Hieroglyphs_of_Blood_and_Bone

by Michael Griffin

  No calling in sick, not today. Out of bed. I'm up.

  It isn't even 5:30 yet. I stagger into the shower, clean myself up, get dressed. I stare into the mirror. Can't recognize him. Me. It's not the mirror's fault. Those broken eyes. Dying face. Angles out of alignment.

  I drive in so early nothing's happening. The graveyard shift is leaving, grease-smeared shipwrights and soot-black welders. They never know what to make of me. I hope at least Constant will get in soon enough to credit me for arriving early.

  Nodding at my desk. Can't let myself sleep.

  "That's better, Guy," Constant shouts. "Six-fifteen. I like it."

  Shit, he's here. Straighten up, turn on my computer. Open some CAD files, zoom the display so the lines on the monitor become abstract. Impossible to tell walking by that these parts fit a fishing trawler we rebuilt nine months ago, and already billed out. Just intersecting lines, inscrutable curves like the diagram of some Da Vinci invention massively expanded.

  By nine Constant shuts his office door, leaves for the day. The open plan office is divided into quadrants, with one quarter each for a reception area, then Bookkeeping, Payroll and me. Constant refers to us as the "office girls," which of course gives all the hardhat guys permission to jeeringly repeat this phrase.

  Constant has a posh office, windows overlooking the Columbia, three Richard Petty lookalike stock cars, and a couple million in the bank, but he still remains one of the guys. Wears his hardhat when he goes out to the yard, knows how to handle the tools. Even gets his hands dirty every day, though he doesn't need to anymore.

  I go to the reception window, check the parking lot for Karl's Firebird. Not there. Karl's one of "the guys" too, chief among them in a sense, though Karl at least has stopped referring to me as one of the "office girls." Out in the yard, without supervision from Karl or Constant himself, twenty-nine guys waste time, shouting and grab-assing. Plasma cutters should be sizzling, TIG welders snapping and burning, but no metal's getting cut or fabbed around here. Nothing's getting built.

  I stand up. "Going home sick."

  Jeannine in Payroll perks up. "You got no sick pay left." She's seventy-seven, with a 1950s platinum bouffant. Jeannine wears pink eye shadow and pink baby doll dresses every day.

  "But I'm off ninety-day probation, right?"

  "Yeah." Jeannine pops her pink bubble gum. "So you'll take a half-day unpaid then."

  "My stomach's really bad." I make a face. "I'll find something for it at the market, then get some sleep."

  "When my Benjy gets a bad tummy, I give him Spaghetti-os and ginger ale," Jeannine says. "Not mixed together, I mean. One to eat, one to drink." Benjy is Jeannine's demented husband. He's ninety years old, and thinks Jeannine's a teenage girl. They baby-talk on the phone dozens of times every day.

  Before I head out, I email Karl, tell him I'm cutting out, just in case he's planning to show up later.

  Jeannine's prescription for Benjy gives me an idea. It's not comfort food I need, or medicine, but something else. I need to feed myself new experiences, new places. Maybe my mind will start to change.

  I get home, find Karl's still not around. I change clothes, grab the fishing gear he told me I could keep. This plan feels like withholding something, or keeping a secret. Karl's been nothing but a friend to me. I'm not sure why I feel like I'm being sneaky or deceptive.

  I cross the Interstate Bridge into Washington. A half hour later, when the locked gate at the edge of River Road comes into view, I finally admit to myself where I've been going all along.

  Chapter 7

  Alone to the Kalama

  The first time Karl brought me here, I arrived with an open mind and no expectations. Now my hands tremble. What is it, anticipation, or a sense of something important looming? Of all the things Karl and I experienced that day, what sticks in my mind most vividly is that last place, the deep, clear pools in the center of that canyon. Fish holding steady, seeming to levitate, hidden from the sun.

  On my way up the driveway, carrying my gear, I keep an eye open for signs of anyone else. Though Karl said this man Cayson rarely stayed in the house, still I feel self-conscious, showing up unescorted. At least Karl knows the man, probably well enough to explain his presence if confronted. I wonder how Cayson would take it, if I explained my intrusion by saying I'm the roommate of the son of a dead man who once helped him with a property deal in the Pearl?

  I almost expect every detail to have changed from my recollection, but just like before, the house comes into view, imposing and almost certainly vacant. Nothing to worry about, nobody home. At that point in the driveway, the dirt trail cuts away toward the river. Deeper into the trees I feel concealed, safe, invisible. I'm still not exactly sure what I'm seeking, what memory I would revisit, if I could choose. Catching the fish, or enjoying the scenery, the smells, the sounds of birds, or just the hypnotic pleasure derived from the repetitive act of fishing itself. If some aspect of Karl's simple, masculine, unworried nature can be found out here, that's what I might hope to find. I'm actually not even sure I'll be able to manage the tackle without Karl's help. Tie fly to lead, lead to line. I remember Karl repeating this, speaking it like a mantra. Then later, cast, watch the drift, reel in. Cast again.

  Vaguely I recall fishing as a boy, though never fly fishing. That cheap Zebco pole and reel, black plastic trimmed with fake chrome. Garish silver and neon spinners attached to hooks. Spinning lures, that's what we called them back then. Sometimes hooks with worms. I must have been eight or ten years old, but I remember almost nothing about that kid. I played baseball, rode my bike, traded comic books with other boys. Crashed in the dirt, scabbed up knees and elbows. I didn't worry much then, but somehow, aging weakened me. I used to be so different.

  The trees thin near the river. Birds invisible above, their sounds punctuating the water's murmur. A smell of the sun's warmth on riverbank grass, wafting into the trees.

  Rather than go down to this faster-moving water where Karl and I began last time, I turn left, follow the upper bank downstream.

  I'm curious about Cayson's big unoccupied house. It's got to be at least three thousand square feet, four or five bedrooms. A lot more house than the one I shared with Michelle, and certainly nice enough to live in full-time. It's strange, a man owning a place like this, and leaving it unoccupied.

  Instead of continuing on the trail parallel to the river as planned, I veer back into the trees, toward the house. I want to get a closer look. As the gray painted wood in the distance comes visible through the trees, I slow. No cars outside. No lights. No sign of current presence or recent activity. Once I'm sure I'm alone, I feel a kind of thrill. Like a kid exploring the unknown, venturing into forbidden rooms.

  This time I'm not following Karl, going where he says we should go. Now it feels like an adventure.

  I creep toward the lower deck, trying to remain quiet, even though I'm convinced I'm the only person for miles. The first window looks into a kitchen, an empty stainless sink, stone countertops. It's a nice enough place, but not so distinct from many of the houses in my old neighborhood. I decide to get down to the river as originally planned.

  From the house, the path takes a different cut through the trees, more directly toward the canyon where I landed and released my first steelhead. The landscape here feels wilder, trees older and more substantial than the scattered newer-growth evergreens buffering the house from River Road. Though a trail exists in the direction I intend to go, it's less clearly defined, more grown over with vines and ferns. Moss spreads in thick green cushions up and down tree trunks, and streams loose, hanging from low branches, beginning to dry and fade in summer. The air feels closed off, like the protected, almost subterranean atmosphere in the canyon where I'm headed.

  As I walk, I keep an eye on the ground, making sure I don't trip. After a while, the house lost from view behind me, I sense movement to my left. I catch a glimpse of what appears to be a slight figure slipping behind a stout white oak, which stand
s out among so many evergreens. I stop, unsure of what I saw. The lack of movement or sound make me wonder. It looked like a woman, with long dark hair flowing behind as she ran on tiptoes.

  I step nearer the tree, stop and listen again. Stand perfectly still. No movement, just subtle wind, and a light shower of pine needles falling from high overhead. I move to the oak, reach out, place my hand flat on the broad trunk as if to test its solidity. Convinced there's nothing here, I make a circuit, return to where I began. Then I notice what else is different about this tree. Unlike the rest, this trunk isn't thick with moss. Also, shapes and lines are cut into the bark. Thin slashes, like razor cuts in flesh, so subtle I only notice them now that I'm close. The cuts are seeping, more red than amber. This makes the lines resemble bleeding wounds, and I touch one of them, a shape like a rune or ward from old magic. I expect my fingers to come away wet or sticky, but the lines are dry and hard. Looking closer, I see more of these outlines all over the tree, varied sizes and configurations, some ornamented with tiny white seeds or spores stuck in the blood-red sap.

  I feel slightly afraid, like I've stumbled upon someone's secret. More than that, my heart pounds with wonder at the beautiful, confusing mystery of this tree. It's something I never would have noticed if I hadn't approached so near.

  "Hello?" I call, not expecting any answer. There must not be anyone here. I just circled the tree, found nothing.

  A sound, then. Rustling from the opposite side of the trunk.

  I hurry around, thinking I'll catch someone scrambling, trying to hide, but there's nobody. Then I notice an opening in the trunk I hadn't seen at first. It's a wide split near the ground, large enough to hide inside. If anyone were hiding there, I could see them. It's just a vacant hollow. But then I hear the sound again, this time coming from within. I kneel, stick my head inside, and look up. Something's definitely moving, up in the black hollow. Without thinking, I plunge my hand up, into the dark. My fingers find something wet and cold. I gag at the smell of rot, like a decomposing animal.

  I pull my hand back. Whatever I might have heard, there's nothing here. Nobody. I'm alone.

  A chill of fear overtakes me, revulsion at the dark, foul smear covering my hand to the wrist. I stand, back away from the tree, holding my hand behind me so I don't have to smell the organic rot.

  Carrying my gear left-handed, I hurry directly toward the water, more interested in washing my hand than anything. The section of river I find in my urgency is neither the rougher upriver stretch where I began, nor the placid downriver canyon pool. Here the water moves not in discrete whirls, eddies and chutes, but as a uniform mass, unhurried but insistent, conveying downstream untold billions of gallons, thousands or perhaps millions of steelhead, along with all other manner of life. Washing my hands, I decide I'll fish here, try this unfamiliar stretch of river between the faster and slower extremes.

  When I turn to the shore, open my bag and with dripping hands start to assemble my gear, something on a rock face up the bank stops me. On a smooth, almost perfectly flat stone, like a gray chalkboard angled up to face the sun, someone has scrawled letters and shapes in what must be blood. At first I want to believe this is actually the same reddish sap I just found seeping from the oak, but this is different. The forms are rougher and more primal, not rendered with a careful blade but smeared with hands, like the finger-painting of a reckless child. I can't make sense of the words, maybe Nordic runes or Cyrillic letters, or neither. Although I can't understand, or even articulate the nature of feeling this inspires, the designs are so unpleasant to look at, I change my mind about remaining here to fish. I pick up my gear and resolve to continue downriver toward my original destination, the still pool. As I prepare go, I force myself to take one final look at the awful smeared shapes. They appear to be comprised not only of blood, but fragments of shattered bone and meatier solid matter like the guts of animals or fish.

  I hurry up the bank and feel relief, back on the upper trail I recognize. I continue down toward the canyon.

  Already I've seen so much of interest, I can't keep it all straight. The empty house. The hollow, decorated tree. Evergreens hung with ancient moss. The stone smeared with symbols. Too much to remember, though I know these details will spin through my mind until I understand them.

  In the place where Karl stopped before, I find the gap, push through, and descend into the canyon. Here are my footprints and Karl's, undisturbed since our visit. Exactly as I expect, a cluster of steelhead hover in water so clear it seems invisible. Each casts a shadow on the floor of the pool. I have the same uncanny sense of witnessing levitation in air. This place feels wild, timeless, almost primal. Protected down in this valley below the rest of the world, it seems to be hidden from the sun, and from all eyes above.

  Without my conscious awareness of what I'm doing, my hands have assembled the components of my fishing gear. Fly to lead to line, easy and nimble, as if I've done this a thousand times. Though in reality I've only fished the once with Karl, in my mind I've done this many times, a sort of practice in imagination.

  I face the water and cast, witness the line's slow drift, and finally reel in. This repeats several times, a rhythmic extension of my reach far beyond the grasp of arms and hands, until I release the line with a flick and it carries to the point my eyes have chosen. The end of the process leads back to the beginning, and goes on forever. I remember everything Karl said, without realizing it's something I ever learned. So meditative, peaceful. Not sure that's how Karl experiences it, but that's how it feels to me, especially now that I'm alone. My mind clears, motionless and transparent as the water.

  My reverie breaks at a wild splash. First I think someone's dived into the pool from above, scattered the fish, then I become mindful of tension on my line. A living thing flutters, pulling sideways beneath the water. I draw back, try to set the hook, then modulate the pressure against the fish to prevent it throwing the hook. Pull, reel a few times, then pull some more. Don't hurry, but don't let up. My heart thumps wildly, all primal fear and excitement, so much more visceral than when Karl was here. I'm not sure why I should be afraid, but the idea of losing the fish, of failing to bring it in, alarms me more than any other possible failure I might imagine.

  Sweat drips down my face, my neck and back. Coming in closer, the steelhead continues its swerving, left to right, downstream and back up. I bring it nearer. When it's almost to the bank, I remember Karl swooping in with his net, but I don't think I have one. I keep tension, sidestep nearer my bag, and shoot a glance to make sure.

  The gear Karl gave me definitely doesn't include a net. What would Karl do?

  I can let it go, or keep what I've caught. I can take it home. What feels right to me, natural? I don't want to repeat what happened before.

  Determined not to freeze up, to let the chance slip, I reach for the little weighted bat. Reel in and lift, work the exhausted fish until it's right in front of me. My left hand grasps the steelhead by the tail, holds it steady. Right hand grasps the bat handle and swings. I strike the fish on the side of the head. Blood sprays, the body stiffens, then relaxes straight. At this outcome, I become aware of possibilities within me, previously submerged potential. When I think of before, my too-cautious handling of the earlier fish, I feel angry.

  I rest the fish on the gravel at the water's edge, and go back for another look in the gear bag. What else is there? A folding knife, gray metal, like a weapon for killing. I unfold the blade and slit the steelhead lengthwise, down the belly. I remember seeing this before, maybe in a movie. Pull out loose innards, blood spilling over my hands, clutching the remains of this thing which lived only a minute ago. Pride, revulsion, both at once. I fling the guts out into the water. Some of the mess flies wildly from my hand and lands on the rocks of the bank. The resulting pattern of this accidental mess resembles what I left behind not long ago, up river. What have I made? A question mark in entrails? An exclamation point? Blood all over my hands, I feel a bit deranged, theatrical
and wild-eyed after the killing and gutting. I'm breathing heavily, invigorated. It feels good, I think.

  This is a ceremony, a summoning. What else do I want? What could I wish for?

  I consider walking back to the car just like this. There's something weirdly satisfying about the blood and the smell I now carry, but I decide I'd better wash my hands. What might work here in this primeval canyon wouldn't look right, driving my car back to the city. I swirl hands in the water, rub one against the other. The blood disperses, strangely milky in the water. The smell is wild and strange, not merely fish or blood but something more. By the time I rinse the gutted steelhead, the other fish are already beginning to return to the pool. This makes no sense to me, though it does bring to mind what Karl said. Catch one, pull him from the water, and the rest will spook and scatter. But right away they forget how afraid they were. The commotion dies down and they fall right back into their holding pattern. Karl said sometimes he might catch the same fish again and again, pull out the hook and see another hole in its mouth where an hour before, he hooked and released the same fish.

  One minute it's the end of the world, the next it's like nothing ever happened.

  Maybe I'm like that. I forget trouble sooner than I should, put myself back in harm's way. I should finally learn and stop coming back.

  I wrap the cleaned fish in a ratty paper sack from the bottom of my gear bag. The watery smell of fish soaks through the paper. I stow my gear, wash my hands one last time. I can still smell everything that happened, still feel my heart crashing inside of my chest.

  I stand on the bank a while, trying to calm myself. This smooth surface, I could watch forever.

  Eventually I pick up my gear and scramble back up the bank. Have to go back to the world.

  When I reach the top and emerge through the brush, the sky has turned from blue to steel gray. It's like emerging into a world I thought I might never see again. I walk that edge, teetering between forest and river, until I reach a tangle of spiny blackberry canes taller than myself.