This River Awakens (44 page)

Money at hand, the struggles now over – together and independent, they would create the next generation, each in their modern homes, with their two cars and the endless highways of opportunity and adventure.

No choice. Expectation was everything. Even though the optimism rang false, the search for the ideal was desperate enough to achieve something like it. The false security of surfaces, of appearances, the pressure –
the horrible, driving pressure, to be as we seemed to be.

The lie destroyed them. It was only natural for the young people today to reject everything they’d done. The hypocrisy was impossible to ignore.

Jennifer won’t be fooled. She won’t follow me in life. She’s living for herself. She’s learned to indulge, she’s learned what being young is all about. But … but where can she go? The choices are narrowing down, the expectation pushing her from all sides. She’s only thirteen. How can she withstand them, how can she keep from buckling?

‘Jennifer is the main concern for Family Services,’ Roulston had said. ‘We have her future to think about. What’s happening now will affect the rest of her life. She’s in great danger of slipping into the abusive cycle. It’s familiar to her, and familiarity is a magnet. She can cope with what she knows – she’ll go looking for the same patterns in adult life.’

Elouise could see that. She could see the genuine concern in the young doctor’s face. His words made her frightened for Jennifer, and yet a part of her answered him, bitter and sly.
From one cycle into another. The first one we can all agree is terrible, tragic. The second one – where she breaks away from her family’s history – is where you want her. Where she can pretend to be happy, well adjusted to the perfect world of twenty years ago. A solid, dependable husband, a solid, dependable Hoover in hand in woman’s war against dust-balls. The preferred cycle, keeping us at home and helpless. She doesn’t deserve either, Doctor. What else can you offer?

I saw on the news. Women were burning bras. It was silly, but I cried.

The dogs pawed at the mud alongside the chain-link wall. Kaja – the mother who’d lost a son –
one step from showing just how savage she can be.
She dreamed of the chance to rewrite the past, to defeat the helpless despair of watching Max die under a wheel – with the cage wire wall between her and him. She was muscle and bone and teeth and in her body was the memory of pain – the fire’s white-hot core.

Caesar strutted. He always did, these days. When his mother was in heat and penned up in the separate run, he wanted her desperately, but had to settle for Shane instead. The normal, natural horrors of living in a cage.

The back porch door opened and Sten stepped out. He went down the steps, moving loosely, sloppily, and tossed an empty beer bottle under the porch. He straightened and grinned at her.

‘God’s day of rest,’ he said. ‘And Hallowe’en’s coming. The night of spirits, the worlds overlapping, the souls of the dead returning. Kaja will be … delighted, don’t you think?’

He walked unsteadily towards her. ‘Such a fine garden,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Nature wins in the end. Don’t you know that, dear? Nature wins and we all revert. The civil façade peels away, the masks and costumes meant to fool the dead, they all come off. It’s the naked truth,
hee,
at last. Just the naked truth.’

He was hard, the bulge obvious under his brown work pants. He slipped his hands into the pockets. ‘Jennifer’s out,’ he said. ‘We have the house to ourselves. Why not…?’

Elouise shook her head.

Sten scowled. ‘Not good enough any more, am I?’

She shook her head again, trying to convey her fear, her doubts, trying to hide her revulsion.

‘The dogs want to run,’ he said after a moment, turning to them. ‘All this … inaction. It’s against their natures.’

Find a hole in a wall, Sten.

‘I heard Roulston, you know.’ He faced her again, his eyes hardening. ‘He suspects, doesn’t he? What did you do, slip him a note? “Help! I’m being held prisoner by an ogre!” Is he climbing into his armour even as we speak? You really think you can get away with it, don’t you? Slipping him notes, setting me up. You don’t scare me. Roulston doesn’t scare me. I’ve faced worse. A lot worse.’ A flash of pure horror racked his face. ‘Come Hallowe’en, when the ghosts walk.’

Oh, Sten.

He turned away, shaking his shoulders loose – the way his dogs would do. ‘That was my last beer,’ he said, then walked back into the house.

Shane yelped. Caesar had him cornered. Their mother watched, just watched.
Sten’s pride.

II

I sat in my secret room. In a few nights it would be Hallowe’en, but I already felt him at my side.

I’d gone to the boat yards a few days after the first storm, to find
Mistress Flight
gone, and the manager, Reggie, overseeing two workmen as they pulled down Walter’s shack. Reggie had finally noticed me standing there with my bag of sandwiches in hand.

‘You must be Owen Brand,’ he said, coming over, his walking stick thumping the ground. ‘I’m sorry, son, to be the one with the bad news…’

‘He’s died,’ I said.

‘You’ve heard, then?’

I shook my head. I just knew it, a piece of my insides torn away, flung carelessly into the river.
Gone.

‘Heart attack,’ Reggie said, watching the front wall coming down. ‘The look on his face when I found him…’ He shivered, the gesture looking exaggerated.

‘What?’

‘Must’ve been in a lot of pain before the end, that’s all. Of course, he’s at peace now. At rest, as they say. The last few months were difficult – you and I both know that. It was hard to watch the decline. Mental and physical, both failing together like that. Hard.’

Mental decline? What is he talking about?

‘Generous of you to befriend him at the end, though,’ Reggie went on. ‘Guess he needed someone to ramble on with. He got pretty carried away with you, with your small gesture. All you had to do was wait, eh?’

‘What? I don’t—’

Reggie clapped me hard on the shoulder. ‘Better get along, son. The club’s private property, you know.’

‘Where’s
Mistress Flight?
’

‘Sold. Moved on up the lake. Won’t be coming back. Now, I don’t want to cause you trouble, but these grounds are off limits, and I mean to enforce the rules. Reggie’s rules.’

The chill wind rattled the trees in the yard, draughts gusting through the window joins. A library copy of
Beowulf
sat in front of me. Already a week overdue. The library had had to order it from the university. The book had a translation on one side and the original Anglo-Saxon version on the other. I struggled to read the old language, referring again and again to the pronunciation notes in the introduction. I needed to concentrate on the book and things like it – things that kept all of my mind occupied, distracted. I told myself that Walter was here beside me, as was the stranger who’d once been in this room. And the giant belonged here, as well. I kept telling myself I wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t a belief, it wasn’t a faith. It felt like I was lying to myself, trying hard to make convincing the idea that the world worked that way – that spirits did indeed exist.

But the room was cold, empty except for me, the desk and the books. And the wind that made my hands icy and blue at the fingertips.

I studied that effect on my hands. I was learning to cope in school. Learning to evade, to slip notice, to keep quiet and anonymous. I was learning the right way to answer questions. Things were settling down.

But
Beowulf
delivered different lessons. There were monsters in the world. They lived on hate, survivors of the Flood, children of Lilith or the sons and daughters of Cain, or both. Giants and demons and dragons, each alone and lost in a new world that had no place for them. They were darkness, struggling to hold back the light.

Walter had said to take away the Christian stuff in the poem, because it was probably put there later.
Go back to the story’s own world. You’ll be able to read it right, once you do that. It’s not what it seems …

Well, I knew that
that
held for everything, but I couldn’t manage that discovery in the poem. If not Cain’s brood, then what? Where did the monsters come from? Why were they cursed, so full of spite and hunger?
Just atavisms, maybe, throwbacks to what we once were. But dragons?

I’d met the creature. It still lived, despite Beowulf’s final self-sacrifice. And what I knew of it from that meeting made the entire poem different. I’d rather the hero failed completely. I wanted to reject this version. It was like Beowulf had killed me.

Walter had believed in dragons, too. The ones that lived in the seas, in the depths where the light never reached. There, the monsters had won their war. I envied them, cheered them on, fervently hoped that they really did exist.

Sometimes, I wanted to believe, the light must fail.

Snowflakes sped down on the wind, melting as soon as they touched the earth. I could hear the steady flap of the machine’s tarp. Father had tried a second time, had failed again.

All the mysteries were fading away. Rhide would call it
growing up.

Somewhere, far to the north on the lake that looked as big as a sea,
Mistress Flight
was being winched on to dry-dock. It had felt the hands of an old man and a young boy. It would never feel those hands again. The storyteller was gone, the final tales untold, and he’d been so frightened the last time I’d seen him. Frightened for me, I’d thought. But now, with Reggie’s blunt words echoing through me, I believed otherwise. He knew he was going to die soon. He was blind, far from the sea, and alone.
Like the giant, dying all by himself, no one there to hold his hand, or keep him warm. No one to say goodbye, either. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. I didn’t come to visit often enough. I’m sorry, Walter.

I felt I should cry, but it wouldn’t come out. Everything was locked up tight inside, and seemed content to stay that way. I sighed, shivering in the cold draughts, and set my attention once again on the book in front of me.

III

Skeletons danced on the wall. Witches rode brooms above the blackboard and jack-o’-lanterns grimaced with gleeful menace from the support posts. The younger children had been so excited at recess.
They’re the special ones, unsullied by life, not yet beyond reach.

Joanne returned her thoughts to the tests. Her students were reading and learning about the war of 1812, when the Americans had been driven back, their invasion foiled by loyalists and English redcoats. She wanted to finish marking the tests, because she knew the night would be busy, the children coming to the door eager for treats, and she wanted to give them all her attention. She had a witch’s costume and theatrical make-up – it had always been one of her favourite nights, ever since she’d been a little girl hand in hand with her mother, rushing from door to door all the way down the street. She’d then ration her candies, trying to make them last right up until Christmas, often succeeding.

The class was quiet. They’d learned the value of reading, and being conscientious. The test scores were indicative that she hadn’t pushed them too far or too fast. It was up to her to make the subjects exciting, to make learning an adventure. That was her side of the partnership, and she took the responsibility seriously. In turn, the students behaved and participated with questions, answers, propelling the adventure ever onward with their enthusiasm.

Oh, my.
The test she was marking was going to get a failing grade. Each answer seemed to be reaching in the right direction, then falling short. She flipped back to the front page.
Owen Brand. Well, at least he got his name right.
She felt the disappointment seep into her. He’d changed for the better, she’d thought, over the past few weeks. Jennifer was still a problem, of course, but manageable – different desks, different activities, keeping them apart while at school. Joanne believed it had been efficacious. Owen had ceased being a problem in class, or at recess. He didn’t talk any more, didn’t pass notes, didn’t make scenes, didn’t fight. He seemed genuinely to try when she asked him questions.
Although, come to think of it, he rarely gives the right answers.
She’d been paying too much attention to the disciplinary problems, forgetting the academic aspect. Of course, he’d always been just an average student.
But this, this is dreadful.

Joanne looked up. Owen was writing notes in his booklet. There seemed to be a lot of papers slipped into that notebook, and it looked well used.
Even so
 … She rose, made her way towards the desk where he sat, still writing.
Actually, not writing.
Doodling.
He’s shading something in with his Bic pen.
He turned the page as she neared.

‘Owen,’ she said.

He looked up, expressionless.

‘May I see your notebook?’

He handed it to her.

‘Thank you. Have you finished reading chapter four?’

He nodded.

Well, move on to chapter five, then.’

‘Yes, Miss Rhide.’

She took the notebook with her back to her desk. Sitting down, Joanne set it in front of her and began examining the pages, starting at the beginning. Owen’s Social Studies Notebook –
properly labelled, at least.
The first page began with decent note-taking, only a single doodle along the margin.
He has talent. Odd that no one’s commented on it yet. I’ll have to have a chat with Miss Stein. Definite talent.
The picture was a detailed pen sketch of a man riding a dinosaur. Cartoonish in style. It was a moment before she realised that the dinosaur wore high heels that matched her favourite pair. She flipped to the next pages.

The descent into chaos was rapid. Some pages had no notes at all, just drawings.
It doesn’t matter how good they are. I’ve been teaching for two months. Two months of Canadian history. Where is it? Where are his notes?