No wonder my dead cats were all cool with me looking for the fisher. They knew it wasn’t just any fisher. They probably even knew it wanted to find me. I’m sure knowing about things like that is easier for the dead.
Grumbling under my breath, I start back down the tree. Climbing down is a lot harder than climbing up, especially for a short klutz. I can hear a low buzzing hum of impatience from the fisher. Vaguely unpleasant. I block it out with limited success. Jumping from the last branch to the ground, I stumble and catch myself. Now my sticky hands are covered with dirt, too.
Relax. I don’t stand on formality.
I walk in the direction of the magnanimous voice. He sounded serious, which irritates me. Who does he think he is?
I know who I am, child. What I want to know is more about you. Continue approaching. You’re almost here.
Ducking branches and stepping over roots, I push further into the woods. Off to my left is our well, and uphill to my right I hear a car drive by. I push aside a swath of branches too low to duck without crawling on my hands and knees. That’s out, because there might be spiders in those dead leaves underfoot. Almost to the big pine he was in, I pause, wondering if I really want to meet up with a fisher who talks. I remember big, sharp teeth.
I won’t hurt you. He sounds exasperated.
“Right. And I bet you’d tell me if you were going to.”
You’re too curious to turn back. Besides, I’ll just keep waiting for you.
Shrugging, I push through the last few trees, and there he is, sitting on the ground on his hind legs, looking straight at me. He’s even bigger than the dead fisher at Hogback. Sitting up like that, he looks huge. He extends a hand—paw—as if to invite me to sit down, but I stay standing. “What do you want?”
He blinks rapidly and his muzzle twitches. Want? His mouth doesn’t move with the sound. Honestly. You should be honored. I usually demand a sacrifice for an audience with me. Don’t suppose you have anything to offer?
I glare at him. “I’m fresh out of cats.”
Small dog?
“If I did, I wouldn’t hand it over to you!”
His lip lifts on one side of his muzzle in an obvious sneer. Strange humans. So particular about which animals qualify as food. We’re not nearly so picky. Then, with a sudden lash of his tail, he changes the subject. I want to talk. You’ve interested me for some time.
That rings an odd bell. “Why me?”
His tail lashes again. Surely you realize why anyone would want to talk to you. You’re special, child.
I can’t contain the sigh. “Right. Special. Okay, so what does my specialness mean to YOU?”
Cynical little bastard, aren’t you?
“Not really. Just tired of being special sometimes.”
How odd. But then I’ve never presumed to understand humans. First you chase us down to wear us around your necks, then you ban that because porcupines chew through all your wood. So glad we can be of service.
“I don’t trap and I don’t wear fur, and you don’t have to kill porcupines for us if you don’t want. I don’t care. I like porcupines.”
Ah, but they’re good eating. Difficult to resist. And plentiful, since no one else can get to them.
That twigs my memory, and curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you all so good with porcupines, anyway?”
Because we’re specialty killers. His pride shines in his voice. We can tree them and then go up after them. On the ground, we can jump right over them when they try to turn quills on us, and we’re fast enough to bite them in the face over and over and bleed them out. Then it’s an easy case of flip and eat.
My stomach turns. Daddy was right. I didn’t need to hear about the face biting and bleeding. I’m not surprised he left that out. “Great. So if there are so many porcupines around, why do you have to eat cats?” My own reasons for finding him resurface in my mind, after the distraction of hearing he was looking for me.
Oh please. Cats go missing constantly, and we are not the culprits you fools make us out. The coyotes kill more cats than we do, and I dare you to go try to have this conversation with their god. Coyote is much more reticent about direct audiences. And honestly now, if you’re going to cultivate something that is the perfect size for a prey animal, and then slow it down by overfeeding it, and cripple it by softening it up and destroying its natural instincts . . . well, I’m sorry but you deserve whatever you get.
Opening my mouth to argue the point, my brain zeroes in on one statement. “Their God? Do you mean you’re a—”
Of course. You couldn’t tell? He looks affronted. Who else but a god could manifest in a dead skin?
“God. You’re a God.”
I’m a god, actually.
When I just look at him he sighs.
Small g.
“What’s the difference?”
I find capital-G gods tend to be pretentious.
Alrighty then. “So, you’re . . . god of the . . . fishers?”
The general weasel/stoat family. Minks, too. I tried for the otters as well, but they’re not a very serious bunch. Nothing but antics. I let it go.
“Do all the animals have their own gods?”
Of course. I couldn’t exactly presume to be god of deer, now could I? Although I’d be tempted to try. They have all the brains of domestic sheep. Which is to say none whatsoever.
Something about this puzzles me. “Gods, not goddesses? None of you have a goddess?”
The fisher god shakes his head so violently, for a moment I wonder if he’s got something in his ear. No no no. She wouldn’t be pleased with lesser goddesses popping up everywhere. She would not be pleased at all.
“She?”
Now see here! We came here to talk about me, not Her. He stamps his foot.
“Actually I, came here to talk about my cats.”
We’ve already gone over that.
“No, we haven’t! You just blamed it on coyotes and treated it like a done deal.”
Coyotes . . . foxes . . .what have you.
“So you haven’t killed any of my cats.”
Of course not.
An anger I hadn’t recognized cools behind my breastbone. I feel deflated. “Oh.” If it wasn’t him, how can I ask him to stop?
I have minions for that sort of thing.
That takes a moment to sink in. “Minions?”
He lifts a paw and gives a rumbling growl. A soft red glow suffuses his fur. The woods around us vibrate as patches of brown separate from nearby trees and consolidate into animals. Three fishers and a variety of small weasels edge forward and stop in a circle around us. I stop breathing for a minute, all those beady little eyes trained on me. It creeps me out that they were there, just so still as to be invisible. It continues to creep me out that they sit so quiet, looking at me.
“One of these killed my cats?”
Not all of your cats. There were a couple of cars involved, you’ll recall.
The anger is back, and this time I know it for what it is. “But, oh, no, you guys aren’t responsible for all the cat disappearances. It’s the coyotes.” Sarcasm isn’t my best look, but I can manage it. “Why are they targeting my cats?”
His head swivels to the side, and one paw lifts to fluff his fur idly. Ah . . . that would be my fault.
Why am I not surprised?
Not intentionally, you understand. I was drawn to you, to what you are, without knowing why. So I took up residence in this general area, trying to find the source of the pull. My presence attracts more of my followers than might otherwise be in a particular area. And they do feel obliged to bring me gifts at times.
“Why didn’t you show yourself? Why’d you let them keep killing my cats?”
I didn’t know the pull was you. I just knew something was here. Something special. Like myself.
Being lumped in the same category as a giant glowing weasel isn’t the most complimentary comparison I’ve experienced. I decide that making that observation o
ut loud could be considered insulting, so I don’t.
Then when you started thinking about me so much, I became more aware of the locus of the pull. You started actively calling to me. That made it easier.
“I brought you to me?”
Yes. Like a Disney movie come to life.
Now that’s scary. I stare at him, trying to determine if he’s kidding, but it’s a difficult face for reading expression. “You lot know Disney movies?”
He snorts, and suddenly his expression is easy to decipher. Please. I’m a god. Mr. Disney is roasting in a special hell reserved for those who take liberties with the animal kingdom.
I feel my eyes go wide. “Really? You can do that?”
We all have our own influence.
Shaking that disturbing image off, I grasp backward for the thread I know I don’t want to lose. “If I called you, then am I—”
Oh, yes. You’ve very likely called Others as well. Get a lot of deer in these parts?
“So I could be surrounded by gods and not know it.” Most definitely. Coyote himself could be out there snickering away with your name in mind. And may I assure you that is a scary thought indeed.
“So it’s my fault my cats got eaten.”
They don’t hold it against you.
I sink down, sitting hard on the ground. A small weasel the color of chocolate with a beige face slinks closer and lifts onto his back legs, placing his front paws on my leg. Without thinking, I reach out and stroke a hand down his back. He nuzzles me. “And it’s my fault other people’s cats have gotten eaten.”
They don’t hold it against you either. At least, the cats don’t. I can’t speak for the people. If I were you, I wouldn’t tell them about it being your fault.
The little weasel on my leg twists his head around toward his god and makes an odd noise, between a squeak and a yip. Then he bounces up into my lap and curls up on me, staring at his god with his teeth showing. One of the fishers swings his head toward the god and makes a low hiss, like an angry cat.
Oh, fine. I have the feeling the fisher god wants to roll his eyes. It’s not your fault. My followers insist I not leave you with all this metaphorical cat blood on your hands. Each animal acts on his or her own recognizance. Simply because I came here due to the pull of you does not mean you need to take responsibility for all the various results of my residency. Understand?
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate that while I understand, I don’t agree. I appreciate what his followers are saying. Instead, I change the subject. “So why do I call you? Before I started concentrating on fishers, back when you first just felt a draw.”
The fisher god opens his mouth, and as one, the surrounding animals react. The squeaks, growls, and hissing noises startle me, and I remember to be a little scared. The god hisses back at them, his mouth opening wide, showing an alarming number of teeth. The collected followers subside, but an uneasy tension hangs in the air. The god turns his attention to me. Dark eyes stare into mine until I feel like I’m seeing straight through the pupils into that amber gleam deep inside. Finally, he says, Haven’t you heard the saying? Like calls to like.
I puzzle over that, but it doesn’t get any clearer. I’m not a fisher and I’m not a god. It’s a nonanswer. I wish I could make sense of it, and I wish I knew why the animals reacted. The weasel in my lap is calm again, his head resting on my thigh.
“Now what, now that you know it’s me and we’ve met?” I stroke the weasel on my leg with one finger.
The god stretches his body forward, and his front feet hit the ground. He walks toward me, his back end hunched so that his gait is odd. The surrounding animals retreat, but the weasel on my leg only lifts his head. The god skulks right up to me, until his muzzle almost brushes my arm. He circles me, and a crackle of static electricity raises the hair on my arms, on the back of my neck. I feel that same electric charge I felt in the basement on Hogback Mountain. If I touched him, I don’t doubt I’d get zapped. My hands curl into fists.
The fisher god circles back into my line of sight, his fur glowing that subdued red again. His nose twitches as he leans in, directly in front of me. I’d like an alliance. A partnership.
“With me?”
No, with your Aunt Mary Lou. Yes, with you. Honestly, boy. One would think you really don’t understand what your unusual draw is.
“I’m special,” I sigh. “Right?”
You are. You heal. So, our partnership. You listen for me, you watch for me, and when I need you, you come here.
“And do what?”
What you do. Heal. It’s a dangerous world, or didn’t you know?
I think of some of the kids at school. Yes, I know dangerous. “So I heal hurt animals?” I can do that.
Exactly.
“I can do that. What do I get?”
He rises up onto his hind legs, looking affronted again. His lip pulls back. Excuse me?
“What do I get from our partnership?”
Have I mentioned I usually require a sacrifice to even have an audience with me? You’re being offered an opportunity to use your gift in a very noble and rewarding way, for a god.
“You ate my cats.”
The pause hangs heavy. What would you desire, for offering healing when needed?
“Stop eating my cats.”
That’s all?
The way he says that makes me wonder what I’m missing, what else he’s getting out of this deal, and what else I should ask for. But that’s all I had in mind. “Yes. Just leave my cats alone.” Another thought occurs. “And protect them from other things.”
Now see here. I’m not about to become a bodyguard for a feline.
“Then get some of your followers to do it. Just see nothing happens to any of my future cats. In the way of being eaten. I know you can’t keep them from getting run over.”
He inclines his head. I can do that.
Wow. That worked out well. For once there’s a benefit to being strange. “Okay. If that’s it, I ought to be going. My mother is probably freaking out.”
It won’t be the first time.
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I’ve had enough of his cryptic pronouncements. Lifting the weasel from my lap, I scratch his head in parting and get to my feet. “I’ll watch for you.” I start back, lifting a branch and ducking under it. Sudden rustling tells me the followers leave too, and I glance over my shoulder. They’re already gone, to a one. Only the god sits, perfectly still and watching me. I walk through the woods to our yard with the feel of his eyes on my back the entire way.
I scrub my hands until they’re bright red but all the pitch still won’t come off. I sit digging at it while Daddy watches the weather. When it’s over, he turns off the TV, then sits back down on the couch. “What’s up? You look sad.”
“I just . . .” I stop. There’s no good way to talk about any of this. I knew that years ago, and nothing has changed. Finally I say the only thing I can. “I think it’s my fault all our cats disappear.” I know it is. But I can’t say that.
He’s quiet for a few minutes, settling his arm over my shoulders. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do, Evan, no matter how much you want to. It’s not your fault, it’s just the way the world is. It’s probably one of the hardest things to accept, but it’s always there, especially when you feel responsible for something. You can love it so much you never want to see it get hurt, but you can’t protect it from everything.”
I think about how I feel when I’m around him—that he can protect me from anything—and start to say so. But even as I’m thinking it, I remember him holding me the night Bernie died. I remember him telling me what happened, and I remember his tears. He couldn’t protect me from that—not the death and not his hurting. I look up at him and see a similar pain now, in the lines around his eyes. It’s not one I can heal away, any more than I can explain the strangeness that is me.
I know I can’t climb in a box and never get hurt. I can’t expect anything else to d
o the same for me.
“It’s okay,” I finally tell him. “You do a really good job anyway.”
The lines around his eyes ease, then crinkle again as he smiles. The ache in my own chest relaxes a little when I realize that, in a way, I can heal some of that pain. I think if I could figure out how to explain everything that’s so strange about me, he’d be pleased with me helping the fisher god. It’s something he’d do.
The idea that he’d be proud of me if he did know cheers me up. One of these days I’ll be able to explain to him about me. He’ll understand.
As soon as I find the words.
BONE WHISPERS
By Tim Waggoner
Tim Waggoner’s novels include Pandora Drive, Thieves of Blood, the Godfire duology, and Like Death. He’s published close to eighty short stories, some of them collected in All Too Surreal. His articles on writing have appeared in Writer’s Digest, Writers’ Journal, and other publications. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio. Visit him on the web at www.timwaggoner.com.
Kevin Blancmore slowed as he approached the old graveyard. It had been almost forty years since he’d been here last, and the place looked as if it hadn’t changed in the slightest during that time. It was not a thought that provided comfort.
Kevin braked and pulled his Nissan Altima—on which he was two payments behind, not that it mattered anymore—onto the side of the road in front of the graveyard’s black wrought-iron gate. There was no parking lot—the graveyard predated the road by nearly a century, he guessed—and Kevin scarcely had enough room to get his car off the road. There wasn’t a lot of traffic out here in the country, and he doubted he’d have to worry about someone coming along too fast, not seeing his car, and broadsiding the damned thing. But even if they did, what did he care?
Kevin turned off the engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition, but instead of getting out of his vehicle right away, he sat for a moment, staring through the windshield and listening to the car’s engine tick as it began to cool. He wasn’t sitting there because he was afraid, though he supposed he had good reason to be. And he wasn’t nervous, not even a little. He felt nothing, and that was the reason he sat behind the wheel of his car, hesitating. Considering what he had come here to do or, more to the point, to find, he should feel something. A moment like this . . . well, it was why the word momentous had been created, wasn’t it? It was potentially life-altering in the profoundest of ways and should be marked as such, if only inside his own heart. But just because he was aware that he should feel something didn’t mean he would. It seemed he was as dead inside as any of the graveyard’s residents, and all that remained was for the rest of him to catch up.
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