Anarchy (37 page)

“I can't hurt you. You see how weak I am. I'll guide you, but your hand will be on the wheel.”

“So is that your name?”

“Which name?”

“What you told me to tell the kid. Gwen.”

There was a long pause behind her, long enough to become unpleasant.

“What do you think?” the voice eventually said.

She didn't want to think. She couldn't imagine it would get her anywhere. She clattered briskly down along the pontoons to Jonas's boat. For a moment she was worried she wouldn't be able to find the key, there were so many upturned buckets scattered around the cockpit, but it was under the first one she kicked aside. She didn't wait to watch the limping, whispering thing with wet black snakes for hair climb aboard. She zipped up her regulation coat, pulling the high collar up to her chin, yanked in the fenders, and started the engine. It was astonishingly loud in the deserted night. She glanced up at the ghost town, expecting to see Kalmykov or Cope or one of the others racing down the hill, lights flaring, coming to rescue her from throwing away her career and presumably her sanity as well, if not her life.

“Okay,” she said. “Now what.”

The thing had sat itself in the stern. It smiled its warped smile and pointed into the absolute black.

“North,” it said.

• • •

Reason told her the landscape was still there like always: the hemlock and spruce and cedar forest on either side, the open bay ahead, the twenty-kilometer width of the Queen Charlotte Strait with its diminished backdrop of mountains. She'd never felt more alienated from her own reason. A white running light mounted on a pole above the cockpit shone ahead, illuminating a few meters of restless polished black, and that was it. Apart from its dislocated sloshing and its tang of salt and cold, the rest of the world ahead of her was a void as absolute as interstellar space.

She set the throttle to a crawl. Rocks, floating deadheads, the shore: any hazard could be anywhere. The single light would give her barely any warning of what lay ahead of the bow.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “I can't do this. How the fuck am I supposed to helm?”

“Listen to me. I won't steer you wrong.”

She spun the wheel, bringing the boat around to face the dock again. “No way.”

“Starboard a touch. There is a buoy.”

“What?”

“Starboard.”

Goose jerked the wheel as an object drifted into the puddle of light in front of the bow, a floating drum with a loop of rusty metal. “Shit.”

“It's your choice, Séverine.”

“What, you're going to sit back there and be, like, Go left, Go right?”

“Yes.”

“That's retarded. Why don't you steer yourself ?”

“This is your journey.”

“Like fuck it is.” She was angry and frightened. This wasn't how she usually talked. She hated the sound of it, swearing and snarling like those teenagers pumped on alcohol and confused historical grievances who kept the detachment busy on Friday nights.

“You hold the wheel. Look at yourself.”

“We're going back to the station. And this time you can knock all you like, my friend. You're staying locked in there.”

“Then we'll each be back where we were. Séverine, do you really think that nothing has changed? Do you really believe that tomorrow will be just another day?”

“Here's an idea. Why don't you shut up?”

“Because silence will give you no answers,” the voice behind her said. “You know that already. Remember the shaman girl.”

The shape of the dock was hard to see from the water at night. Dark spaces beneath it blended with the water. Goose put the motor in neutral. She looked up at the barren town. The flashing lights of a patrol car appeared up the hill.

Shaman girl? Shaman
was a word from picture books, or museums, or an online game she'd played for a few weeks once: a pretend word, a not-in-real-life word.

The patrol car swung around the roundabout by the motel and began dropping down into the town. Kalmykov, she guessed, wondering what was going on at the station and why he was getting no answer on the radio. If he looked down the hill he might see the light of the boat bobbing beyond the dock. He'd be curious about who was going cruising in the middle of the night.

“So you're telling me Jennifer Knox is a shaman?”

“Séverine,” the hollow voice at her back answered. “Why do you ask me when you already know the answer? There's only one question you should ask yourself: Do you dare look for her or not?”

“Oh, you dare me. That's impressive.”

“What else is holding you back but fear?”

She had no answer to that. She was thinking of Fitzgerald's father on the phone, distraught.
Says she put a curse on him. Says she gave him the evil eye.
Of course she did. And she sprang the lock of the cell at the station in Alice, she did that too.

“This,” the voice said, “is the moment when you must choose.”

Goose saw the patrol car disappear behind the house below the station. In a few seconds, Kalmykov or whoever it was would find her gone.

“All right,” she said. She nudged the throttle forward and tugged the wheel around. “Let's go.”

• • •

She wanted her silence to be sullen and determined. In fact it was terrified, a clamp-jawed, white-knuckled silence. As a child she'd had an incommunicably dreadful recurrent nightmare in which she'd been a tiny dot in an infinite nowhere, a shrunken point of consciousness that was the only thing there was. No words could explain how appalling this dream was. She didn't try going to her parents for comfort; she just shivered upright in her bedroom, forcing herself to stay awake in case it came back when her eyes closed. For years she'd forgotten about it. Now it was back with a vengeance. Within a few minutes the boat had become a solitary comet in a black void. She followed the murmured instructions from behind her unquestioningly because without them she'd have imagined herself about to steer off a waterfall at the edge of the world. “Port . . . There . . . To port a touch . . .” Only the straggling pinpricks of Hardy's lights behind her assured her that she wasn't going round in circles. She tried not to look over her shoulder, though, because every time she did she saw the thing sitting there, slightly bowed, its face a glimmer of pale skin split in two by a band of darkness, the rotting black clothes cloaking the rest in shadow.

Hardy shrank behind them until it became a smudgy galaxy fallen to the horizon astern. The invisible sea stirred as if their passage had woken it up. They must be approaching the mouth of the bay, Goose thought. To the west was the ocean, then, squeezing its thinnest whitecapped tendrils down the strait. She didn't want to ask more questions if she could help it, but the thought of entering the Inside Passage in complete darkness made her desperate.

“So how far are we going?”

“I don't know the future.”

“I'm asking where this island is.”

“North of here, and a little west. At this speed, some hours' journey.”

“Has it got a name?”

“Many. It would be better to go faster.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Do you want this journey to have been for nothing?”

“You know what I want, my friend? I want you to stop with the suggestions.”

“Once the girl wakes I can't hear her. She may leave the island.”

“I'm not going any faster than this. Anything could be out there.”

“It will be a long dark passage, then.”

“What's the matter? Are you cold?” As always on the water, the wind felt sharper and the Arctic closer.

“Yes. I feel cold. Very cold. Flesh feels so much, doesn't it, Séverine? When the spray strikes my skin I feel that too. The boat vibrates under us. It's exquisite, isn't it, to be alive? Steer to starboard. A little only. There. Now there's open water ahead.”

Just don't say anything
, Goose told herself.
Don't even look round.
She began to think about something else she could do. Instead of going any farther she could turn around and push the thing overboard. After that she could set the throttle to Jonas speed and point the bow at the knot of faint light they were leaving behind.

“You're afraid of me.” Its voice slithered like the water under the hull. “I feel that too.” Do it now, Goose thought. Just a couple of steps to accelerate, then hit hard and low. She knew how to tackle properly. “I won't harm you. You're far stronger, Séverine. There's nothing I can do to you beyond what I promised, to take you where you want to go.”

“So you keep saying, my friend.” Why couldn't she stop talking? “What about you? Huh? What's in this for you? What are you doing here anyway? What's your game?” It felt as if the cold was forcing her teeth to rattle out questions. “Where did you come from, anyway? You've got an English accent. The bad guy's always got a fricking accent, you know? Jeez. How the hell did I end up like this? I thought it was going to be boring up here. Nothing ever happens up-island, that's what they told me. Shut up, Goose.” Better to imagine that there was nothing in the boat with her at all. Don't even think about it. She pushed her lips shut. Her eyes were watering with the salt air and the strain of concentrating on the patch of emptiness beyond the bow.

“Starboard again,” the voice said, after a little while. She nudged the wheel clockwise.

“Farther. There's a log. Good. Now, to port.”

Had she really chosen this? It couldn't be right. There must be some alternative path, she thought, not this dark parallel universe but the authentic normal one, in which she was Constable Maculloch of the RCMP “E” division who ticketed drunk drivers by day and Skyped her friends in the evenings. Where had the switch happened? There must have been a step she'd taken, once, a wrong turn somewhere, or how else could that world now be so infinitely far away? She searched her memory of the last few days but couldn't find the moment of her error. As far as she could tell she'd only been doing her job, carrying along sensibly enough, until, that night, or maybe before, it had so happened that her job had stopped meaning anything, and so had the word
sensibly.

“The girl brought these fallen trees down to fill the waterways.” Refusing to turn around, Goose could hardly tell the difference between her own thoughts and the whispery voice behind her. “She made the sea rise and break the booms. She was the one who doused the lights and silenced the bells. Her dreams are all of what belongs here and what doesn't. Everything seeks its home, Séverine. Everything seeks its proper place. You've all made your home in a many-sided chamber of mirrors. You live among phantoms of yourselves and don't know where you are or which is truly you. I can feel the aura around you. All those other places and other lives. Ghosts, echoes, shadows. Voices from the far side of the world. Images of bodies without flesh. Don't you long to return to the world, Séverine? To feel what's really here?”

Don't say anything. Don't say anything at all. Just keep going till it gets light.
She tried not to shiver. Her mouth wouldn't stay sealed. Under her breath she began to recite her long-neglected rosary,
Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâce, le Seigneur est avec vous . . .

• • •

She felt it before the thing in the stern spoke: a subtle settling of the motion beneath the boat, a hint of invisible shelter windward, and a suggestion of wet bark thickening the sea air.

“Close now.”

She couldn't guess how long it had been. A lifetime. She'd been remembering things, odd and startlingly vivid details, no rhyme or reason to them that she could tell. Her favorite shorts when she was seven. Insults inked in bathroom stalls at the Depot. Crying the first time she caught a fish. Being groped on the bus at the corner of Saint-Laurent and Villeneuve. The cover of a cheap comic lying on Annie's unmade bed.

“A compass point to port, now. There are shoals.”

Shoals?

Perhaps she'd been half asleep. Her feet were numb from hours of standing. The droning chug of the motor and the soft chop of the sea were equally unchanging, hypnotic. Now the sound had changed a fraction. Windless open water had the rhythm of someone breathing in their sleep, unrushed, lots of pauses; now there were tiny agitations to interrupt it. Somewhere, waves were coming up against rock. The difference came from no particular quarter. It was like a circle of whispering creatures out in the dark, edging cautiously inward.

“Too far. Starboard.”

This is crazy.
Shallow water, in the pitch-black? She reached for the throttle. Her fingers wouldn't bend properly in her thick gloves. The chill had rusted them. She tapped the stick back into neutral. The motor sighed into a soft idle as if relieved.

“Séverine.”

She didn't turn around. She hadn't looked back for a very long time. She spoke toward the cone of light ahead.

“No way I'm going close to land in the dark.”

“There's nothing to fear—”

She raised her voice. “No. Way.”

“The boat's adrift. You're in danger.”

“I'll get the anchor. If I can find it under all of Jonas's crap.” She rubbed and stretched her legs and stepped out of the cockpit.

“There is a channel. Straight, between two smaller islands, and deep at this height of the tide. I'll steer you through.” Goose ignored the voice. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to make a simple decision. Navigating an offshore island group in the dark? Excuse me? She pushed a couple of crates aside with her toe and saw the anchor locker under the seat in the bow. A little light came on inside when she opened it. The chain was neatly looped. Trust Jonas, she thought. He was only shambolic on the surface.