He walked north down the sidewalk, past the old hotel, towards home. The stern look on Robert's face stayed in his mind. Tyler breathed in and the face shifted suddenly like melting wax and became his father's.
Get out.
The words were somehow imprinted on the top of Tyler's brain.
Get out. Before I get the gun.
Tyler walked faster and, a few blocks later, when he saw the sign for Tigers, a club, he turned towards it. It was after 10 p.m. and the club had just heated up. And even though it was Tuesday night, the bar was packed. Tyler opened the door, walked in. At once the bass-thick, synthesizer-rich, music assaulted him, so loud it was almost a physical presence. Smoke clouded around him, sticking to his hair and skin. He waded his way through the sonic assault to the bar.
"Can I have a rye?" he asked the bartender, a man with spiked blonde hair, dressed in a bright white shirt. When he got his drink Tyler found a stool and watched the dance floor. People were dancing, men and women his age and older and a few girls, obviously underage. Colored lights flashed around them. It was a room of sable and silver. Mirrors lined all sides of the dance floor, so it looked like ten times as many people were dancing. All dressed in flashy clothes, bright whites or dark satiny black. Tyler felt underdressed, no one even had blue jeans here, everybody was in the latest fashion. Baggy pants. Bright shirts.
Fuck them, he thought and he liked the feeling of thinking that. "Fuck you," he whispered. It was even better out loud.
He drank his rye quickly, ordered another one.
A new song came on, the same beat as the other one. The bass pounded into Tyler's skin, setting his heart off time. He felt as much as heard the thick, hypnotic rhythm of the song. Tyler laughed, he hated this music. Down to his every nerve he hated it.
He ordered a third rye and a fourth.
What the fuck does it mean? he thought vaguely, not even trying to understand his own thoughts. A coldness had crept into his every thought, an emptiness.
He was on a stool facing away from the bar. A thin kid, in a red untucked shirt, brushed by Tyler, bumping his knee. Tyler glared at him, but the kid didn't look back.
"Hey man," someone said beside him. Tyler turned. Fookes, a guy he had met at a party years ago and who he bumped into intermittently, was standing there. His hair was brown and shoulder length and there was stubble on his face. He was dressed in a flashy shirt and dark pants. "How ya doing, Dude?"
"Good," Tyler answered. He had never really liked Fookes, he was too fake for Tyler. His only redeeming feature was he drove a perfect red corvette. "What are you up to?"
"Leavin' this joint, it's boring. Going to a party on Eagle Crescent. Some rich bitch, Connie or something. You wanna come?"
"No thanks," Tyler answered. "I think I'll just stick around."
"Suit yourself man," he said smiling, showing even teeth. "But here," he grabbed Tyler's hand and dropped two white colored pills in his palm, "You look a little down. Have these on the house."
Tyler closed his hand.
"Rock on," Fookes said then he turned and headed for the doors.
Tyler opened his hand, watched the pills roll back and forth over his palm. He set them on the counter.
He ordered another drink.
Tyler turned back to the people on the dance floor. They were blurry now, shadowy things. Gyrating their bodies in a frenzy. Their movements angered him as if they were performing some form of sacrilege. Even the made-up beauty of the women angered him. Because it was fake, unreal. His body reacted to the anger, adrenalin filled him.
When he looked down, he saw that the pills were gone. Had he taken them? Or were they on the floor? He couldn't remember. It doesn't matter.
How long have I been here? he wondered. He shook his head. He lifted his latest rye and poured it down his throat. It splashed like fire into his guts. In his mind he could see it swirling around in his stomach.
Minutes passed slowly as he watched the dancers and drank. Four songs went by. Five. Six. All the same. People flooded in and out of the dance floor, but the scene never really changed.
Someone was staring at him, Tyler noticed. A man about the same age, his hair cut short. Wearing a white shirt, a thick gold chain around his neck, sitting on a stool and leaning against the wall. By his build it was obvious that he was a weightlifter. A jock, Tyler thought. He hated their type. So confident in their physical strength having no inkling of the power there was in perfect timing. Stupid!
The man gestured in Tyler's direction and said something to his friend. The other jock nodded and smiled.
Tyler glanced away, stared at the dance floor. He looked back a few seconds later and the man was still staring at him. The weightlifter looked away, then glanced back.
"What are you looking at?" Tyler yelled. His words were drowned in the volume of the music. The man's face became quizzical and slightly angry. A macho anger. Tyler slowly pushed himself off his seat then walked towards the weightlifter. The alcohol was buzzing in his blood, but he felt in control, stronger.
"What're you looking at?" he asked again when he was close enough to be heard. There were two other men beside the weightlifter, both staring at Tyler.
The guy looked across at Tyler in disdain. His chest muscles flexed, jumping up and down. Tyler realized, suddenly that he recognized the man, he had worked on his car. The jock waved his hand. "Fuck off, grease monkey," he said cooly, dismissing a fly.
Tyler shook his head, then his leg shot out, hitting the stool, snapping one wooden leg. The stool tipped and the man fell like a dead weight onto the floor. He sat there, blinking dumbly for a moment, then he jumped to his feet. "What the hell—"
Tyler kicked him in the stomach. He folded over, fell backwards. One of his companions stepped ahead and Tyler spun, hitting him with a back kick to the groin. He turned too slow to face the last man and was hit in the side of the jaw by a fist. Tyler fell to the floor, landing on his side. A knee smashed into his chest and two hands grabbed Tyler's head and pounded it into the floor. Tyler shifted under the man, his hand shot out and grabbed the man's testicles. He squeezed as hard as he could then yanked his hand away. The man fell back screaming. Tyler rose.
The next few minutes were a blur for Tyler. He struck and struck again. As each opponent tried to regain his feet, he knocked them down. Their faces were bruised and bloody. The crowd spread out around him watching the melee. A few people even cheered. The music became part of him. He felt powerful, utterly in control of the situation.
Then, quite suddenly, he stopped. He looked at his opponents sprawled before him. One holding his hand to his face, one trying to crawl away. "No," Tyler whispered.
He ran then, quickly darting out of the bar. The people parted for him like water, jumping to get out of his way, even the bouncers, toughest of the tough, avoided him.
When he got outside it was windy and cold and rain spattered down. He ran wildly down the street. He had broken the code, he had started the fight. He fled like a civilian from a bombing.
He stopped in front of a store, saw his wild reflection and punched the glass. It shattered around his left fist, slicing into his skin, the flesh of his hand. In the moonlight the dragon tattoo glowed with his own blood. He didn't deserve to wear a symbol so revered on his flesh. He ground his hand in the shards, over and over wondering if he could slice the image of the dragon from his skin.
Then Tyler looked up into the store. It was a sports shop and glinting on the wall he saw what he needed. The coldness that he had felt earlier came back over him. He kicked and the door burst open. He walked forward slowly, blood dripping from his torn fist onto the floor. He went past the cash register, past some hockey equipment to a display of tents and accessories. He looked up on the wall.
It was a big ax, the kind used for chopping wood. A long wooden handle. He reached up and touched it. It felt good to his fingers, an instrument of fate. He pulled it off the wall with a grunt and stared at it almost like a love
r.
Refrain from violent behaviour. He saw Jessie holding her nose, blood on her gi. Respect others. He saw the jocks in the bar crawling on the floor. Be faithful.
Images and words spun through his mind. He didn't deserve the dragon. Tyler rolled back his sleeve and set his hand on the counter.
It took two blows. The first snapped the bracelet, split through one bone and some flesh. The pain lightninged its way to his brain. He used the pain as impetus, raised the ax. The second blow severed his hand completely. It flew off, dragon tattoo and all, and landed on the floor.
Tyler set down the ax, looked around, feeling strangely ecstatic. The veins at the side of his temple felt as large as balloons. He saw a propane torch. He shambled over to it and, using his good hand, he fumbled clumsily with it. He finally cracked the torch open by holding it close with his arm. Propane hissed out. He searched around for a match, dripping and spraying blood wherever he went. It shot out into his face, his eyes. Instead of feeling weak, he felt strong.
The matches were by the till. He dug one out, hurriedly, then opened the package, brought it to his mouth, bit it, and ripped a match off, dropping it on the floor.
When he leaned over to pick it up, lights flashed in his head. He rose, darkness gnawed at his thoughts. He fought it down. Then holding the match cover with one hand and striking with the same hand, he awkwardly started the match.
He walked back to the propane torch, held the match in front of it. The blue flame that appeared hypnotized him. He grabbed the torch and began to cauterize his left wrist.
He was about half way finished when he passed out. The police found him five minutes later.
12.
Daddy. Daddy.
It was raining and Conn was waiting.
He sat on the large stone in the center of the grove, white knees pointing towards the sky. Rain fell down, slicking his hair against his naked back, making his muscles glisten in the silver moonlight. Clumps of his long hair had fallen out like a coyote with mange. He was missing the middle finger from his left hand, during one of his forays he had accidentally cut it off. There had been little blood. He didn't shiver, he was beyond shivering. He leaned back, waiting.
For it was a night of strangeness, of newness.
His brother was coming.
Conn looked at the ground. All the stones but the one he sat on had been turned over and rolled outside the grove. An image entered his mind, a memory that he believed had somehow been directly transferred from Swallower to him. It was of an old man bending over, carefully rolling each stone into place, forming an X. An old man who came from another country and knew things, who had seen the hate and pain that floated in this place and had known what it would turn into. The scene had unfolded in Conn's mind a number of times, but with every stone Conn rolled away, it gained clarity. Became urgent, more real. Conn even knew the man's name. Thursten. It meant nothing to him, it was just a name, but when it crossed his mind he felt a stirring in the ground below. Conn knew the name meant something to Swallower. It meant enemy. The man who had buried Swallower.
The strangest thing about the memory of the old man and the stones was that Conn knew it had all happened years ago, long before his own birth. And yet, somehow it was still going on now. Conn even thought at time's he could hear this old man's voice across the years warning him. Stay down, in the name of all the good spirits, stay down.
Tiiiime! An oak moaned in the rain.
Conn smiled, calmly. The god beneath the ground was restless, was getting hungry. Again.
Conn had fed him every night. He had fed him with blood, he had fed him with images. Gaping, screaming mouths. Fingers without hands. Bodies without arms. A little girl running, her pigtails bloody. He had laid down on the ground with these images in his mind. Swallower had opened his mouth and swallowed until the images were gone. Conn awakened empty, clean and strong, and had rolled away a stone.
Swallower was coming. The buried one would not remain that way for long. Conn had seen his face—a white blur in the ground, swirling fluorescent, gaping. Swallower was coming.
To ravage. To reap. A whirlwind of blood and bones.
Conn's hearing, sensitive even in the rain, picked up the sound of a soft footstep. Conn looked up, smiling, knowing this moment was fated. A man stood at the edge of the grove, short black hair, a thick body, a handsome face. The man stared at Conn. He blinked slowly then bent over, picked up a small stone, swallowed it, stood back up. His every move was smooth, graceful, blessed with the confidence of someone at home with his place in the world.
Brother could you lend a hand?
They watched each other, mirror men. The man nodded and walked softly into the grove. He looked down at the mound, at Swallower, then looked up at Conn. Smiled.
"I am the outside coming in," Wayne said, extending a scarred hand.
"I am the inside coming out," Conn answered.
They shook. The oak moaned. Time stood still.
Then Wayne knelt and paid his supplication to the god, giving him what was inside his mind. Images. Of his trip, his journey, his artwork. He rose a few minutes later, vigor in his eyes, and looked up at his brother.
And something like love passed between them. They were twins. Two souls, one purpose. It was their time.
And soon their father would be coming.
BOOK THREE: Swallower.
1.
Kinniwaw tightened. Within three days it would all be over, the dead dead and the living trying to piece everything together, but meanwhile, Kinniwaw tightened as if someone were twisting a huge lid over the town. And the people of Kinniwaw felt the pressure, the lid coming down and some left early for their holidays and some looked up in fear and others waited.
When Boris died the town was shocked by the brutality of the murder. His death was a madness, an atrocity that belonged only to the people of the big cities (though it did remind a few of the summer of twenty seven and the fall of twenty nine). Two days after Boris died they found old man Eslard, the king of shuffleboard, dead in the playground bathroom, his pipe still in his mouth. As the days afterwards slowly unfolded, people began to discover that sometime in the night their neighbors that lived on the farms around Kinniwaw had been murdered.
The RCMP were everywhere and few of the townspeople had escaped being questioned. There were even newspeople there and Kinniwaw made CBC's noon and evening news every day. The theory was put forth by the media, and not supported or denied by the police, that a serial killer had found his way to Kinniwaw. The press had christened him the Prairie Butcher.
Everything happened quickly and rumors and false stories spread as fast as sound could travel down a telephone line. Some people said the serial killer had killed Boris then travelled back south, then back up north again. Others said there were two killers or ten. Satanists took the brunt of the blame and people wondered if a cult from Yorkton had made Kinniwaw its killing ground. The theory of extra-terrestial killers was tossed into the mire of suspects (after all who had mutilated those cows? And why wouldn't they move on to humans?).
A team of police specialists from Toronto arrived, but by the time they got there everything was drawing to a close. Their artist did get one thing, a description of the killer from a waitress in Kyle who said she saw him driving away with Sandra Waltby. The sketch made the evening news. Rand saw it and later he would meet the man the drawing represented.
Kinniwaw tightened and people went to church and for the first time they realized how small their town actually was. With the murder being talked about Kari thought of the yelling spirit at Rand's place and she grew frightened.
And she wasn't the only one. Some people locked their doors and windows and waited with their guns in hand in the center of the room or backs against a wall so no one could sneak up on them. When they answered the door, they answered it carefully, making sure they knew who was on the other side. Sometimes, even then, they wouldn't open the door. Because who really knew who was doi
ng the killings? It might not be some serial killer like the reporters said, it could be the neighbor's weird young kid, the one who used to yell at your dog at night or who was throwing things against your home.
Kinniwaw tightened and the old people felt their age and others said they felt unreal and cold and that someone was watching them. Old Mr. Willis, one of the town drunks (the bar loved him), said he had seen his wife, dead twenty years, walking down the street, telling him to get home and be a good boy or he would be dead too. Yes, dead, she said. Mr. Willis left the bottle alone for five days after that. The general feeling of the Hillcrest group of ladies who got together every Sunday to read text from the Bible was that somebody in Kinniwaw had been doing something sinful and now the whole town was going to pay.
Kinniwaw tightened and there was little to do but wait.
2.
Rand was driving again, heading north. It was Wednesday morning and the sun was bright in the sky. He, and Kinniwaw, had not yet heard of Mr. Eslard's death.
Rand had to see Bumpa. His life was getting too thick, too chaotic. He couldn't sort through anything anymore. There were webs over his eyes, a skein of confusion. He needed to talk it out, to hold his life up for someone else to look at. Because he knew he wasn't normal anymore, that he was sinking into something deeper than depression. He needed help. Guidance.
The road went by quickly, a blur. On either side the grass was still green but turning yellow. In time the pavement ended and the road became gravel. It had rained the night before and the gravel road was still lumpy with mud. Farmers had driven their big trucks across it, heading into town with loads of grain. Rand didn't slow down. His car was thrown left and right, according to the whim of the ruts. He started to skid, but controlled it and made his way back to the centre.
It took a lifetime to get to Bumpa's and when he finally pulled into the driveway, he was exhausted. He saw Bumpa's blue truck on the driveway and felt relieved because Bumpa was there for sure. He parked beside the truck, shut off the car, pushed the door open and got out.
Damage Page 13
