Raven Stole the Moon

by Garth Stein

  Ferguson squinted through the darkness and there it was. The long face with the crooked nose and the whiskers. A slit for a mouth with no lips. His father’s sunken eyes, black as coal. And the voice, with an edge of contempt in it always. “Good boy,” he said, like his father used to say when he did something any moron could do. “Good boy.” Ferguson tried with all his might to resist untying the creature, but he couldn’t. He was drawn toward the thin, hairy body with his father’s face and voice.

  Ferguson took out his pocketknife and began to cut the rope that held the creature. It was thick hemp and difficult to cut. Ferguson’s knife slipped and he sliced into his thumb. Blood sprang out of the wound. Ferguson put it to his mouth and sucked. The blood tasted hot. So hot. And suddenly things became clear to Ferguson. Suddenly he was free of the feeling that he wasn’t in control of his own actions. Like shrugging off a heavy coat, Ferguson could move as he wanted. He stood up and the creature looked at him with anger. “Untie me, you idiot. Are you too stupid to do what I say?” Ferguson stood over the creature, and all the rage he felt about his father, who had passed away years ago, whose funeral he did not attend under protest, all the rage and anger of how this ugly man had ruined his life and the life of his mother came rushing to the surface, and as he raised his flashlight over his head, he knew that whatever this thing was, tied to the chair, it was using him and using his father’s dead soul to manipulate him, and his anger pushed bile into his throat and he said, “I’m sorry, David,” before he brought the metal flashlight down on the creature’s head, knocking it so far into unconsciousness it would not wake up until morning, until after the sun had climbed into the sky. And when it did awake, it was not a creature. It was David Livingstone, a man, a shaman who had done battle with a force much more powerful than he, and had lost; but in exchange for a price he had not agreed upon, he had been spared from becoming one of the undead, from being forever transformed into a kushtaka.

  FERGUSON DIDN’T ASK. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t want to know. As far as he was concerned, the events of the previous night simply hadn’t happened. It was all a dream. A hallucination. It had to be. People don’t change shapes; they don’t become animals. It doesn’t happen.

  Neither man spoke as they walked down to the dock. David seemed satisfied to let the matter drop. He was in a daze and looked almost fragile to Ferguson. Broken. There were two large welts on his temple, and when he walked, he seemed to be in pain. David climbed into his boat and started the outboard.

  “You’ll send me a report and an invoice?” Ferguson asked.

  David looked up and nodded slightly as he guided the boat out into the bay.

  Ferguson untied his plane and got in. He cranked the engine, and as the propeller started to spin, he took his experience from the previous two days and hid it in his mind. He imagined that in time he would, on occasion, wonder about it. Whatever happened to David Livingstone? He was a good guy. Whatever happened to him? But he would never know.

  The water was like a lake, smooth and shapeless. Ferguson laid on the throttle and picked up speed, lifting into the air. He looked down from the plane and saw David’s boat turn north. When Fergie finally returned his gaze to that which was ahead of him, he had already pushed the entire event from his mind. He was only thinking about getting a shower and a beer and a bowl of chili. Three things he had experienced before and could easily understand.

  Chapter 12

  IT WAS THE END OF THE SECOND DAY AND JENNA STOOD OUT on the deck of the Columbia admiring the stars. The wind had picked up and it was getting a little cold, but rather than retreat, Jenna zipped up her jacket and hugged herself tightly. She had found a small place on the boat that was dark and quiet, really the only place she could be alone for a moment, and she didn’t want to give it up yet. Soon it would be time for sleep down in the dormitory-like yellow cave. Soon, her quiet time would be over.

  The ferry was the perfect world for Jenna, really. On her own, but with the knowledge that there were hundreds of people nearby in case she needed them. She looked up at the stars and breathed the cold air and knew that she had made the right decision to get away from it all. Even so, a part of her wished she had someone to be with now. Someone who loved her and whom she loved. They could huddle together against the cold and keep each other warm. Drink hot chocolate, blow on their hands, and kiss a little bit. He would open up his jacket and she would slip inside and he would close it around her.

  As Robert did once, two summers ago. He opened his jacket and Jenna slipped inside. They kissed and looked at stars. They drank wine instead of hot chocolate. If Steve Miller hadn’t interrupted them. If he had looked at them and said, I don’t want to disturb them, then Bobby would be alive. No, that’s not true. That’s not what you’re supposed to think. Bobby was called, and there is nothing you could have done differently that would have changed it.

  It had all started at a party on a boat that sailed up and down the Seattle waterfront. Jenna and Robert stood out on the deck in their own world, kissing and gazing out at the lights of the buildings. It was early June and it was warm. Other people on the boat whispered about what a wonderful couple Jenna and Robert were.

  Those were the days when Robert was a hotshot kid, a maverick. While the other brokers his age were inside, kissing the asses of the big boys, Robert chose to be out on the deck, kissing Jenna. And he was respected for it.

  Robert used to tell Jenna he loved her. He used to kiss her at the dinner table in front of company. He used to come home at lunch for a little afternoon delight. And this wasn’t way back when, either. This was two short years ago. Bobby was five and they had been married eight years. They were, for the most part, an old married couple. While friends were breaking up, Robert and Jenna were on a different plane, immune from whatever those problems are that force young couples apart. And there had even been talk about another child. Hopefully a girl.

  Steve Miller called out to Robert and Jenna. Jenna never really liked Steve. He was in his mid-thirties and divorced. He took pride in having had the foresight to have a prenuptial agreement so his ex-wife couldn’t get at his money. His favorite hobby was driving Porsches around in circles at high speeds, and he was rumored to have had both pectoral and calf implants. Robert liked him, but he was annoyed when Steve called him Chief. Robert said that it gave him the chills, as if they were construction workers bonding or something.

  “Hey, there, Chieftain.”

  “Hello, Steve.”

  “Jenna, how are you, honey?”

  Steve kissed her on the cheek.

  “Hi, Steve.”

  “You look ravishing tonight, Jenna. I wish I had a girl like you I could make out with on the boat.”

  Steve threw his arm around Robert.

  “Bob, I need to talk to you for a minute, if I can. It’s about business and pleasure.”

  Steve swung around so he was between Jenna and Robert.

  “I’m involved with a certain investor’s group that is quite successful. We’ve backed some very prominent projects that have paid off for us in spades. Everyone in Seattle would like to be a part of our little fraternity, but as the saying goes, many call but few are chosen. However, Bob, yours truly has brought you to the attention of the group, and I have been given the go-ahead to invite you to join us in our next venture.”

  Steve stopped and looked closely at Robert’s mouth.

  “Looks like you got some lipstick on your mouth, Chief.”

  Jenna licked her thumb and wiped Robert’s lower lip clean.

  “There’s an abandoned town in Alaska. It’s on an island in the southeast called Prince of Wales Island.”

  “Jenna’s family is from Alaska. A town called Wrangell.”

  “Really? That’s practically next door.”

  “Yeah, she’s a quarter Tlingit Indian.”

  Steve held his hand up in a mock Indian greeting.

  “How. Anyway, it’s an old fishing town that was abandoned ye
ars ago, and we’re converting it into a high-class resort. Our group is teaming up with some Japanese investors and we’re putting together a limited partnership to finance it. We’re calling it Thunder Bay. The units are going for a hundred grand a pop.”

  Robert raised his eyebrows.

  “Now, Bobby, before you tell me you don’t have a hundred grand to pop, let me tell you two things. One, we’ll be happy to set you up with other investors who are interested in smaller shares. Fifty grand, twenty-five, whatever. Two, the point of this whole pitch I’m giving you is that by saying you’re interested, you get a free vacation. Let me explain. Knowing how much money we’re talking about, our group has decided to do a real promotion. We’re opening the resort for a week in July, and we’re inviting prospective investors to stay with us for free. This will give people a real taste of how terrific this place can be. An all-expenses-paid vacation for you and your family. Come on. Jenna and Bobby will love it.”

  Robert looked at Jenna with a gleam in his eye. Jenna picked up on his excitement.

  “Sounds like a lot of fun, Steve.”

  “Oh, man, you said it. This resort is going to be the new direction in travel and recreation. Look, people want to be out in the wilderness, right? The Great Outdoors. But in the end, what they really want is good food. They want to have fun and rough it and all that, but when they get back to their rooms at night, they want a hot shower and a good bottle of wine. Am I right? At our place we have gourmet cooks. But you supply the food. It’s a fishing and hunting village. The guests hunt and fish, and then they get to eat what they caught that night. Prepared by master chefs. We have professional guides that take people out. They do all the skinning and cleaning. A robust Châteauneuf-du-pape with fresh venison. A white Hermitage with fresh trout. Tell me it doesn’t sound great.”

  Robert was salivating at this pitch, but he held back.

  “What if we decide not to invest? I don’t think we can gamble that kind of cash right now. Even twenty-five grand is a lot for us to put on the line.”

  “Look, Chief, consider this a perk. This investor group is very active. They want to bring you into the fold. Just say you’re interested. If you don’t invest in this one, you’ll invest down the road. The truth is, they’re investing in you. Hey, you got on the invitation list. Consider it an honor.”

  Jenna knew that Robert was hooked. And, actually, the place didn’t sound bad to her. Prince of Wales Island. Thunder Bay. She’d have to check it on a map. Robert was caught up in Steve Miller’s pitch and the idea of hunting for your own meals. That part of it kind of sounded like having to peel your own shrimp in a restaurant, but whatever. Robert’s mind was in Thunder Bay right now, and he wouldn’t come back until Jenna could get him home.

  Jenna turned back to the skyline. The city was certainly beautiful. It was nice being out on the water. Romantic. But who cares about romance when you have guns and fishing rods, hunting and killing, gourmet meals and fine wines, and all of it free?

  Chapter 13

  THE LETTER ARRIVED FOUR DAYS LATER. IT WAS SHORT AND TO the point:

  Dear Mr. Ferguson,

  My investigation has revealed unresolved spiritual activity at your resort. My recommendation is to abandon the Thunder Bay Project immediately.

  David Livingstone

  Ferguson dropped the letter on his desk and sank his face into his hands. Damn. This was not what he needed right now. There were only eight weeks left until July first, and if he didn’t have a positive report from Livingstone, there would be cash flow problems. He steadfastly refused to ask his contractors to extend credit. It’s one thing to do business on a handshake with your friends; it’s another to do it with foreign investors.

  It was too late to go find another shaman, and even then, what was the guarantee he wouldn’t say the same thing? He picked up the phone and dialed David’s number. He would have to muscle David a bit, make him write another letter explaining that the chances were equally good that there were no spirits at all.

  David answered.

  “Look, David, what’s the deal with this letter?”

  “That’s my report,” David answered.

  “But it doesn’t say anything.”

  “It says enough.”

  “I can’t go to the investors and say the project is off because some shaman said so.”

  “I thought that’s why you hired me,” David said, with a bitter laugh.

  “No, I hired you to take care of the problem. Make the spirits go away.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I can’t,” David finally said.

  Ferguson was getting a little exasperated now. He never liked it when people said no to him. The construction business was full of that. Can I build on this soil? No. Can I do it for this amount? No. And you know what? When they think about it, the answer is always yes. “No” is the automatic default answer.

  “What’s the problem?” Ferguson pushed on. “Do you want more money, is that it? Talk to me, David. What’s the problem?”

  “What’s the problem? You were there!” David exclaimed, incredulous.

  Ferguson didn’t respond.

  “You saw! You saw what happened to me.”

  Again, Ferguson didn’t answer.

  “Jesus.” David laughed. “Let me lay it out for you. That town is built on somebody else’s property. That’s why it’s a ghost town. There are spirits there. Very powerful spirits. And they don’t want a resort being built on top of them. You want me to write that in a report for your investors?”

  Ferguson groaned. No damn luck on this project. Now he has an uppity witch doctor to deal with.

  “There must be a way to get them to move.”

  “They don’t move. You move. You want my recommendation? Take apart all your buildings and move them about two miles down the shore. Then you’ll be pretty safe, unless someone gets lost in the woods.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “You’re telling me? I’ve never seen this before.”

  “But you’re a shaman. Can’t you cast a spell or something?”

  “Cast a spell? Ferguson, the only reason I came back from there was because they let me.”

  Ferguson groaned. Damn. This shouldn’t be a problem. Get the place cleansed or whatever they wanted, and move on. Why did it have to be some kind of major issue?

  “You told me you weren’t just doing this to placate the locals,” David said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  Ferguson thought about whether or not to answer. He decided that he would.

  “The investors wanted it.”

  “So you don’t believe in any of it. You never did.”

  Ferguson didn’t answer. The Fifth Amendment.

  “Look, Ferguson,” David finally said. “You paid for my opinion as an expert. Here it is. Close the place down today and get out. If you open the resort, something bad will happen. Hell, something bad has already happened, but it has nothing to do with you.”

  “What happened?” Ferguson asked.

  David didn’t answer. It was none of Ferguson’s business.

  “If you don’t tell me, how can I believe you?”

  David thought about it. Education ends ignorance. His misfortune should at least be a sign to others.

  “My wife had a miscarriage this morning,” he said. “Actually, they call it a spontaneous abortion at this stage.”

  Ferguson didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m sorry, but what does that have to do—”

  “Take it as a sign, Ferguson.”

  Well, that was the end of it. Now Ferguson was screwed. He could see his life evaporating before his eyes. This was the job of a lifetime. His last job. He would supervise the building, stay on as operations manager for a couple of years, and then retire. It was more money than he had ever made in his life. He had bought a new outboard, put some away in one of those retirement accounts, and was going to
take out a loan to fix up his house. He deserved it, too. Sometimes you take shitty jobs knowing they’re shitty, but you do it anyway because you always figure things will equal out in the end. Well, this is the end. Now is the time for equaling out. He’d had a lifetime of hardship and canned beans. He wanted the good life. He deserved the good life. A Mexican vacation. A bed that didn’t sag in the middle. A kitchen his wife could cook in. Everyone else has so much money. Now that Ferguson was going to get a little bit, they all wanted to take it away. It wasn’t fair.

  Screw the Tlingit. They’re practically extinct, anyway. And screw the Japanese. They made all their money cheating Americans. Screw them all. Livingstone’s miscarriage had nothing to do with Thunder Bay. He picked up the letter Livingstone had sent him. Unresolved spiritual activity. Screw that. The letter had Livingstone’s letterhead and his signature on it. Ferguson didn’t hesitate with his decision. A little cut-and-paste. A little Xerox magic. Once it got passed through a fax machine, nobody would ever know the difference. Type up the new letter.

  Dear John,

  I’m happy to report that the Thunder Bay Resort is in great spiritual health. My investigation has turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and you have my blessing to move ahead as quickly as you like. I can hardly wait until the resort opens so I can stop by and visit the wilderness in comfort and style. Good luck!

  These are desperate times, John Ferguson, he thought. And they demand decisive action.

  Chapter 14

  THE PHONE JOLTED ROBERT AWAKE. HE ROLLED OVER AND looked at the clock. Six a.m.

  “Mr. Rosen, please,” a deep voice commanded.