Carol GoldenEagle - Bone Black

Wren makes a promise to Raven as she pushes Billy’s body into the cavity of brick and mortar, “If anyone has harmed you, my lovely sister, this is where they will find themselves. Please come back to me, Raven. Let me know you are unharmed.” Tears stream down her face.

The body in the kiln reminds Wren of an mri, except this one will not take photos. She’ll need to stoke the fire often over the next couple of days. She’ll need to feed this fire day and night. It’ll take two days to burn the bones to ash, and she’ll have to wait another day for the kiln to cool before she can harvest.

The smell of Billy’s burning flesh doesn’t bother Wren, but instead reminds her of smoked ribs, smoked turkey, smoked meat. Before Lord returns home, there will be nothing but a pile of ash in her kiln. The kiln Lord built. Leaving only bad ash , thinks Wren. Now wiped from the earth and her sacred soul. The soul of all women. Bad ash. Red Sea parting. Young Dogs destroyed by fire, a riddance of filth and those who leave nothing behind but pain .

As Billy’s body slowly cooks, Wren lights a bonfire in the firepit. A place where years earlier, she sat with Kohkum and Raven and roasted marshmallows. A place where she will dance and say prayers tonight. Wren goes back into her house to fetch a portable stereo and a favourite cd: Andino Suns. She will play their rendition of “Weichafe” and set the stereo to repeat.

“Weichafe”, a melody dedicated to revolution and rebuilding, to what she is doing now. Wren dances around the large blaze that has sparked in her firepit, while saying a prayer for Billy’s soul. That he will harm no more. She stabs at the naked sky with the flaming end of a stick. There are no stars out tonight. There is only cloud cover and the light falling of snow. That light falling of snow. She thanks the fairies for this perfect gift.

Wren locates the keys which she took from Billy’s pocket earlier. “Time for an accident,” she whispers, knowing the ice on the lake will not support the weight of Billy’s truck. It’s too early in the winter season to be driving on the lake, especially if it’s parked on a fault where the current is active. Wren has observed the lake for years. She knows and respects its power. It can and will devour.

Red Sea parting. Fire from the sky.

Wren has walked or biked along the pathway that runs along the lake so many times. As a child, it was where she and her sister would hike, toward what used to be called Butler’s but what is now the Bluebird Café. They’d get a plate of fish and chips with the money they’d earned for doing chores at home. Wren has studied the lake during winter, spring, summer and fall. It can appear so calm and serene but underneath are deadly undercurrents where even fish don’t swim. There are several of these such places, where water churns, dragging the unknowable down to murky depths from which there is no return.

Kohkum used to call it “the Edge.” The place where sea monsters live; a portal where good and evil meet. Wren will drive Billy’s truck there, to a spot where she knows the lake heaves, a current runs and the ice is thin. She’ll leave that red roofing truck on a fault during this snowfall. The lake will swallow it up, and this world will forever be rid of Billy Vespas’s violent fists. Wren can still see the faint bruising on Stella’s face.

It’s midnight when Wren drives Billy’s truck off her property, under the cover of darkness. She made sure to clean out the truck’s cab before driving away. She’ll get rid of his cellphone and notepads, which could leave traces of jobs he’s done recently, including coming out to see her. She’ll burn them. Wren drives to the end of 16th Street in Regina Beach and turns toward the bike path at the base of the hill. There’s a small opening where this truck will fit on the pathway. It’s a gamble though because the path is narrow and not meant for vehicles.

“Turn to the right and make a wicked drive down the embankment,” Wren mutters to herself, “and, don’t hit any boulders. Shit. Get on the ice and hope not to sink before halfway on the lake where the monsters live. Billy, you’re a monster. This is where you belong. This is what you deserve.”

Her descent from the embankment and over the crest of rocks that line the shore way can be described as nothing less than terrifying. The rocks catch the wheels of the Ford Ranger and Wren experiences the first moments of regret that she ever dreamed up such a scheme. The front wheels seem momentarily stuck, spinning between two small boulders. The truck feels as though it will fall on its side rather than go forward onto the frozen expanse of lake toward the ice heave that beckons. Wren is in a panic. She calls on the fairies again, to whatever entities might be helping her in this task. It may have been loose gravel or her loose mindset that willed the vehicle forward, but suddenly the wheels spin out from the grip of those frozen rocks and Wren is back on the bumpy ride down the embankment and toward the frozen lake.

Wren drives a quarter-mile across the layer of ice, not knowing if it will hold the weight of the vehicle she’s driving. November is too early to be on the lake. She drives with the window down and her seatbelt unbuckled in case she needs to make a quick escape. This far from the shoreline is a place where the water runs deep; a good place where secrets will be kept. A place where no one will find this abandoned vehicle. It will sink and be taken by the lake and with it, any trace of Billy. Wren stops on the fault line, puts the truck into park and steps out. She’s crying, her memory of Raven’s disappearance still fresh in her mind.

It occurs to Wren that what she’s done is her way of yelling at the universe, of asking, Why did this piece of shit get to live and prosper, and hurt people, and lie and still carry on as though nothing has happened? She curses the rcmp for their inaction on Raven’s disappearance. As she slams the truck door, Wren finds herself hoping that Billy’s disappearance will be met with the same lack of examination. Wren wipes the tears that have fallen from her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the good, exhaling the bad. Once she feels centred, she begins her walk back to the shoreline. Wren knows the falling of snow will bury that truck, cover her footprints, and erase any evidence of the crimes she’s committed.

“Fairies, you have conspired. Thank you,” she breathes.

Wren spots a lone coyote watching her as she exits the truck. The air is so quiet even her footsteps don’t make a sound. Wren walks home along the pathway, then through the Village of Buena Vista. There are no streetlights so keeping to herself is easy. She’s wearing dark clothing, helping her blend into the darkness of night and the darkness of her secret, which will soon rest at the bottom of this lake. She hopes her plan will work, and that the ice heave on the lake will break before morning, swallowing the truck.

What started out as a light snowfall has turned hard and constant. School buses don’t run the following morning. Wren knows this because watching the highway is part of her routine, has been since she and Lord moved back to the farmhouse. Wren pours a strong coffee each morning before her husband leaves for work. She watches the tail lights on his car as he leaves for the city. Eight-thirty in the morning. She can set her clock by it. Today though, that stretch of highway which she can see from her kitchen window is quiet. No school buses. No plows. No traffic.

Wren wonders if she’ll be able to make it out of her own driveway today. She takes a sip from her big mug and walks to the other side of the house to the window that looks toward the east, where the day begins.