There were other memories as well. He remembered the scent of the forest in the early morning, when the dew still dusted the grass and the shrubbery that lined the trails. He remembered the sour smell of oiled gun metal, and the acrid tang of powder. He remembered Casey, baying and thrashing through the trees, his father's heavy footsteps and slow, careful voice.
Ethan's father lived and died in a cut and dried, black and white world of absolutes. There were no gray areas. There were no shades or demilitarized zones. A thing was what it was, a man did what he had to, and a boy listened to his father.
Casey grew faster than Ethan, and by the time he was six, she had given them three litters of fine dogs. Each grew to either hunt at their mother's side, or to be sold in the town and hunt with another man's family. It was what they were born to, and she dropped them like clockwork. She carried the small, furry bodies into the crates Ethan's father prepared for her, lined with hay and scraps of cloth. She bathed them until they were glossy and when they were hungry she rolled onto her side and offered herself without question. When there were no puppies, she slept with Ethan, and his father allowed it.
When Ethan was eight, Casey was getting a little long in the tooth. She hadn't had a litter of puppies in over a year, but then she got pregnant. Ethan worried over her, fussed with the crates himself, and waited. The dog grew nervous and restless, but they chalked it up to the coming litter. The days came, and went, and then the final litter was born.
Another loud thump drew Ethan from his daydream. He glanced at the house. No one appeared in the doorway. He heard muffled voices, but they died away. There was a third thump, and someone cried out sharply. He thought he heard a low wail after that, but the breeze kicked up and the sound was lost. He set the empty beer bottle on the porch floor carefully and extracted a second icy, dripping bottle.
Casey carried that last litter, only three pups, into the crate, just like she'd done all the times before. She washed their tiny heads until their fur shone bright and she nuzzled them close to her when they whined. She fed them and watched over them, and they grew, even the sickly, smaller one that Ethan had resigned himself to losing. They grew, and as they did their hunger followed suit. Their teeth sprouted white and sharp, and they grew insistent when it came time to eat.
Ethan had seen Casey wean her whelps again and again, nipping them and driving them away, rising to run off in a shiver of loose skin and swollen teats, nudging them toward the bowls of milk-soaked food his father provided. She had always been patient and careful. This time she snapped. One of the pups lingered too long when she growled at it, and her jaws closed over its tiny head in an instant. One flashing moment of blood and sound, and it was over.
Ethan remembered that moment with a clarity he'd seldom experienced. He still saw Casey, whining, nudging the dead puppy with the tip of her nose as if in apology, wanting it to stand and come to her, to feed and grow strong. Her eyes had been so full of misery and emotion–so human–that Ethan wanted to scream every time the memory surfaced.
His father took the other two puppies away after that. They were ready to eat solid food, and he kept them clear of Casey until they were old enough to take care of themselves. She never went after them again, but something inside her had snapped.
Two weeks later, Ethan's younger sister, Jenny, walked too close to Casey's tail. The dog turned like brown lightning. Her eyes were crazed with mad anger, and she snapped. She only caught the material of Jenny's skirt; the girl was also quick, but it was enough. Ethan's father beat Casey near to death that day, and everything in Ethan's life shifted. Sometimes you grow up slowly and learn over years of trial and error. Sometimes it's a snapshot in time, one moment a boy was young and the next as old as the hills.
A wail rose from the house and Ethan half turned in his seat. He saw Benjamin, his eldest, press his nose to the inside of the screen door, but the boy didn't come out. He watched his father through that screen, followed the arc of the beer bottle as it was tipped back again, and then the boy disappeared. The sound of someone crying softly joined the eerie voice of the breeze.
Ethan drifted back one last time. Ethan always hunted with his father. They gathered the dogs, strode slowly off into the woods that lined their pasture, and walked together in silence. They hunted for food, and they shared the hunt for companionship. It was the strongest bond the two forged over many years, but the night after Casey snapped at Jenny, Ethan's father went alone.
His father had spent extra care on his shotgun that night. The barrel was cleaned and oiled, the stock polished. Each load was pulled from the case and examined before disappearing into the many pockets of the old hunting vest Ethan knew so well. He knew the scent of that vest from sitting on his father's lap. He knew the places it had been torn and mended. He knew where things had been spilled on it, and the exact point on the collar where a drop of blood from his own first kill had soaked in and stained the material a dark brown.
Ethan had carried his own gun to the porch that evening, but his father had just shaken his head.
"Not tonight, son," he'd said.
No explanations were ever offered, or expected. As the sun set, his father headed off toward the woods. Ethan sat on the porch, watching. Casey trotted along at his father's heels, and this was odd. She was old, and she rarely accompanied them. When she did, it was always with some of the others–faster, younger dogs that could run an animal down, or tree it. Casey had grown slower, and generally kept close to home. Ethan watched until both man and dog were out of sight.
He remembered the sunset glinting off the oiled barrel of his father's gun. He remembered the way that same light shimmered off Casey's fur. Hours later, when all hint of the sun had left the sky and the night breezes set tree branches dancing in the shadows, his father returned. Alone.
Ethan remembered that lined face, the vacant stare that presented itself in the pale light of that long-ago moon. His father walked up and sat on the porch. He didn't say anything at first. Ethan wanted to scan the trees. He wanted to ask about the dog, but something hung in the air that clotted in his throat. He kept his silence, and eventually, his father spoke.
"Sometimes things change. There are things inside that guide us, and no matter how hard we work to keep them whole and safe–sometimes they break. They snap like dry twigs and even if you're very quiet about it, people will hear that sound. Things you try to avoid come back to stare at you and to see what happened.
"Casey was old, son." His father spun to him then, and held his gaze. "She was a good dog, but that last batch of puppies was too much. She was broken inside, and there's nothing you can do to mend such a break. She killed that puppy–that was the start. She would have killed your sister if she hadn't missed–or you–or taken a chunk out of my leg. She couldn't help it–the thing that kept her steady was gone. The broken thing inside poked and prodded at her until she snapped, and it would have done it again."
Ethan remembered the burn of tears in his eyes. He remembered the cold clutch of invisible fingers around his heart, and the way his breath caught in his chest and couldn't get free. He said nothing. His father turned away, and fell silent, staring out over the distant trees. His gun rested beside him, barrel leaned on the porch rail. Ethan remembered it as a giant finger, pointing somewhere he'd never go again. He thought of Casey's warm fur, and her huge, soulful eyes. He'd seen the lines in his father's face differently for the first time, recognized them for what they were. Pain had etched those lines, deep pain held inside for too long. It was a lesson, the sort left unspoken, yet never forgotten.
The screen door creaked, and Ethan drained his beer, half-turning toward the sound. Rebecca pushed the door open just far enough to slip out, and let it close behind her. She stood, staring at the interlocking boards of the porch floor. After a moment of silence, she spoke.
"Jimmy's arm is hurt. He…"
Ethan held up a hand, and she fell silent. He lifted the lid of the cooler, drew out two more bottl
es, opened the first, and offered it to her. She stepped forward slowly, as if dazed, and took the bottle from his hand. He opened the second bottle and took a long pull. He still heard the quiet sobbing from inside, and he felt the press of Benjamin's face to the screen, though he didn't turn to look.
"Beautiful night," he said.
Rebecca turned and stared at the blood red drip of the sun as it melted beyond the trees. She nodded and sipped her beer. It was warm, but she trembled. Ethan reached out and touched her arm, remembering other nights–other times. She was still beautiful. He watched the dying daylight play over the dulled highlights of her hair. She still had the old defiance in her stance, the spark that had won his heart, but now it was cockeyed. She stood just a little off balance, as though waiting for some unseen thing she kept in the periphery of her sight to strike.
They drank in silence. When the bottles were empty, Ethan rose. He turned to her, gave her a quick hug, and leaned in close.
"Walk with me?" he said. Not really a question.
Benjamin stepped onto the porch. He held the screen half open.
"Papa?" he said softly.
Ethan stopped and turned.
"You want me to come?"
Ethan shook his head. "Not tonight, son," he said.
Benjamin stood on the porch and watched them go. He saw the sunset glinting off the oiled barrel of his father's gun. He remembered the way that same light sometimes shimmered off his mother's hair. He watched until they were out of sight, then watched a bit longer, then turned back to soothe his brother's tears.
She nodded again, setting her still half-full beer bottle on the porch rail. Ethan slid his arm around her shoulders, and they stepped off the porch together. He kept the barrel of the shotgun angled down and away, the weight comfortable in his hand.
Longhaired Puppies
He went because he heard them cry,
Like puppies in a darkened empty room,
He went because he couldn't let them die,
Alone, beneath a waning weakened moon
The stairs stretched down to shadows, and he bent
His head to keep from brushing blackened walls
The candle in his hand lit his descent,
But danced and guttered in the stagnant air
Their voices died before his steps grew near,
His heart slowed, and he whispered in the dark
But bones and dust once flesh, they cannot hear
And longhaired puppies in white skirts don't bark
He sat among their ghosts and softly cried
His puppies broken bones close by his side…
UNIQUE
His shaved head and bright blue eyes stood out in the crowd. She saw him coming, repressed the urge to angle her steps away, or to bolt, and watched. His arm was bandaged, wrapped tight in gauze and once-white tape. A dark patch in the center had grown brown and she knew if he pulled that bandage loose, skin and dried blood would accompany it.
She drew her gaze up, but did not meet his. Instead she concentrated on something dangling from a chain about his neck. It was oddly shaped, like a leaf, and it had little weight. As he walked, it lifted into the air and seemed to flutter back to his chest, only to lift again.
He was close. She knew she'd have to bolt or meet those eyes. He stopped directly in front of her and dared her gaze to lift. Instead, bolder than she felt, she leaned in close to inspect the pendant.
It was thin, like parchment. On the surface in dark ink was a dragon. Through the center of the design there was a sword. Above the dragon, in a semi-circle, she saw words.
"Death before dishonor"
She glanced up into his snake eyes and was caught. She stood, unable to run, trying to make her lips form an explanation, or a question, but barely able to breathe.
"I got a tattoo once," he said. "I was unique. It was a statement of my individuality."
She breathed a little deeper. His voice wasn't threatening, or loud. He almost whispered.
"Can I see it?"
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. His eyes pierced her and squirmed around inside her head as she heard, and tried not to hear, his words.
"Everyone thought the tattoo was cool. Then another guy got one, and another. I walked in an ocean of tattoos, and I was lost."
She repeated her question, still a whisper.
"Can I see it?"
"You already have. I'm told some men wear their heart on their shoulder. I wear my individuality on a chain."
Her hand came to her lips unbidden. If her legs hadn't been made of rubber and cemented to the Earth, she would have backed away, and away, and turned and run, but she didn't. Instead, she reached out and brushed her fingertip over the dragon. For the first time, she smelled the bandage, ripe and pungent. She gripped the dragon gently and met his gaze.
"You are the only one?"
He nods.
"It only hurts," he says, "when I dream."
EXCERPT FROM : MY SOUL TO KEEP
The Origin of Donovan DeChance
Chapter One
The Promise
Donovan DeChance sat back in the comfort of his plush, leather desk chair and contemplated the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves across from him. Volumes of every shape, size, color and description were lined up like soldiers, some leaning at precarious angles, others jutting out from between their fellows or teetering atop piles of similarly endangered texts. The floor at the base of the shelves was piled high with boxes holding more books, manuscripts, scrolls, and notes. The library had begun to expand into a second row of boxes, creeping inexorably closer to the small living space he'd carved out for himself. He knew he'd have to take decisive action soon – possibly even bring in an apprentice to assist with storage and scanning. At that particular moment, however, the books weren't really the focus of his thoughts.
The scent of roasting meat wafted from his kitchen. He had cleared the surface of what served as his dining room table, and a silver candelabra rested on it, dead center. There were two places set, and a bottle of very old wine waited between them. Amethyst would arrive soon, and Donovan was anticipating – for once – a relaxed, uninterrupted time with the woman he loved. After a recent series of chaotic events, he felt as if they were due.
There was a growling purr at his feet and with sudden, intrusive grace, his familiar, Cleopatra, leapt to the surface of his desk and regarded him with dark, enigmatic eyes. Cleo was an Egyptian Mau, one of the only spotted cats in the world. She should have been a small- or medium-sized animal, but Donovan was no ordinary man – and Cleo was not your average cat. She had grown over the years, in size, speed, strength and wisdom into a hybrid at least twice the normal size for her breed. Donovan reached out and scratched between her ears and Cleo head-butted his hand, purring happily.
To the right of Donovan's desk was an ornate fireplace. A fluttering sound broke the silence, and both Donovan and Cleo glanced up. From the top shelf, black, glistening eyes regarded them with what might have been affection, or jealousy, or hunger, or no emotion at all. Asmodeus was a hard read. The bird launched, floating in a slow spiral to perch on the back of the chair at Donovan's shoulder. Cleo's tail twitched. Donovan sighed.
"Not tonight, you two," he said. "You will both be on your best behavior while I have company, or I will toss you out into the alley for the night. Do we understand one another?"
Of course, they did. Donovan and Cleo had been bonded psychically for so long they often shared vision and thoughts. Asmodeus, new to their odd family unit, had linked to Donovan so fully and completely that Donovan wondered, at times, if the bird and cat could not share in the same way. The thought of a cat soaring above the city, or a crow sitting on a fence, watching to pounce on some helpless rodent, always made him laugh.
Asmodeus ruffled his wings once more, and settled. Cleo watched the bird, but made no move to pounce. There was a dubious truce between the two – their natural enmity was blunted by their bond with Donovan.
"What were you doing, standing on the inside of the door waiting for me?" she asked.
"Something like that," Donovan said. "I've missed you."
He closed the door and watched her as she slowly circled the room. First she leaned to scoop Cleo up off the floor and drape her over one arm. As she scratched the cat’s ears and up under the chin, Cleo rolled half onto her back in ecstasy and purred loudly enough to be heard on the next block. Asmodeus let out a short, mournful caw and Amethyst laughed.
"I'll get to you, featherbrain," she said. She turned and caught Donovan staring. "You too."
He laughed. "I only hope whatever comes our way next doesn't involve any more familiars. It's already beginning to seem like a zoo in here."
Amethyst had reached the table, with its place settings, candles, and wine. She put Cleo down and picked up the wine.
"Old," she said.
"Very," Donovan agreed. "I've been saving it for the right moment."
"Something smells good too," Amethyst said. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to soften me up for something."
"Lately it seems like the only time I see you is when some dark power is trying to destroy the city. I thought, since there is no pending emergency that I know of, it would be nice to show my appreciation."
Etched Deep & Other Dark Impressions Page 17
