Untcigahunk: The Complete Little Brothers

by Rick Hautala

  From his kitchen and living room windows, he could look out at six or seven receding ranges of mountains, each one hazier with distance. The river ran from the west, sliding swiftly from the White Mountains of New Hampshire. This time of year, the sun set directly in line with the river and laid out a sparkling silver road of water that looked like hammered metal.

  It was sunset and the approaching darkness of night that John Watson feared.

  With spring, the days grew longer and the nights shorter, but with the steep rise of Eagle Hill to the east of his house, even at midsummer, daylight didn’t fall onto Watson’s home until well after nine o’clock in the morning. But it wasn’t just the time of day or even the time of year that bothered John Watson. It was something else—the time of a much longer cycle—that set his nerves on edge this afternoon as he watched the sunlight glancing off the Saco River.

  Him, a Micmac Indian, afraid of the dark?

  Such nonsense.

  His ancestors had lived on this land for thousands of years before the white man arrived and, through subterfuge and outright murder, had stolen the land from them.

  But traditions die hard, and Watson was one of those Native Americans whose father and grandfather valued their culture. They had made sure the boy learned the tribal traditions and stories before they died. Of course, like most children, John grew up wanting to cast aside such “old-fashioned” notions, wanting instead to embrace modern American life as he found it, to be accepted by the Anglo world. Still, in the darker corners of his mind, there were shreds and scraps of legends and tales that made him nervous, especially on an afternoon like this.

  “They’re coming,” Watson muttered as he leaned his elbows on the edge of the sink and stared at the sinking ball of the sun. “By God, they’re coming again.”

  Sweat sprinkled his forehead like morning dew, and he reached blindly for a paper towel, snapped it from the dispenser, and wiped his brow. He wanted to reach for something else to ease his nerves, but he knew that drinking what his father called the white man’s “firewater” wouldn’t drive away his fears. It might push them aside for a while, but in the end, it would only make them stronger. And, like always, he knew that once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop until he was in fact what the narrow-minded whites accused him so often of being...nothing more than a drunken Indian.

  He couldn’t bear that. Not now.

  But he also couldn’t bear the thought of another—or any night—without his whiskey.

  Watson pushed himself away from the sink and began pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. He wrinkled the sweat-soaked paper towel into a tight ball, and tossed it at the waste-basket by the entryway. It missed and bounced on the yellowed linoleum floor before rolling behind the refrigerator.

  Watson’s feet, no longer lively with the spring of youth, dragged on the unswept floor, making loud hissing sounds with every step. His big-knuckled hands were folded across his sagging belly as he paced, and air whistled between his teeth as his lips formed half-spoken, half-remembered words. He spoke softly to himself, muttering words only another Micmac would have understood.

  As he walked the length of the kitchen, he never took his eyes off the square of glowing golden sky outside the window. The pale blues deepened to purple once the sun dropped behind the distant mountains. The river lost its sparkle and turned a deep indigo. The contrail from a passing jet, no more than a silver speck in the sunlight, cut a sharp angle across the sky and then slowly dissolved into gray puffs.

  Watson repeatedly wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, trying to force himself to breathe evenly and deeply. But he knew the one thing that would steady his nerves.

  “But what if they come? What if they come here?” he hissed between his teeth. “What if they find me when they return this time?”

  His throat felt as though steely fingers were trying to choke off his air, and when he went to wipe the sweat from his brow again, he took several seconds to study the long fingers and the big, bony knuckles of his trembling hand. He raised his hand and framed it against the deepening night sky beyond the window, shocked by how much it resembled a hawk’s talons.

  When he inhaled again, his throat made a gurgling sound as if he had come within seconds of drowning. Before he could consciously register what he was doing, he walked to the cupboard, bent down, and swung open the paint-chipped door. His hawk’s talon-hand reached into the darkness and closed as if by second nature around the neck of a bottle. It felt cool and reassuring, like holding a trusted weapon.

  With a trace of a smile, tight-lipped and grim, he pulled out the bottle and held it up, staring at the amber liquid it contained. His hand was still shaking so badly the whiskey sloshed around as he hurriedly unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and took three or four big gulps.

  The whiskey hit the back of his throat like lava as it burned its way down into his stomach. In the fading light of the kitchen, he noticed that his hand had miraculously stopped shaking. The fingers that had been strangling him had begun to ease up as his grip on the bottle tightened. Warmth and a measure of reassurance returned as he leaned his head back and took several more gulps.

  When there was more whiskey sloshing around in his stomach than there was left in the bottle, Watson screwed the cap back on and went over to the wall switch to turn on the overhead light. He hooked the leg of a chair with his foot, pulled the chair out from the table, stood the bottle dead center on the table, and then sat down heavily, resting both elbows on the soiled tablecloth.

  In the harsh light of the kitchen and through the thickening alcohol haze, his fears began to melt. Well, maybe not melt, but at least withdraw. He realized this was the only bottle in the house, so he decided to nurse what he had rather than risk going out to buy some more.

  Sure, he knew it was time for them to return, but he was Indian, he was “blood.” When they returned, it was the white men they would strike, not him...not a full-blooded Micmac.

  Still, there was no reason to be foolish. The untcigahunk, those who were coming back, had lived on and under the land much longer than the Indian, and John Watson, belly full of booze or not, was no fool. Now that night had descended on Thornton, Maine, he’d be a damned fool to go outside. No, he’d make do with this one bottle until tomorrow when, in the daylight, he could go to the store and get some more.

  Smiling and nodding as the booze spun through his head, John Watson grabbed the bottle, spun the cap off, and drained the whiskey off in several deep gulps. He tried to place the empty bottle carefully back on the table, but the bottom slipped out. It spun on the table a few times before tipping over the edge and falling to the floor where it shattered.

  “You fucking bitch!” Watson said, his voice slurred. Lurching to his feet, he intended to get the broom and dustpan, but as if they had a will of their own, his feet directed him toward the living room. He banged his shoulder on the kitchen door jamb, almost fell, but then collapsed facedown on the couch, letting loose a loud fart as he hit the cushions. The alcohol roared like a thousand angry voices inside his head, and as he sank down into unconsciousness, the voices seemed to take on a drumming, repetitive chant:

  “The untcigahunk are coming... The untcigahunk are coming!”

  Sprawled on the couch, Watson rocked his head from side to side as if he were trying to deny his thoughts. His arms twitched, and his hands made spastic grabbing motions like he was protecting himself from an unseen onslaught. And all the while, the voices in his head kept chanting:

  “The untcigahunk are coming!... The untcigahunk are coming!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “ ‘The Forest of Growing Claws’ ”

  1

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come along?” Bill asked.

  It was Saturday morning, and the weather was perfect—sunny and warm with just enough breeze to keep it from being really hot. As he sat at the kitchen table drinking his second cup of coffee, B
ill looked out over the backyard. The grass was a deep, rich green, and the fluttering shadows of the trees gave it the illusion of being alive with energy.

  Kip was standing at the sink rinsing breadcrumbs from his plate. His eyes were focused on the water swirling down the drain. He noticed that his hands were shaking.

  “I—uh, don’t think so,” he said. “Not today, anyway.”

  Bill glanced at him for a moment, then let his gaze wander back out the window.

  “Do you know when your brother got home last night?” he asked.

  Kip shrugged and put his plate in the dishwasher rack. “I dunno. I heard him clumping up the stairs in the dark, but I didn’t notice what time it was.”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t before midnight,” Bill said. He had checked in on Marty early this morning and found him asleep in an S-shaped tangle of sheets, still dressed. His head was at the wrong end of the bed, and in the dim morning light, his face had a peculiar translucent cast that reminded Bill of a Hollywood vampire’s complexion. He wondered what it was about teenagers that made them want to stay up all night and sleep all day.

  Pushing his chair back, he stood up and brought his cup over to the sink. “Well, guess I’ll get going then. You’re sure I can’t con you into helping me out? There’s a lot of work to be done before we can start to build.”

  Kip edged away from his father, knowing his face had gone pale. “No, really. I’ve got plans to game over at Joey’s today.”

  Bill smiled and tousled his son’s hair. “I don’t know if those games are all that good, you know? Not if they’re going to keep you inside on a beautiful day like this.”

  Kip forced a smile.“They’re fun,” he said weakly.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. I mean, I don’t think stuff like that really invokes demons or anything like that. It’s just I could use a bit of company while I’m working. A lot of that brush I cut—” He stopped himself before he said saying five years ago—“has grown back and then some. I could really use the help.”

  “You didn’t ask Marty, did you?” Kip asked.

  Bill shook his head. “No. Besides, it’s his turn to mow the lawn.” He snagged his car keys from the hook by the door, jingling them in his hand as he looked at Kip. “Well, I’ll be out at the site all day. Maybe you’ll ride your bike out and visit me after lunch.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Kip said, knowing he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He watched his father go down the walkway to the car, start it up, and drive off.

  As soon as his father was gone, the hum of the car rapidly fading in the distance, Kip was struck by how quiet the house was. He could barely hear the tick-tock of the clock on the mantle in the living room. The steady, measured beat—almost like a dripping faucet—started to work on his nerves as he cast his glance around the kitchen, trying to find the source of his uneasiness on such a beautiful June morning.

  But he knew what it was... Oh, yeah, he knew.

  It had started a few days ago, spreading like mold in a dark, damp cellar. It had been—when?—last Wednesday that his father had informed him and Marty at supper that he was going to start working on the house on Kaulback Road again. No more thinking about it—no more talking about it; he was going to start doing it.

  That’s when the disquiet had begun gnawing at the edges of his mind. Then yesterday afternoon, when he had gotten back from his appointment with Dr. Fielding, his father had actually done something about it. No more talk. No more plans. Just before sunset, he had driven out to the house site.

  Maybe he had even gone down into the cellar hole.

  “No!” Kip said, his voice no more than a whimper. He spun quickly around and, slamming the water faucet on, filled his cupped hands with cold water, then splashed his face several times. Water flew everywhere. A chill danced up his back. Sputtering and blubbering, he reached blindly for a dishtowel to dry his face.

  “You nimrod.” The voice behind him spoke so suddenly he jumped.

  “You’re dripping water all over the floor.”

  His breath catching in his throat, Kip looked up and saw Marty leaning in the doorway. His arms were folded across his chest, and his hair was an oily, stringy mess that hung down in his face. His T-shirt with the red-splotched ROADKILL looked as if he’d been wearing it for more than a week. He smiled with a leering grin as he watched his younger brother.

  Water was still dripping from Kip’s face, leaving pencil-long streaks on his shirt and pants. His fingers finally closed over the dishtowel he was reaching for, and he covered his face with it and rubbed vigorously. The rough cloth grated his skin like sandpaper.

  “Dad...uh, Dad said he wanted you to make sure ‘n mow the lawn today,” Kip said after a moment. His voice was muffled by the towel, but he peeked over the edge to make sure Marty wasn’t going to do anything like hit him while he wasn’t looking.

  “Where’d he go?” Marty asked, looking around the room. He moved over to the kitchen table and plunked himself down in his customary chair.

  Kip rolled the dishtowel into a tight ball and tossed it into the laundry room before answering. He needed at least that long to try to swallow the dry lump in his throat before he spoke.

  “He went out to the—uh, to the new house. He’s gonna spend the day cuttin’ brush.”

  Marty snorted as he picked up a box of Quaker Oh-s and poured a bowlful. The sound of the cereal hitting the bowl was like...

  ...a chainsaw, Kip thought.

  The backs of his knees got weak, and he sagged against the counter.

  His father had been using a chainsaw that day, five years ago. The memory flooded back to him. Kip could see the hazy blue exhaust drifting like ground fog between the trees. The sound—that roaring, crackling burr.

  “Get me the milk,” Marty said. “I can’t eat this stuff dry.”

  “Get it yourself,” Kip replied, pushing back through his memories, trying to fight back the panic that was rising like heavy phlegm in his chest. Nothing Marty could do to him was half as bad as those half-remembered forms that were waiting for him at the edge of his awareness.

  Marty snickered, got up slowly from the table, and went over to the refrigerator. “God! All I do is ask for is a little help, and what do I get?” he said in a sarcastic, sing-song tone of voice.

  Kip silently watched as Marty got the milk and doused his cereal before sitting back down to eat. “I spoze it’d be too much trouble for you to get me some juice.”

  Grimacing, Kip glanced first at his brother, then at the kitchen door. “Can’t. Gotta go.”

  He started for the door, his mind frantically searching for some place where he could get away from the dark thoughts that groped at him from the darkness in his mind.

  “Where’re you going?” Marty asked, speaking through a mouthful of cereal as he rose and went again to the refrigerator. A few bits of cereal fell from his mouth to the floor, but he ignored them.

  The doorknob felt as smooth and cool as ice in Kip’s hand as he turned it. The kitchen door squeaked open, allowing a rush of warm, summer air to swirl in. Through the open door, he could see the rear fender of his bike, a bright red Schwinn. The sweet chirping of a robin drew his attention, but all he felt inside was a cold, nameless, dark dread.

  “I’ll be at Joey’s,” he shouted, not bothering to look over his shoulder at Marty as he left.

  “Have yourself a good time, and don’t think about me, sweating my butt off,” Marty called after him. Kip stepped outside and swung the door shut. Marty’s voice was cut off now as Kip grabbed his bike and hastily wheeled it down off the porch and onto the driveway, aiming it toward the road.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do it next week,” Kip shouted as he ran the bike halfway down the walkway before jumping up onto the seat and pedaling furiously away from the house. He imagined his last view of Marty, slouched in the doorway, the jug of orange juice weighing down one shoulder as he watched his little brother practically run away.

>   Kip didn’t care what he had to do next weekend or what Marty thought of it. He was just grateful to be free of the house and the thoughts—

  Christ, the thoughts! Just mentioning what his father was doing today had set him off.

  As Kip made his way down Main Street, taking the slow downhill grade with strong, steady strokes, the wind pulled his hair straight back. The houses and run-down storefronts blew past him. The heat of the sun toasted his shoulders and rebounded from the asphalt into his face. He could almost enjoy himself.

  Almost.

  This early in the morning, there wasn’t much traffic. Downtown was never all that busy, but with summer coming and more tourists driving through town, it paid to keep a watchful eye out.

  He cut across the Trustworthy hardware store parking lot to get over to Beaver Pond Road. His friend Joey Gardner lived more than two miles out of town, and from here on out, it was almost all uphill. The only good thing about it was that it would be all downhill on the way home later today.

  Once he got out of town, the road became narrow and rutted. The chain on Kip’s bike chattered against the chain guard with every pothole or rock he hit. Thick pine forest lined both sides of the road, and even on such a beautiful morning like this, the deep green shadows seemed somehow ominous and threatening as if they were alive. Kip he gritted his teeth and pedaled as hard as he could to take the grade. Sweat broke out on his forehead and ran, stinging, into his eyes.

  But the faster he pedaled, the more his apprehension grew, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him and keeping pace with him and staying just out of sight. At times, he thought they must be trailing alongside in the woods; at other times, he was convinced they were up ahead, running down the road toward him. He’d crest the hill, and there they’d be.