CHAPTER SEVEN
Sky Mississauga focuses on taking deep breaths as the shadowy, lupine predators bark and yip, challenging one another for the right to take a mouthful of his exposed intestines. The top dog already has a loop, and he gnaws it with relish with his offal hot breath wafting up Sky's nose.
"You should scream," says the beast, long jaw flapping wetly around the words.
"Everything is shifting," says Sky. He surveys scene calmly: the other dogs are dressed in parkas and mukluks now, and they're all racing together through a landscape of giant erotic chess pieces. "I'm crossing over," says Sky. "You'll be gone."
"I'll see you soon," promises the dog.
Mr. Mississauga blinks. It's very quiet. He's lying in a bed, gazing up at a sun-splashed poster of Courtney Love straddling her guitar, sawing it between her legs as she snarls. In the bottom right hand corner someone has tried to pick off a willful orange sticker that says NORTHMART $9.99 + TX.
As he shifts a clammy washcloth slides off his forehead.
His clothes and his coat hang over the back of a chair. He's naked under a thin sheet, cool with dried sweat. Leaning up against the closet door are his legs and arms, rooted in a chaotic pile of dirty laundry that includes torn denim and bright pink panties.
His mouth feels full of sand. "Aglakti?" he croaks.
He's surprised when she sits up from a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed, her face puffy and her gaze vague. She pins a quilt against her chest absently as she looks around, trying to focus. "Mom?" she mutters.
"No," says Mr. Mississauga.
She smiles vaguely, then knuckles her eyes. "Mr. Miss," she says. "You're alive." Then she swallows and adds, "Holy shit my mouth tastes like total ass."
"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga. "Mine too." He lets his head drop back on the pillow, contemplating Courtney Love's thigh. "Did I...what happened to me last night?"
"You passed out. You had some nightmares."
"I hope I didn't disturb..."
"No one's back from the old site yet," says Aglakti, glancing at her clock-radio. "Nobody heard you but me and the dog."
Mr. Mississauga shivers. "Thank you," he says.
"Did you just thank me, Mr. Miss?"
"Yes."
"I didn't think you thanked anybody for anything. You sure as hell don't say 'please.'"
"Please and thank you."
"You see?" she says, smiling again. "You keep that up you just may end up with some friends. It's not so hard. You start being polite and sociable you never know what may happen -- and you're off to a good start, having a slumber party after getting trashed."
"I think I may vomit," says Mr. Mississauga thoughtfully.
"Waste basket, right next to you," she says, pointing.
"The feeling is passing."
"Well, stay sharp. I don't want my pillow smelling like bile."
Mr. Mississauga belches quietly. "I'd like some water," he says, "please."
"Yeah," she agrees, ruffling her bramble of hair, "sure thing...me too. Hold on." She drops the quilt and pads out into the hall, leaving Mr. Mississauga to mediate on the image of her youthfully smooth brown bum. When she returns he turns his head modestly toward the wall.
"Oh shit, what're you so squeamish about?" he hears her say. "I thought you said you were gay."
"Um," says Mr. Mississauga.
"Are your ears turning pink?" she says, giggling. "This is rich -- the great detective, utterly imperturbable, veteran of unspeakable night terrors, brought to his knees by the sight of a naked girl!" She pauses to chuckle. "I mean, that's if you had knees."
"You delight in causing me discomfort," he mumbles into the wall.
"Damn straight," says Aglakti brightly. "I like it when you have feelings. Now don't work yourself into a knot -- I'm putting on a T-shirt."
"Thank you."
"Another 'thank you' -- you're a new man this morning. Next thing we know you'll announce you're going for the Olympic gold in sprinting. Turn around: here's your water."
She holds his head and helps him sip. When he swallows he says, "As a rule people don't mention my arms and legs, let alone make fun."
"It's a stupid rule," says Aglakti carelessly. "I don't believe in taboo subjects. So you're handicapped -- so what? I'm native. It's almost as bad."
"I'm not handicapped."
"Oh, shut up. Yes you are. I don't care if you don't use that word -- you've got no arms and no legs, you're fucking handicapped. The last thing you want in this world is to be forced to ask for help, so out of respect I won't make you ask...but out of respect for my help don't ask me to play games. Fair?"
Mr. Mississauga can't help but laugh. It's a real laugh, too -- from deep in his throat. It turns into a coughing fit at the end, so he accepts another sip of water. He says, "I like you, Aglakti."
She smiles, sitting on the edge of his bed. "I like you too, Mr. Miss. Are you hungry?"
He considers it. "Yes," he says.
"So let's get some limbs on you and get our asses down to the Hot Foo before it gets crowded."
They're too late. Aglakti has her own key but she doesn't need it because Bonnie River is at already at her post, igniting the burners and setting the coffee makers to drip. She nods to them cheerfully. Lyle is reading yesterday's newspaper in his designated booth, Errol is practicing pool as he waits on French toast. The pilot smokes a cigarette while watching the Weather Network on the Hot Foo's old black and white set while the taxidermist stuffs himself from a bag of potato chips, too impatient for the hot menu. They each have a wave or a friendly grunt for Aglakti and Mr. Mississauga.
"People seem more kindly disposed toward me today," he observes. "Is it because I'm leaving?"
"It's because they saw you raw," replies Aglakti. "You're one of them now. They know you're human. Pain is something they can relate to."
They sit down. Bonnie drops off a menu. Aglakti asks for a Coca-Cola and Mr. Mississauga for a cup of dark tea. "Okaip," says Bonnie with business-like efficiency.
"So," says Aglakti, pushing her hair out of her face and then spreading her hands on the table. "What's your report going to say?"
"It's going to say the government should leave you alone."
"The town's going to die."
"Yes."
"Shit."
"It's already dead, Aglakti. All that's left are living people haunting the land. You know this. It's why you're leaving. And that's what makes all the difference."
Her face seems drawn now, tight and miserable. "Turning my back on my people makes all the difference?"
"Destiny makes a difference," he corrects gently. "You want one. You want something. You want a life." He pauses, hesitates, then allows his gloved right hand to touch hers. "You'll take your cousins with you."
"Yeah, I don't want them growing up here. There's nothing." She looks up, puzzled. "How'd you know I'm planning that?"
"Planning to rescue them? I know because you love them."
"They're hard workers. They've always done right by me. They deserve a chance for something, even if it's just being roadies. It's still better than rotting here, huffing and drinking."
"They assuage your guilt at leaving your grandfather and your parents behind. You're taking care in the way you can."
She purses her lips. "That sounds so selfish. You're right. I'm a shit."
"I'm not judging you, Aglakti. Does it make you feel better to know it's going to work?"
"What do you mean?"
"Destiny," he repeats, blowing steam from his cup. "Those of you here who have destinies beyond S. Inlet don't wake up at the old site. Like you, like your cousins. You're not tied here. You can, and will, go free."
"This is what your dreaming tells you?"
"Yes," he says. "It's the only hypothesis that fits the pattern. Why, I can't tell you -- but the what is clear to me now. Many stories end in S. Inlet but a precious few are just beginning."
Aglakti thinks about this, swirling the pop in her can. She shakes her head. "But then what about Charlie, Mr. Miss? Charlie's hellbent on getting out of here. What about him? How come he wakes up at the old site?"
Mr. Mississauga sits back in his seat, his brow furrowed and his deep eyes sad. "I don't know," he admits. "I can't quite figure Charlie out."
After breakfast they walk to the Elk's Head Lodge together to gather Mr. Mississauga's things while Jack heads down to the water to get his airplane in gear. Mr. Mississauga breaks down his battery charger and stows it carefully beside a neatly folded sandwich of underwear and socks. Aglakti circles the room, brooding, burning off the two-fisted caffeine and sugar blast from her morning Coke.
"What's this?" she says, leaning over him to pull a black and white photograph out of a dog-eared dossier in the suitcase.
"A man I'm hunting," says Mr. Mississauga without looking up. "Have you seen him?"
She squints at the picture. "Nope."
Mr. Mississauga plucks it from her fingers and inserts it back into the dossier, then snaps his suitcase closed. She says, "He looks like a cave man."
"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga. "That's what he is."
Aglakti flops down on the bed and looks at him with her chin in her hands. "Is everything you're involved with weird as shit?"
Mr. Mississauga gives her a tight little smile. "Yes," he confirms.
"So what's next for you, Mr. Miss?"
"I'm still on this case."
"But isn't your report the end of it?"
He shakes his head. "I took the contract for the funding. I would've ended up here anyway, sooner or later. As I told you, S. Inlet is another point on a line of anomalous effects. I've seen others, and there are more yet to see if I'm to triangulate the locus of Event Zero."
"Event Zero, huh?" she says, rolling on her side and lounging carelessly. "Sounds kind of ominous."
Mr. Mississauga picks up his suitcase and nods seriously. "Yes," he agrees.
At the registration desk he runs into the Germans standing in the middle of a pile of expensive luggage. Lars elbows Klaus and Klaus steps forward to apologize for last evening's shenanigans. "I'm ferry sorry for the trouble I caused to you, Herr Mississauga," he says sheepishly. "I have teep shame for it."
"Huh?" says Arnivolfe.
Mr. Mississauga nods. "Are you fellows heading home today?" he asks.
"Ja," says Lars as he signs the bill Charlie pushes across the desk for him. "We're flying with you!"
Mr. Mississauga smiles bleakly. "How nice," he says.
The pack of them are surprised to be greeted by a crowd of well-wishers outside the lodge. Bonnie has paper-wrapped packages of beluga blubber for each of them, as well as a can of Campbell's Scotch Broth for Mr. Mississauga. Father Gomez blesses their travels, and Lyle reminds them to tell their friends about how much fun they had in S. Inlet. "We got more polar bears," he says. "Lots more!"
On cue Charlie and Aglakti's cousins tromp down the steps of the lodge carrying a wheelbarrow between them. The wheelbarrow is loaded up with a pile of tied paper packages of bear meat, topped by the taxidermied head of a blonde-furred female, her jaws posed as if frozen mid-roar. As the wheelbarrow hits the dirt the Germans rush over and peel the plastic off the head, cooing over it.
"Rawr!" says Arnivolfe, and they all laugh.
They say their goodbyes. Lyle shakes Mr. Mississauga's hand again, and this time he's relaxed about it. "You take care, eh?" he says, grinning through his beard. "Don't eat no bad apples, buddy."
As the crowd thins Mr. Mississauga looks around for Aglakti. When he can't find her he tucks his package of blubber and can of soup into his suitcase and then joins the slow parade meandering down to the water -- three bean-pole Germans with their yellow hair shining in the sun following a wheelbarrow of bear pushed by a squat, rosy-cheeked Inuit.
"Hey!" calls Aglakti. "Wait!"
Mr. Mississauga turns.
Aglakti is scampering down the hill from her home dragging a bulging valise and a guitar case, hefting an overstuffed knapsack on her back. "Mr. Miss!" she cries, slowing down and huffing and puffing for breath as she nears. "Mr. Miss, wait -- I'm coming with you!"
He waits until she arrives in front of him, red in the face. "I'm coming with you," she repeats breathlessly.
Mr. Mississauga's mouth tightens. "No," he says.
"Yes," she retorts, eyes flashing. "You fucking need me, and I fucking need you. I can't stand to stay here and watch it all just fall apart. Now that I know I have to go. I have to go now. So I'm coming with you."
"No, Aglakti," says Mr. Mississauga softly. "You're not."
She throws her valise down. It opens, spilling her clothes everywhere. "Fuck you yes I am," she says, teeth gritted. "You got a destiny, I got a destiny. And I can help you. You know I can."
A sound like thunder rumbles out over the town. They both look up into the cloudless sky.
Mr. Mississauga sighs. He carefully puts down his suitcase and then reaches out and takes one of Aglakti's flesh and blood hands between his lifeless leather gloves. "Aglakti, child, what I do I would not subject another human being to. How I live -- what I see...it's not for you. It's my cross to bear."
"I don't care about the danger, Mr. Miss. I like you."
"I like you, too. That's why I won't drag you down."
"But --"
"This isn't a discussion," he says heavily, dropping her hand. "Please, Aglakti, play your music. Find your destiny. Out there, in the world, I'm sure we'll see each other again."
She sags. "Fuck," she says miserably, pushing up her glasses to wipe at her eyes. "My shit's all over the road."
"Don't cry," says Mr. Mississauga.
"Fuck off. There's nothing wrong with crying."
She throws her arms around his shoulders and presses him into a hug. He pats her back gingerly with his mannequin left hand. They stay that way for a long moment until she turns abruptly, gathers up the spilled clothes into her arms, and then runs off toward home again, leaving a trail of brassieres and T-shirts with profane slogans on them.
A gull swoops down to see if there's any food in the trail. There isn't. The gull flies away.
Mr. Mississauga leaves, too.
As he rounds the corner toward Jack's hangar his gait falters. The orange schoolbus that ferries the residents from night to day has its front jammed into the side of a garage, aluminum siding bent out like splayed fingers. Townsfolk are running around in a panic.
He catches Errol's elbow as he runs by. "What's going on?"
"Charlie's been hit by the bus!" shouts Errol, pelting off.
Mr. Mississauga ambles closer.
Two kids huffed up on solvents have taken the schoolbus for a joyride while the town was distracted by the departure of the tourists. It's the pair Mr. Mississauga gave cigarettes to. They're sitting on the rear bumper with their heads hung low, talking to Father Gomez. By the deformed front tire is an upset wheelbarrow, lumps of ripped meat scattered in a semi-circle around it. The polar bear's head is nowhere to be seen.
Errol returns with the doctor, whose chin is stained with egg yolk. Bonnie's not far behind with towels and a first aid kit.
There is, however, no first aid to be rendered.
Charlie is somewhere between the accordioned front of the bus and the splintered side of the garage. He isn't making any noise. Slow, sad rivulets of various fluids pool in the gutter: coolant, motor oil, blood. "Can we get a tow-truck in here?" shouts Errol. "Jesus Christ."
After peeking into the compressed crevice the doctor shakes his head solemnly, then takes off his hat.
The Germans are paler than usual. They stand in a tight bouquet, their elbows rubbing. Arnivolfe's eyes flick around restlessly -- he's searching for the bear head. "Gott," mourns Klaus. "Gott."
Mr. Mississauga looks over as Jack approaches them, baseball cap in hand. "We should go," he says, his breath threatening to catch in his throat. "There ain't nothing you guys can do. Come on now. Dollars to doughnuts I'm going to be flying the coroner in on my way back anyways. Best not keep him waiting."
"Gott," says Klaus again.
"Was ist mit dem Fleisch?" says Arnivolfe.
Lars shakes his head curtly. To Jack he says, "Ja, we will go now."
The engine roars and the aircraft surges forward, kicking up ribbons of spray from the ends of its pontoons. Mr. Mississauga is squeezed in between Klaus and Arnivolfe while Lars sits up front next to the pilot. The sunlight clocks around them as Jack guides the plane around the breakwall and out into the open bay. He pushes the throttle and the propellers keen.
They fly.
Jack circles around to his southward heading, the town passing beneath them: trailers separated by weed-choked ditches, houses with flaking roofs, rusted pick-ups sleeping in the muddy drives. In the distance he can make out the colourful pyramids and domes of the old site's tents, waiting for their sleepers.
A lone figure runs over the hills, casting up tiny puffs of dust as she slides down one face before clambering up the next. It's Aglakti and she has no idea about Charlie. The only thing she's sad about is not yet being free.
At the crest of the highest rise she turns and waves, her arms crossing and uncrossing over her head.
Though she could never see him do so Mr. Mississauga waves back, the electronics in his hand whirring as he slowly flaps his lifeless fingers.
"Good luck, girl," whispers Mr. Mississauga.
