, a plan B… in case they do come back?”
A look passed between Chris and Dylan, which said in just one look: there is nothing more we can do but wait and hope. And hope was useless, in the face of rifles. They had no weapons on the island, save for their own wits.
“We’ll be okay,” Dylan said again, but it had become a rote sentence, something he said only to convince himself of it anymore. “It’s the trails that have me concerned. They’re everywhere, but anyone with half a brain of wilderness in them would quickly recognize that they all sort of spiral inward.”
“Like the roads to Rome,” Chris added with a flair of erudition.
“To the cabin,” Sarah nodded, finishing the thought. “Crap.”
Dylan reached down with both hands and began to rub her shoulders, and she let out a little sigh and leaned against him dramatically, her eyes closed. All three seemed to share in a single unalterable truth: there was nothing they could do but wait. Chris offered to take first watch and ushered Dylan and Sarah to bed, and was prudent enough not to say anything when they both went into Sarah’s room. He achingly reached across the couch toward the unreliable satellite radio.
His quiet habitual swearing was eaten up by the impact of rain, even as it sped up and became a kind of damp sledge, pressing on the cabin and all inside.
***
Sometime, in the middle of the night, Sarah was awoken by a crack. In her dreams, she was a bear and had found a fresh kill. The crack echoed the piercing shock of bone, shattering under her jaws, followed by the sweet gasp of marrow that leaked onto her tongue. Then another crack, this time she sat up straight in the dark. Sweat stained her back, leeching through the thin tank-top. Her breasts heaved against the tight fabric and she felt like tearing at it, as if it might urge the air into her lungs faster. Already, her skin was drying in the open air, and beside her Dylan was still asleep, although his brows were knitted as if he too were suffering some nightmare.
She looked around, letting her eyes adjust to the dark until she could make out the shapes of the door and her backpack by the wall. Outside, the rain was a full on torrent. After so many days of sunshine, it was both terrifying and exhilarating, a reminder of how fickle nature was, and how unrelenting it could be once it had made up its mind about something.
I was just dreaming,
she panted. The sound had been so explosive though, even if she had imagined it. Her heart was still thrumming. When she lay back down, Dylan sleepily splayed his hand across her breastbone. She could feel her own pulse like a hummingbird under her skin; a tremolo of blood. She turned her head and peeled back the sheets, which were damp with her sweat, revealing the long dark lengths of her legs. She propped her hands under her head, flexing her bodice so that her hips lined up with the bed frame. A gust of wind wafted over the low band of her thong, causing goose-pimples to raise up on her buttocks.
Dylan was stomach down, both arms raised so that the muscles in his shoulders stood out like firm ridges, buckled sinew that bespoke of his physical labor of the last six months. She felt another pang of desire slide up the inside of her thighs. She had neglected human contact for so long, spurning it as something unessential. Worse than that, something that would make her weak, dependent. Even with the peril of poachers, even when Chris had been toeing Death’s door, the fear of needing another person was even more insatiable.
“What am I to you?” she asked again, as if trying to urge an answer from his dreams.
I know what you are to me, she thought, biting her lip again and reaching out to trace the outline of his jaw with one finger. He murmured something, and the tightness in his brow lightened, as if she’d dispelled whatever had been ailing him. Love. It was such a strange word, so short, succinct. How could anyone possibly hope to contain its meaning in something so truncated?
It didn’t matter, all that mattered—
CRACK. This time, she sat straight up again and her arm was already shaking Dylan awake, who squirmed beside her. That was not her imagination and neither was it lightning because it was still dark outside, pitched into a gravity of blackness.
“What’s going on?” Dylan murmured.
Sarah was already up, pulling on her old jeans with the holes in the knees. “Something’s wrong!” she gasped back. “That was too close. And there’s no lightning. That’s not thunder!”
