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Display a printable version Twining
Remembering the aftermath of his last two stays in the wild, he risked stopping into a convenience store along a highway after three days had passed - knowing he would be caught on camera, hoping not to be noticed. With blood money made of leaves he bought a bottle of liquid soap and a bicyclist's travel pouch to hold it in. After two weeks he found a town large enough for a public library and an internet connection, checked himself in under the name of Jim Marston, and scanned the obituary section of the LOCAL NEWSPAPER for Carol Velander's name. Edward Harris' appeared, but hers was nowhere to be found. Smiling for the first time in days, he returned to his solitary trek. Another town, another stop for soap and a change of shirts. Two weeks later, another library, another name, another search, another chance that his mother was still alive, though he knew he would never see her again. It had to be enough to hope she outlived him after he reached the Farm. These were the sole remaining rhythms in his progress. A daily break of a single hour to wash himself clean himself of dirt and mud, a trip to civilization every other week. Other than that he moved like the sun throughout the day, trekking steadily and easily toward the north, directed by his Ally. Steadily as the moon he walked through the night, bypassing towns, avoiding roads, moving with a set pole and direction - moving toward the Farm. "The dogs were a mistake." Gordon spoke to his reflection in a Kentucky stream. "They were," the Ally said, "I had expected them to concentrate upon you, not your bloodline." "Seemed like a good plan. We need a better one now, though. Do you think the Chainfields will send men north to help the Farmer?" "They are a mystery to me, Child of Man. If they do they are simply more bodies, and you will see them long before they see you." "Yeah, but you saw what happened back home. If they travel in groups … I'm not any kind of trained fighter. I can handle one at a time with your help, no trouble, but even in pairs it's going to be tricky for me to deal with them." "Ash and flame, you said, and they were prophetic words." "The Farm's burned before. They set it up again." "It has not burned as it should. Your old friend was half-mad when the fires were lit. He moved like a beast, not a man - not a shadow." Gordon thought. "Light a fire - somehow." "It is no trick at all. Pitch and tar when the world was new, gasoline today." "Prepare more than one. We spread the gas around more than a single building and while they're fighting one, we light the next." "Move as a shadow through the chaos, and take the Farmer alone." Gordon shook his head. "He won't be alone." "You do not know -" "What I don't know can fill books, but I've learned that they're not stupid. When I first went wild they came in a group, when I came back with you they made clear I knew where they were going and why I better be there before them. When they knew I was there they sent allies, none of their own - they let others bleed for them. "No, the Farmer's not going to be alone, no matter how much is burning. He'll have guards around him the minute anything strange happens until long after I'm in the ground, if he outlives me." "He will not," said the Ally soothingly, and Gordon snorted. "At any rate, we can't count on them getting stupid. We need to make sure the first building we torch is the one he's in. We can count on their having new dogs - even if that broad-shouldered bastard was their best trainer, they'll have new ones by now. I'll need to get by them without calling attention to myself like last time." "Then leave the soap." "Sorry?" "As we approach, we will no longer be able to come to towns. Anywhere could hold men and women of the Farm, and we cannot know where safety lies. There will be no need to mask your scent and the dogs will be less wary." "You sure of that?" "They did not scent you before. We spent our time in the wild, and you smelled of earth and wood." "All right, but they'll smell gasoline." The Ally paused, and Gordon nodded. "I can't get any distractions, either. Like you said, calling in a policeman or a social worker isn't going to work on the Farm. They don't get mail or packages delivered to their door, so that's out." "The hounds will not be in during their festivals." It was Gordon's turn to pause. "That one we watched … in April?" "Yes, O child of man. Walpurgisnacht." "Why would they put the dogs away?" "The presence of spirits disturbs them, even those cannibal spirits called by their masters. They would become difficult to handle and would likely disrupt the ritual, so the dogs will be kenneled." "Muzzled?" "I cannot say. I am certain they will not roam free, and any sound they make is likely to be misconstrued." "I'm tired of 'likely'." The edges of the wound fluttered. "We all tire, O my host, of petty things, so let us focus on things larger." "Right." Gordon considered apologizing, then shook his head. "Nobody will be sleeping at this celebration, though. The entire Farm will be there - more than the entire Farm, if their people come home to roost from out in the world." "They will feast as well," said the Ally, "and become invested with their cannibal spirits, and become stronger than you once more. We would strike as they prepare, not as they pray." "Then we're back to the dogs, though, and in the daylight to boot." There was silence, and the edges of the wound rippled once more. "We have miles to travel and hours to think on it. We will find a way." *** The Jeep slipped from town to town, moving easily along the highway. The engine whined in tandem with the fierce wind which trailed the vehicle, and the man who had been George listened, pleased with the sound. The argument over the radio had been brief, with Agam smiling pleasantly and switching it off after only a few minutes, and since then their association had been a pleasant one. George's hair and beard remained long, but had been cleaned, his weather-beaten skin scrubbed free of ticks and pine resin. The shelter where Agam had taken him barely looked twice, accustomed to addicts and mountain men alike attempting to return to society. The stained clothes Agam had handled, burning them in a fire pit up in the hills and replacing them with jeans, flannel, boots and a down coat. "Don't need it," George had said. "I know, but the mortals need you to wear it. They'll be funny if you walk around with no coat on." "Funny anyway." "We agree again. It's so nice to meet someone simpatico for a change. You're still going to put the coat on." The tiny wendigo nestled at the side of George's neck, between his beard and the fleece collar of the coat - the right side, away from Agam in the driver's seat, near the wide-open window and the chill of night. It had come and its bigger brothers had not stopped it, had set it free as the killing wind which made them to rest and blow where it wished. "You just let me know when you get hungry," Agam said with a smile. "Me?" "Yes. Your little friend's not such a conversationalist and I imagine he'll let us know in his own special way." "He's hungry when I am." "And are you?" "Always." "Good to know. Glad I don't sleep." "Sleep?" "You can, you know. It'll be all right. Our friend's still miles and miles away, back in the heartland." "God's country," said George with a raspy chuckle. "Breadbasket of America. Plenty to eat and enjoy, so long as you stick with me." George fell back into silence, lapsing instantly into a dreamless sleep. Agam turned to look at him - almost fondly, as one might a well-loved pet - and the wendigo slipped around his neck, as if it would watch Agam carefully. He chuckled and accelerated, bringing more cold wind into the Jeep's interior. "You don't much like me," he said, "but that's all right. Your brothers know who's who and what belongs where. You don't have to like me to believe what I say, little one. We're going to put some things right, very soon, and make your friends and brothers very, very happy." George's heartbeat stayed steady and strong, pulsing against the flesh of his throat. The rhythm of blood and Agam's gentle words soothed the wendigo, and its misty teeth pressed approvingly against the softly dancing flesh. "There we are," said Agam, "both of you rest. I'll be just fine." He turned the volume knob to its lowest setting and turned on the radio, letting soft music trail into the wind which lashed the highway.
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| Last updated on 6/15/2008 8:43:50 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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| Other documents at this level: 25 - Missives 26 - Minding 27 - Dark North Moon 28 - Sunday Bloody Sunday 29 - Away 31 - Hands of Glory 32 - All Hands |
Time passed quickly as he moved through the hills, through the spaces between towns. No longer the blur he had endured his first stay in the countryside, no longer the fever-measured watches of the night by his mother's cellar door, the hours and days slipped around him as easily as the air, as unnoticed and - to Gordon - as unnecessary.