Carol GoldenEagle - Bone Black

“The dispatcher says they’ll send someone out later today to take a statement. In the meantime, I don’t know what to do. I’ve called Raven’s cell about a hundred times but it keeps going to voicemail. I’m worried, Lord. It isn’t like her to just leave me.”

“I will fly home as soon as I can find a way back to the Calgary airport,” he volunteers, even though the inclement weather in the mountains has meant his business trip will be extended by at least a couple more days. He knows his suggestion to come home early leaves him at risk for losing this contract, especially if he leaves now.

“No.” It’s like Wren has read his thoughts. “You stay and finish. I’ll be okay. Maybe the police are right,” she says. “Maybe Raven just decided to go to a bonfire off the beaten path. Maybe at the Shithole, like we used to go to when we were teens. Maybe she started out there and will come back to the farmhouse smiling later today. I have to believe everything is going to be alright.”

The Shithole is what the local kids call a wooded area above the outdoor skating rink in the centre of town. There are no houses there, only a quiet gully where youth built a firepit and drink beer or smoke away from judgemental eyes. They sit on old abandoned car seats that were dragged in from the dump. It happens most weekends, and mostly it’s innocent and safe.

As Wren hangs up, she decides to make a few other calls to neighbours and friends in the vicinity. The more eyes, the better. They might be able to help her and if there’s any clue as to what happened to Raven, they’ll know where to look.

The first to arrive are the boys from down the road. They bring with them another cord of firewood which they unload and begin stacking beside Wren’s studio before she’s even able to offer them some coffee.

“Miss Raven has gone missing you say? How horrible.” The brothers offer to walk the creek bed that runs toward the lake. “We’ll walk the bike path, too, all the way back to town and we’ll double our way back through the ditch to your home, Miss,” says one.

It’s what they say next that makes Wren want to shout out in objection, and makes her heart sink. They tell her that dozens of volunteers gathered earlier this morning to start collecting trash along the highway for the annual community cleanup. Every piece of litter, or anything that isn’t part of the land, would wind up bagged and taken to the dump, including any clues that could shed light on Raven’s disappearance. Cleaned up and sanitized, like nothing is amiss.

Wren has never truly been alone. That’s the reality of being a twin. They share the same birth story. Even through her pain today, Wren smiles when she thinks about how Raven would boast about being the “older” of the two. They were born eleven minutes apart.

In Raven, Wren had a loving playmate as a child and a precious confidante as a youth. They shared the same heart of spiritual connectedness but Wren is losing hope. It’s been days since the annual highway cleanup, since Raven disappeared, and nothing has come to light. The rcmp have nothing to add to the missing person’s report.

Raven has vanished, and even though dozens of volunteers from the town and surrounding farms have gathered as part of a search party, not one piece of evidence has surfaced. Friends and neighbours have scoured the pathway along the valley for miles, from the old Valeport meeting area all the way to Kinookimaw. A group of young girls walked the entire distance from the start of Highway 54 to the Highway 11 junction, finding nothing but old Tim Hortons coffee cups or discarded cigarette packs. Others got on bicycles to comb grid roads within a twenty-mile radius of the area, and boaters kept an eye on the shoreline, but nothing has progressed—nothing except the deepening of Wren’s sadness.

She’s lost a baby and now Raven is missing, too.

The rcmp made so little effort toward an active search. Wren still can’t believe the explanation she was given, that “maybe she ran off with a new love interest.”

“Happens all the time,” they’d said. “They usually show up later filled with excuses and a bad reputation.” Assholes , thought Wren.

Wren knows that is not her sister. Raven is meticulous, not the type to ignore phone calls and certainly not one to cause others worry by not letting them know where she is. The only thing Wren has left is faith and prayer. She speaks to her kohkum often, seeking clarity and guidance. She asks for help from the Little People, those invisible spirit helpers, those guardian angels. She prays and wants to believe that everything will turn out well, but her hope is faltering.

Wren has stopped eating. It’s gotten to the point where Lord prepares food and sits with her, sometimes even feeding her just to make sure her body is nourished. Neighbours from the surrounding area do the same, bringing Wren homemade tourtière pies and smoked lake fish, just so they can have peace of mind that she’s ingesting something other than despair. It has been on everyone’s mind, and is the talk on coffee row each morning.

“That poor girl. I remember seeing her on the pathway with her bike almost every summer day when she was just a youngster,” Wren hears from neighbours over and over again. “I sure hope they find her.”

Raven’s disappearance was even mentioned and prayed for in the church during Sunday services. “Dear God,” they’d prayed. “Please keep this woman safe and help lead us to her whereabouts. We leave it in your loving hands. Amen.”

A story and photo were posted in the local newspaper, providing a reward for information leading to any details about what might have happened. Lord put the reward money in a trust fund the moment he returned home. Ten thousand dollars, a nice sum for just providing information, but still no answers.

Quickly, the days turn to weeks, then months. What police originally suggested—that Raven left voluntarily on a pleasure excursion—can’t be true. Neither her credit card nor her bank card have been used since that night at the bar.

Wren can’t sleep properly. Her baby left, her sister, has disappeared—she doesn’t even want to close her eyes. Every time she does, an image appears of her sister dressed in a flowing black chiffon dress that billows in the wind. Fingers of the warm summer breeze catch the tips of her hair as well, in slow motion, like the wings of a bird soaring in an updraft. Wren sometimes thinks about the baby, too, continuing to hope, but wondering if Raven is holding that little one now. Have you gone to the same place? Wren sobs at the very thought.

There won’t be another baby anytime soon. Wren has stopped allowing her husband to touch her in an intimate way. It’s just too painful to allow herself any type of joy. Instead, she stares out the kitchen window each morning, watching the brake lights on Lord’s vehicle as he leaves for his office in the city. She sends him with coffee in a to-go mug that she crafted in her pottery studio, but neither the coffee nor the mug is made with love. That was the essential ingredient for everything she did, but no more. She can’t find the strength to shake the grief. What used to make her happy has been replaced with nothing but grey.

Autumn arrives. The leaves slowly change and fall to the ground. Many weeks have passed with no word from or about Raven. Wren can’t help but think that once the trees become bare, her surroundings will finally match the state of her soul. She begins to wail. For the first time in her life, Wren is forced to walk alone. Her twin, the one who has been with her since conception, is gone and no one knows what happened. The light of hope that exists in her heart is dimming.