Wild Fell Page 3

  Ahead, the island loomed, getting closer with every pull of the oars. Brenda wished she felt like she’d felt fifteen minutes before, thrillingly wicked. But she didn’t. Instead, she just felt very far from shore. Above her, the orange moon vanished behind a caul of purple and black clouds, drawing darkness like a curtain across the water, obscuring Blackmore Island completely. In her mind she pictured Kitchewana’s rage, the smashed, hurled granite becoming islands for the Devil to steal. In the sudden darkness, the universe around her—the enormous sky, the vast body of water under the tiny rowboat—felt like a chessboard for gods and demons, a place that could hide any sort of malignant entity.

  Her voice was small when she spoke. “Sean?”

  “What?”

  “Can you turn back? I don’t want to do this. I want to go back to shore.”

  “Bren, we’re almost there. You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not kidding. Please turn the boat around. I want to go back. I don’t want to do this tonight. I was wrong. I changed my mind. I’ll go with you tomorrow afternoon if you like. But right now, it’s too dark, and it’s too late, and I don’t want to go there.”

  “Jesus Christ, Brenda. You said you wanted to see it with me. You said. What are we doing out here in this boat, then?”

  “Sean, I’m sorry, but I mean it. Please. I want to go back.”

  He swore softly under his breath, and sighed. Holding one oar stationary, he used the other to turn the boat in a wide arc till the bow was pointed towards the mainland.

  “Sean, I’m sorry,” Brenda said. “Really, I am. I just . . . well, I’m just scared.”

  “Scared of what?” He sounded gruff, but under the gruffness, she heard something soft, or thought she did anyway. “I’m here. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you. You’re safe with me. I just wanted to show you that house.”

  She felt her body relax as the boat drew closer to the mainland. The moon came back out from behind the clouds and she saw the shore. “I know,” she said. “I still want to see it with you, just not tonight. Thanks for turning the boat around.”

  His voice was hopeful. “We could build a fire. We still have the wine, and it’s early yet. I’d really like to, if you want to.”

  “I’d love it,” Brenda said, delighted and relieved to actually mean it. The warmth returned and she embraced it. Beneath the boat, she felt the scrape of sand and rock and crushed shells against the rowboat’s hull as it came aground.

  Sean swung his long legs over the side of the gunwale and jumped onto the beach, almost, but not quite, avoiding the lapping water. He cursed again, but this time he was grinning, which changed everything about the tone of the imprecation and made Brenda laugh out loud. This in turn made Sean laugh. He reached for her hand and helped her out of the boat.

  While he collected nearby driftwood and built the fire, Brenda spread the blanket on the beach and laid out the cold chicken sandwiches she’d prepared in secret that afternoon, knowing full well that if her mother had caught her making sandwiches for an evening date with a boy—even an Alvina boy like Sean, whom her parents had met earlier that summer when she’d started dating him, and whom they even seemed to like—there’d be holy hell, and probably grounding. No, not probably—definitely.

  Brenda eyed the bottle of wine dubiously. She’d never drunk wine before, and she’d certainly never opened a bottle of it. She peered at the cork, tapping it once or twice, then half-heartedly gave the neck of the bottle a couple of useless twists.

  “Sean?”

  Sean threw another log onto the flames now rising from the pile of logs on the beach. Plumes of smoke drifted over to where Brenda stood. They stung her eyes. “You need a hand with that bottle?”

  She held it out to him. “Yes please.”

  “Did you bring a bottle opener?”

  “A what?”

  Sean laughed. “Never mind.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocketknife. With a few twists of the blade, the cork came out. “How about glasses? Did you remember them?”

  Brenda had indeed remembered glasses. Sean poured them both some wine.

  They sat down on the blanket and watched the fire. Sean reached for her hand. She felt his fingers brush hers. Not looking at him, Brenda took his hand and held it lightly. She felt his callouses against the softness of her palm and sighed, a shuddering, breathy exhalation that came almost involuntarily. She took a sip of her wine, finding it unexpectedly bitter yet not unpleasant. The wine warmed on her tongue, slid down her throat, adding heat to heat—the heat of the fire, the heat in her belly and below. Brenda closed her eyes. It’s really going to happen this time. Really. Really. It’s all been leading up to this.

  Sean put his arms around her and pulled her to him, lowering them both down on the blanket. He kissed her on the mouth, gently at first, but then with insistence. Brenda returned his kisses, clumsily at first, then with an intuitive, instinctive skill she hadn’t known she possessed. She felt his pleasing weight on top of her. He cradled her in his arms, not crushing her. She felt protected by it.

  She turned her head to the side. “Sean . . . ?”

  “Mmmmm?”

  “Sean, I’ve never . . . I mean, is it okay? You’ll be careful, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. I will.”

  “Do you love me, Sean?”

  His voice had grown hoarse. “Yeah.”

  “Say my name. Say, ‘I love you, Brenda.’”

  “I love you, Brenda.”

  “Do you mean it, Sean?”

  “Yes, I mean it.”

  “Oh, Sean . . .” Brenda sighed again, this time in triumph. The terms of the bargain had been fulfilled and completed, and she gave herself up to him without guilt, without trepidation.

  She’d heard about girls getting into the family way and was relieved when Sean took a French letter out of his wallet. Brenda wasn’t sure exactly how they worked, but she knew that if the boy put one on his thing, then the girl never got into trouble.

  Brenda closed her eyes, suddenly shy. Strange, she thought, for a girl who had made a decision to go all the way for the very first time to be shy now. But actually watching Sean put the condom on, took what was about to happen out of the realm of the romantic and into the realm of the pragmatic, not a realm she was prepared to contemplate in that moment. Instead, she listened to the sound of rubber against skin as Sean prepared himself.

  When the pain came, it was brief, and he held her tightly until it went away, then it felt like her shuddering body had been shot through with stars. She tasted his tongue, the sweat on his arms, and what she thought might have been brief tears on his cheeks. The vast sky overhead, the moonlight on the water, the feeling of his mouth on hers, the unfamiliar intrusion inside her, his body, her body, the heat of the fire—it had become a one-sided surface of sensation with only one boundary component.

  Afterwards, Sean asked her if it had been okay, and Brenda nodded shyly. They lay together in each other’s arms, not speaking; each lost in their own thoughts. Sean stroked Brenda’s hair as they stared at the fire, feeling its warmth on their skin.

  When the flames burned lower, Sean got up and walked naked over to the pile of wood and got another log. Wrapped in the blanket, Brenda studied his body with newly appreciative eyes. To her, they did not seem to be the eyes of the girl she had been only an hour ago, nor did Sean seem like the boy who had picked her up at her house in his truck a mere two hours or so before.

  Nothing is the same. I’m somewhere I’ve never been before, and I’m with someone I’ve never been before. It’s like witchcraft. I’ve shifted my own shape. I’m travelling through the air, above my own life. Then, regretfully: I’m going to have to come down soon. I’m going to have to go home. I’ve got to go back to being myself. But . . . not yet. There’s still time yet. Don’t let the magic end just yet.

  Sean lay d
own again on the blanket and bundled them both up in it, his arms around her, his legs pulling hers to him. She felt him stir and twitch against her thigh. She giggled.

  “Sean!”

  “I can’t help it. You just make me feel . . . well, you make me feel that way.” He laughed self-consciously.

  “I do?”

  He was blushing. “Yes, you do.”

  “That’s so sweet.”

  “Do you want to . . . ?”

  In reply, she ran her nails along the shelf of his shoulders and pressed her body to his. Sean groaned. This time, she touched it, feeling it grow in her hands. A feeling of unquestioned, queenly prerogative came over her. In Sean’s desire for her, she saw her own desirability. In his clear need for her, she saw her own self-worth. She was finally prettier-than-average, smarter-than-average. She was finally . . . special.

  Her father’s words came back to her, unbidden.

  The Devil is always a thief, Brenda. If he’d steal from a god, you can imagine what he’d take from a little girl like you. So you’d better always be good.

  She slammed the door to her mind with a defiance that was likewise new to her.

  I am good, Daddy. And there’s no such thing as the Devil. And even if there was, he’s got better things to do than worry about the likes of me, especially tonight. Now, go away.

  They made love again, slowly this time and with a tenderness that was as new to her as was sex itself. This time when she cried out his name, Brenda didn’t recognize the sound of her own voice.

  When they finished, Brenda reminded Sean that she had a curfew. He told her not to worry, that he’d get her home in plenty of time, but that he wanted to just hold her now and watch the fire for a while. She agreed, snuggling against him, surfing bliss.

  “Sean, did you ever read Romeo and Juliet in grade nine?”

  His voice was wary. “Yeah, I think so. I don’t remember. Why?”

  “There’s a scene when Romeo and Juliet are . . . you know, making love. And she doesn’t want him to leave, even though she knows he’s got to leave before dawn, or her family will murder him. She makes excuses the whole time, saying it’s a nightingale he’s hearing, not a lark.”

  Sean said, “Ummm . . . what’s a lark?”

  “It’s a bird that sings in the morning, dummy. If the sound Juliet was hearing were a nightingale, it would mean they had hours ahead of them. If it were a lark, it would mean he had to leave right away. Don’t you get it?”

  “No, not really. Sorry.”

  She punched him in the arm, but gently. “Isn’t it a bit like this? I mean, isn’t this—you and I, here—sort of like Romeo and Juliet waiting for the lark to sing, so we’ll know how much time we have?”

  “Bren, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait . . . was Romeo and Juliet the one with the ghost in it?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, that’s Hamlet. Oh, never mind. Honestly, you and your ghost stories. I’d rather think about Romeo and Juliet right now than think about one of your made-up, weird ghost stories.”

  “Bren?”

  “Sean?”

  “Bren, that story I told you in the truck? That one about me and my uncle, and what happened that night?”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “That wasn’t a story I made up.” He yawned, covering his mouth too late to stifle the sound. “That was true. That really happened.”

  “Sure it did, Sean. I’m absolutely positive that I believe you. Is there any more wine?”

  There was, and he fetched it from where the bottle stood against a rock. The wine was fire-warmed. They each had another glass as they watched the flames. Brenda leaned her head on Sean’s naked chest. Her eyelids flickered, felt suddenly heavy.

  Only for a minute, Brenda promised herself as she drifted on a drowsy river of warm red that flowed smoothly into a darkening cavern behind her eyes, where sleep waited. We have to get going soon, or I’ll be in so much trouble. Just for a minute.

  Brenda woke shivering in the cold. Her closed eyes stung from the smoke of the dead fire trapped behind her eyelids. She sat up, then rubbed her eyes with her knuckles like a crying child in a cartoon. Sean let the fire go out, she thought stupidly. How did the fire go out that quickly? It’s only been a couple of minutes. We just dozed off.

  “Sean . . .”

  For a moment, Brenda thought she had gone blind, because she couldn’t see anything: not the fire, not the lake, not the trees, not the sky. The world as she had known it before she dozed off had simply . . . vanished. She might have woken up in the blackness of space. She knew, without being able to see, that he was not beside her. Brenda felt around with her hands. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders and was gathered around her waist. Her fingers located the pile of clothes next to the fire. She found her sweater and pulled it over her head. It felt damp and slimy against her cold skin, and she felt her waking confusion and disorientation give way to the first stirrings of genuine fear.

  She whipped her head around. Someone is there. I can feel it. Someone is watching me. This time, Brenda didn’t call out Sean’s name: she whispered it, suddenly, crazily afraid that if he wasn’t close enough to hear her whisper, someone or something else might answer her from the darkness instead of him.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, Brenda realized that the shoreline of Devil’s Lake was enveloped in deep fog, the densest fog she had ever seen in all of her sixteen years growing up in Alvina. Sure, there had been fogs before, certainly the sort of mists anyone living near large bodies of water knows well. They came, they went. At worst they were an annoyance for boaters and drivers on roads, especially at night. But this? She had never seen anything like this.

  And how much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? Two?

  Brenda looked up and, for a moment, thought she saw stars in the sky through the ceiling of fog. They comforted her, orienting her in relation to a world she knew instead of this murky alien landscape. She ticked off a mental checklist. Stars are up, the ground is down. Lake is in front of us, car is behind us. Good, good. I know where I am. But where’s Sean? She looked up again, but the stars had vanished and she was in darkness again, damp darkness that felt like the breath of a large predator with infinite patience.

  And she felt the eyes again, just out of sight.

  The Devil is always a thief, Brenda.

  Unbidden, an image eddied in her mind. It was the image from Sean’s stupid ghost story about the woman with no eyes who rushed across the road from behind the locked gate of the desolate country cemetery.

  This time not caring who heard her, Brenda screamed out, “Sean! Sean, where are you?” but her voice was lost in the deadening weight of the heavy fog. The dullness of it mocked her, isolating her with its brutal, forced quieting. She felt her rising fear flip over into the terror zone before she was even able to understand why it had. Brenda started to cry. Had she been further away from the edge of hysteria, she might have wondered why the thought that perhaps Sean was playing a trick on her, or hiding, or going to the bathroom up against a tree hadn’t even occurred to her as an outside possibility, a logical conclusion at which to arrive in these circumstances.

  No, Brenda knew two things clearly, internally, on a primal level that did not require external verification. Firstly, she knew Sean was nowhere nearby. She sensed he wasn’t hiding, playing a trick, or anything else. He was simply not there. His presence had been cancelled. Brenda’s conscious mind may not have been able to ride that particular horse but her subconscious mind had already processed it. Secondly, she knew just as strongly that she wasn’t alone, that whatever she felt peering at her through the fog wasn’t Sean.

  Brenda groped on the ground at her feet till she found her pedal pushers and her sandals. She dressed herself blindly, frantically, feeling for buttons and zippers. She knew her panties were somewhere nearby but she couldn’t find them, and
didn’t care if she ever did, or if anyone else ever did either. She briefly flirted with feelings of concern for Sean’s well-being, but they dissipated as she remembered that this whole stupid idea had been his from the beginning. And if he was playing some sort of trick on her, then he deserved whatever he got for getting her in trouble with her folks. All she wanted was to be dressed, to find the keys for Sean’s truck, and to be away from Devil’s Lake.

  She remembered that she couldn’t drive the truck, but discarded that realization as quickly as it came to her. She could try to drive it, at least. She’d watched her father drive. Insert the key in the ignition. Turn the key. Press the gas pedal. Reverse. Drive. How difficult could it be? Or she could sit in the cab and blow the horn until someone heard her. She could lock the door, both the doors, and make so much noise with that horn that they’d hear her all the way back to Alvina and send someone to rescue her. She would blow the horn till God heard her.

  But Brenda knew she was a long way from Alvina, and it was late at night now. No one was coming for her. No one knew where she was. She’d told her parents she was going for a drive with Sean to the town beach with a group of their friends to watch the moon rise. That’s where they would look for her, not here. Not wherever here was. She remembered her delight in her disorientation as they’d driven to Devil’s Lake, her triumphant pleasure at feeling lost, at the absurd notion of travelling without leaving her town.

  Weeping, Brenda stumbled, feeling for branches. The branches would mean the edge of the path leading up, away from the shoreline, back to the truck, back to safety. Blindly, she flailed her arms, meeting nothing but the empty fog.

  And then she distinctly heard a muffled splash behind her. She pivoted on her heel.

  “Sean, is that you? Sean?” It must be him! Who else could it be? The relief that washed over her nearly brought her to her knees. Another splash came, louder this time. “Sean? Sean! Answer me! I can’t see!”

  Brenda took a few halting steps towards the sound, then stopped. Her feet were wet. She had been nearer the edge of the shore than she’d realized. Cold water engulfed her toes across the tops of her sandals. She squinted across the water, willing herself with every fibre of her being to be able to see. The ciliary muscles of her eyes tightened and strained, and her temples throbbed with the effort of focussing.