by Sarah Read
“At least that much was done properly,” said Redd, cooling off slightly. His nails had scored deep furrows in the varnish of the hardwood table. He turned to face Patricia Cotton. “At this point, we will be taking apart your most cherished memories, systematically. We will peel you one sliver at a time. We will take what you love most and turn it to corruption. Your mind will crack. And then, when all that is left is the bleeding core, you will beg us to take your soul.
“That’s why we’re here. Remember that one magical night when you had your first kiss? The lake house, where you spent every summer? Now you will watch as we take the boy apart in front of you.”
Tumbleweed bounced onto the table. “Say, boss. Aren’t these hands a little big for a fourteen-year-old boy? Unless dear Patricia here had a taste for older gentlemen, of course.” The shrouded head gave a soft moan as Tumbleweed prodded its side.
“Of course it’s the boy. Didn’t you build this place up from her memory of the Summer of ‘94?”
The squirming mass of spiders on Chitterling’s back managed to look guilty. “I’m sure the dossier said ‘92. So I just popped in here and picked up the only guy she remembers from that summer.” The giant spider vaulted onto the table and stroked the man’s hand with one of its hairy legs. “He did seem a little mature for Patricia, if you asked me.”
The tic was back in the corner of Redd’s eye. As was the throbbing vein in his temple. He leapt onto the table. The assorted misfits winced at the sound of expensive cloth ripping. Redd lifted the cloth covering the face of the unfortunate victim.
¤
Redd had taken a timeout. The demons could still hear the anguished yells and sounds of destruction coming from outside the lake house. Tumbleweed produced a battered pack of cigarettes from somewhere about his person and passed it around the table. The packet wound up in front of Patricia Cotton. She yawned, and picked it up. When she parted her pink lips to grip the end of the cigarette, her tongue, a foot long and bristling with fleshy barbs, rolled out of her mouth.
“I don’t know why you bother keeping cigarettes around, Tumbleweed,” she said, lighting up. “It’s not like you have lungs or anything.”
There was a particularly loud crash as the gazebo outside collapsed. “How long do you think he’ll be out there?” asked Imagio, showing a version of Chitterling, his carapace smashed, the tiny spiders fleeing from the carnage.
“Can’t you turn off the trick with the reflections?” Chitterling asked, stretching his legs. “It freaks everybody out. Anyway, he’s been out there yelling his head off for twelve minutes now. We’re doing our jobs right. This is a pretty fun gig isn’t it?”
There was a creaking sound from the mirror. The glassy surface rippled and twisted into the form of silvery-skinned woman. She reached out and snagged the lit cigarette from Patricia Cotton’s fingers. “Ta, darling,” she said, taking a deep drag. “Is twelve minutes a new record?”
“No, I think it needs to pass at least fifteen,” said the thing called Patricia Cotton, as she stretched her shoulders. “We’ve got a good shot at it though. He seems pretty smart. I almost thought he had it figured out at the end. I mean, how many of these damned meetings do you think we can hold before he goes crazy?”
Chitterling gave a big grin. “We can do this forever.”
L Chan is a writer from Singapore. He spends too much time on the internet and too little time writing. His work has been published in Fictionvale, Perihelion Science Fiction and A Mythos Grimmly: Prelude.
URSA MAJOR
By Lynne M. MacLean
Cathy Goody rested her forehead on the steering wheel of her old, dark green pickup. She had walked as quickly as possible away from the tavern without appearing to run. She needed to take a deep breath, clear her head, and then, move, pronto.
Clearing her head was proving harder than expected. It was an uncharacteristically hot day for such a northerly community. Sweat gathered at her temples and seeped from her armpits. The air inside the truck was sweltering even though she had left it parked in the shade with the windows rolled down. She hadn’t worried about theft. No one in St. Sang would dare touch a Goody vehicle.
Cathy reached for the water bottle stashed in the cup holder. She splashed her face and then her neck beneath the heavy hank of dark brown hair shot with grey. She took a swig. The water was warm, but it vanquished the arid taste of iron that hit when she’d overheard the tavern gossip. She put on her glasses, started the truck and headed down the road towards home. She would have to stop there first, then head out to Bob’s house in Old Jack River. If she was speedy, she might get there before Bonnie, or maybe even intercept her on the way. God, Bob. What kind of idiot are you? Cathy took a deep breath. Most likely, he just didn’t know who he was dealing with.
The sisters’ cabin was on the outskirts. Cathy had to stop at the combined traffic light and bear crossing just before the highway. The Goody apiary was on one side of the intersection, vanishing into the bush and lakefront property where the sisters lived. The sobering sight of the old, burned-down Sang des Saints mission school was on the other side. The Goody homestead had been there almost as long as the mission.
Cathy’s eyes narrowed, remembering the night of the fire. Though the residential school had been closed long ago, decades-old memories of whispered child abuse kept the community’s anger smouldering through its collective memory. Then, a few years ago, the nation-wide scandals of abuse exploded through the media and rang through the trees, fanning the embers. Most families had been in St. Sang so long, intermingling lives, that it had been everyone’s concern. The mission had burst into flame one night just as a storm was gathering. “Lightning strike” everyone agreed, including the RCMP, the band council, the mayor, and community groups. Now, the building was a pile of shattered, blackened brick and burnt timbers on a scorched foundation. With minimal effort, Cathy could smell the thick, choking smoke again.
The light went green. Cathy glanced around for Mounties, then stepped on the gas, wind blasting through the windows and whipping through her hair.
¤
This was not how she had planned to spend her first clear Saturday in weeks. She and Bonnie’s wilderness expedition business was in full summer swing. This weekend had been scheduled for their popular “Women’s Outdoor Adventure.” Women liked the idea of female guides. The group of Americans, however, had cancelled late last night.
Today, Cathy had taken one look at the noon heat waves radiating like writhing, translucent snakes off her white-painted porch, and decided she’d spend the day in the tavern enjoying the air conditioning. She had been feeling as sunny as the light streaming through her cabin’s streak-free windows. The thought that a storm was coming had cheered her even more. It would wash away the sea gull scat drying into concrete on the porch. The thunderstorm would come before nightfall, she predicted. She’d been feeling the storm building for a couple of hours, along with the humidity. No stargazing tonight, no marking the wheeling of the heavens around the North Star this summer’s eve. Clouds weren’t visible, but she knew they were coming. She loved the buildup of positive ions. The tingling energy, the goosebumps raising her body hair. The only thing better was the release when the storm hit, especially if she had a man around. Yes, the tavern would be the place to go. She wanted to get to that artificial breeze. If she was lucky, maybe she would hook up with someone new, someone with a good sense of humour, an enthusiastic dick, and a room with air-conditioning. A good place to work out the storm, she’d thought.
Bonnie, on the other hand, decided to surprise her beau down the road in Old Jack River. Bob Jenkins worked the railways and the station in Old Jack River served as his base. He’d be in town a few days out of every month, and Bonnie and he would spend the time together.
Usually Bob called when he arrived. This time he was coming in off-schedule. A few days ago, Cathy and Bonnie overheard a conversation in the Chinese cafe, where you could get pierogis with your egg rolls. Fus
ion, or survival, at its finest. Bob’s boss had been talking to Bob’s buddy Steve, about bringing the trains up for an extra load. Now suddenly free, Bonnie thought she’d give Bob a treat, and be there before he had time to call.
Cathy knew that Bob made Bonnie happy. Love had turned Bonnie girly. She had even started wearing nail polish, hot neon pink. Frosted. Somehow, Bonnie maintained it with a minimum of chipping through the constant bush treks. Hell, it must be love. At least she’s not wearing stilettos on the trails. Yet.
Bonnie had pedaled off on her bike about two hours ago, before Cathy heard the news. Maybe the heat had slowed Bonnie down. Cathy shook her head at the thought of what that might do to Bonnie’s temper.
Goody women had bad tempers at the best of times. But, hard times, bad men, celibacy, teetotalling, diets and the curse made them worse. Especially the curse. Menopause had freed forty-nine-year-old Cathy from the monthly changes and the rages that heralded them, and then lasted through the first few days. Now at last Cathy was in control of her body and not the other way around.
Bonnie, though, there’s another story. At forty-five, Bonnie was starting the Big Change. Already Bonnie’s cycles, and her rages, were becoming irregular and unpredictable. So far, Bob could handle it. So far.
Cathy raced the last kilometre over the bumpy road, shaking the beer from her head. Think. Had Bonnie been more irritable the last day or so? There was the incident with the tea towel. Cathy had picked up the shreds blanketing the kitchen like a cotton blizzard. No point in asking what happened. Damn. Had Bonnie been eating more? Cathy mentally walked through the contents of her fridge. Lots of vegetables still. Meat? Hardly any. No wine. No chocolate. No chocolate? Double, no, triple damn. Cathy stepped hard on the gas.
¤
Cathy peeled into the driveway and up to the house. She put on a pot of coffee to brew and sprinted out to the boathouse. Think, Cathy, think. Man, I need that coffee.
Was there anyone who could help? The family’s young ones were all up at Fort Dez for the Summer Freshwater Running Festival. The aunties were too old. She considered calling her cousins, Sharon and Lise, who would probably be in town. They’d been all self-righteous the last time anyone got in trouble. Since the big hunt, they’d been unbearable. Old sows. That was years and years ago. You’d think they’d be over it. Cathy felt indignation crawling up her spine and pinching her stomach into stone. No, Bonnie and me, we’ll handle this ourselves.
She pulled together a batch of supplies, standard camping gear and some not-so-standard ransacked from those laid in for the cancelled expedition. The latter included Midol and a dozen huge bars of chocolate. Perhaps a little fondue in the bush? Hah. Not this trip. She added her dart gun. She’d gotten the bear tranquilizing rig under the table from Dave, a park warden and old friend. He understood the sisters’ situation, two women alone, dealing with the bush fulltime. He’d risked his job to pass the stuff along, no questions asked. Cathy next dug up five kilos of solid bacon from the supply fridge, took it out to the woodpile, and chopped it into fist-sized chunks, then threw them into a plastic bag. She left everything near the front entrance of the boat house.
Cathy bolted back up to the house, her mind accelerating as the booze sludge receded. While gulping down a cup of the freshly brewed coffee, its black, steaming harshness slamming against the back of her throat, she filled a thermos with the rest. She darted into the guest room where a venerable aunt had spent her final days. In the back of the musty closet she found the pack of adult diapers. She grabbed it, dashed to the kitchen, grabbed the thermos, and then, slamming the door behind her, headed to the truck. She backed it up to the boathouse, loaded her gear, and sped off towards Old Jack River. Thank the powers that be for these long summer days, she thought. At least I won’t be fighting the dark.
Once on the road, she shifted her glasses up the bridge of her nose, unclenched her jaw, took a swig of coffee from the thermos beside her, and tried to ignore the prickling of the small hairs along her arms and neck.
¤
On the highway to Bob’s, Cathy went over the details of the tavern incident, hoping against hope to find something to allay her fears.
The Outback Upthere Tavern had been dim and cool. Her friends had been waiting and the beer was already poured from the frosty pitchers. She heard that Dave had been by with the new Mountie.
“Dave specifically asked for you,” Jake had said.
A park warden and a Mountie together usually meant bush trouble, and this time was no exception.
“Yeah,” Jake said, “just to let you know there’re signs of poaching in the park. The usual: bear parts, gall bladders. Been a couple of wounded bears got away on the poachers. Dave and his guys had to put them down. He thought you and your tourists would want to know. After all, as Warden Dave says: ‘A wounded bear is a dangerous bear.’”
After the third round of pitchers, the jokes were flying, the tavern was filling, and the conversation volume rising. Cathy decided to check out the fresh meat at the bar, a new batch of guys for the mine. She’d gone over with the empty jugs on the pretext of buying the next round, people backing out of her path as they always did.
She had just sniffed out a man she liked and was moving in to ask him for the peanuts when she heard Bonnie’s name back at her table, across the room. It wouldn’t do her any good to look around. Given her lousy vision, she’d have to depend on her hearing. Without turning her head, she focused on the words.
“Bonnie’s gonna get her heart broken.”
“I know. I heard about the girl.”
“Yeah, the ticket-seller at the train station.”
“No way. She can’t be more than twenty-one.”
“Twenty’s what I heard. And blonde.”
“Natural?”
“So the story goes.”
The men at her table laughed. Damn.
“How come Bonnie doesn’t know?”
“He doesn’t tell her every time he comes up.” Crap.
“Man, I’d hate to be in his shoes when Bonnie finds out.”
“How long’s this been going on?”
“At least two months.” Double crap.
Cathy turned then, the pitchers sloshing, strode back and plunked them down on the table, pretending she’d heard nothing. She slugged down a beer, made up an excuse, and left.
No, there was nothing in the memory to give Cathy much hope that she wasn’t walking into a mess. Cathy was driving now through the arm of the provincial park that bisected the highway between St. Sang and Old Jack River. It wouldn’t be long until she got to Bob’s. Just on the other side of the park. She increased her speed.
¤
Bob Jenkins lived in a rented railway house on the edge of town, along an abandoned stretch of track. Bob liked to be near the bush, with a lot of space and trees between himself and his neighbours. Besides, as he once told Cathy and Bonnie, he liked his comings and goings private. That had suited Bonnie just fine. Sounds like it suited someone else, too, thought Cathy, approaching Bob’s road. Cathy swerved into Bob’s driveway, a tail of dust flying behind her.
Bonnie’s bike was tucked back behind a bush. You couldn’t see it from the road unless you knew where to look. The only other vehicle in the driveway was Bob’s new pickup. You like the good life, don’t you Bob? Where’s all the money come from?
Cathy took a deep breath, then slowly drove her truck over the scrubby grass around to the back of the house, parked, and got out. Everything was still.No birds. Just grasshoppers, and now, mosquitoes whining around her head. She twitched her ears reflexively, her nose testing the air. Nothing. She was upwind of the house anyway. She slapped away a couple of mosquitoes and tried the back door. It was unlocked. She knocked, hard, and waited. When there was no reply, she opened it, calling out for Bob and Bonnie. Again no answer, so she went in, shutting the door behind her.
Bob’s scent filled the house, a distinctive blend of heavy cologne, DEET, and sweat. Cathy sneeze
d and shook her head. She had never liked Bob’s smell. But, since it’s not my head stuck in his artificial musk-drenched man pits, why should I care? She shook her head clear again, and moved forward. She stopped at the entrance to the living room. The furniture was sparse, bare but solid, with signs of wear burnished into every article. A few expensive, very tiny, very portable pieces of technology, counterbalanced by a huge TV screen, were Bob’s personal touches. All the surfaces gleamed dust free.Kind of surprising for a place where no one lives most of the time. Unless Bob had arrived earlier than Bonnie, and had dusted, expecting company. Unless Bonnie dusted while she waited for Bob. And maybe Hell froze over, allowing little housemaid demons to visit, fluttering feather dusters.
She walked into the living room, and caught the scent of someone else beneath Bob’s pervasive top note. This was another perfume, feminine, citrusy, young. Her stomach tightened. Still, no hint of Bonnie’s muskier odour, run through as it was these days with the chemical reek of freshly reapplied nail polish. So far, so good. Maybe all was well. Yeah, and maybe they’ve all gone on a picnic together.
In the kitchen, on the counter by the sink, she found two wine glasses, one with a lipstick smudge, one without.No lipstick for Bonnie. Nail polish, but no lipstick. An ashtray holding cigarette butts kept the wine glasses company . Bonnie doesn’t smoke. Neither does Bob. So, someone had been tidying up after a visit. Not that long ago, either. The girl must have left, as there was no sign of another vehicle. Unless she walked over. Cathy remembered seeing the girl a few times in town.Always in stilettos. Nah, she drove. Bob’s vehicle was still here. Hopefully, he left with her, before Bonnie appeared. Where the hell’s Bonnie?
