August Ansel - Shadow Road

The wolf lowered its head, looking at her with unwavering interest. It took a slow step forward, then another. His whole body was visible now, a big male. Abruptly, he splayed his front paws, sticking his rump in the air, big brush of a tail wagging, long tongue out in an unmistakable grin. At this sudden move, Arie’s heart gave a mighty lollop in her chest and she very nearly pissed herself. The wolf looked at her a moment, then made a low, snuffling woof. When Arie only stood there, dumbfounded that she was still in one piece, he apparently decided she was not going to be much fun. Tail still wagging furiously, the wolf wheeled around and disappeared into the woods, sparing her not so much as a single backward glance.

Every ounce of strength let go and Arie dropped to the trail, her legs collapsing like blades of grass beneath her. She watched after the wolf, half expecting him to come tearing back to finish her. Moments later there was a brief rattle in the brush, and a porcupine waddled out. It took no notice of the human planted on the ground nearby, trundling from one side of the trail to the other, busy about its nightly rounds.

What next? she thought. Raccoons? Bobcats? “Dancing bear?” she said aloud, then laughed. Weary to the bone, she got to her feet, trembling from cold, from spent adrenaline, from the day’s exhaustion. She buttoned the front of her shirt and pulled her coat close around her. For just a moment, she looked up the trail, wanting the little redwood mandala tucked safely in her pocket, wanting to fall asleep with her finger tracing the smoothly carved labyrinth, outside to center, then out, then in again.

But the wind was getting more aggressive. Her hair, still damp and cold, whipped around her face. The cut on her thigh was a thin wire of pain, and the cabin—only a few yards down the hill—had a light flickering in the stained-glass window upstairs.

“Fuck it,” she muttered.

The front door was unlocked. Arie stepped inside and drew the bolt. The warmth of the room flowed over and around her, and she rested her eyes, leaning against the wall. Her scalp relaxed. Her muscles seemed to lengthen. Her busy heart slowed itself by degrees.

“You were gone a long time.” It was Renna, keeping first watch. She had settled by the kitchen window, where she could see the front porch and the clearing beyond. Curran, sleeping on one of the sofas, snored softly. Talus was nowhere to be seen.

“Mm-hm. Said I would be.”

“Almost two hours, though.”

Arie felt a gig of surprise. Had she been so long? “All’s well.”

“Is it?”

“For tonight.”

Renna didn’t respond.

Arie couldn’t see her face, only the outline of her sitting there in the dark. “I’m going to sleep,” she said. There was little more to her voice than a rasp. She headed for the stairs.

“Will you put out the light?” Renna asked.

“Thanks for leaving it on. It was a welcome sight from out there.”

“Handy lit it.”

At the top of the stairs, Arie paused by the stained glass and blew out the light. She passed the drawn curtain where Handy slept and made her way across the wide loft to Kory’s room. The moon was visible only in fits and starts as the furious wind pushed massive banks of dark clouds across the sky. Framed in the window, the slender tops of trees bent north, then gusted east, throwing tentacled shadows everywhere around the room.

Kory had made a sleeping spot on the braided rug, leaving his bed for Arie again. He was rolled up like a pill bug with only a few shocks of his blond hair showing outside the blankets. She almost stroked his head as she stepped around him, but thought better of it, late as it was. Leave him to dream , she thought.

It wasn’t until she’d dropped onto the bed and was pulling off her boots that she realized Talus was in the room. She was up on Kory’s desk, lying by the window. Arie saw only her silhouette, still as any shadow. Noticing her there gave Arie one last weary start. Big as the dog was, she was almost invisible in the weird, shifting light.

She went to the desk, but when she touched Talus the dog startled and whipped her head around, as if she’d had no idea Arie was in the room. For a split second, Arie thought Talus might nip at her. But when she saw who had touched her, she simply turned again to stare outside.

“What is it, love?” Arie whispered. She leaned over the dog and looked out. It was as if everything was moving—every branch on every tree shaking, bending, nodding like a conductor’s baton leading the world’s most outrageous orchestra. The strobing clouds made the forest a sepia kaleidoscope of light and dark. No wonder the dog was mesmerized.

Then Arie saw. Under the canopy in the heavy underbrush, twenty feet from the edge of the clearing. Even in the wild, changing light, with the moon on the wester, she saw it. Two orange-yellow circles, looking up.

RENNA ROAMED THE CABIN. With Arie now safely upstairs, she felt free to wander from corner to corner, returning intermittently to glance out the window. The world thrashed out there, but each time Renna looked the view was the same: trees, stones, storage shed, outhouse.

Taking care to steer clear of Curran, she paced, touching things as she went. Everything begged to be handled and admired, relished for its usefulness or practicality or beauty. The solid wood countertop in the kitchen, scarred by carving knives. Empty bowls, nested one inside the other, perfectly receptive. The curve of the pump spout and the shining spiral handles of the stove lids. The bathtub, solid and smooth. In the living room, a generosity of furniture. It seemed such an immeasurable bounty, each thing part of a perfect whole that radiated an overall sense to Renna: safe, safe, safe.

She settled at the window again and watched the wind push things around. After a minute or two she realized there was rough order, even in the chaos. Moments before each new gust slammed into the trees, she could hear it coming through the woods, driving a path of sound ahead of it. First, a moment of near quiet, then the rush of arrival.

With everyone asleep, she could pretend to be here alone. She still felt the sting of Arie nearly knocking her out of the chair. It was a humiliating thing for her to do in front of Handy and Curran. Her every instinct had been to put her face in Arie’s and demand an apology.

The trouble was, in Renna’s estimation, she’d never found a reliable way to resist Arie. Renna could never out-argue her—she had the quicker wit and by far the sharpest tongue. Even worse, if you challenged her, she could turn your argument inside out with a word or gesture so kind and self-deprecating you were left feeling like a petty ass.

Maddening woman.

Nurturing that little flicker of resentment, Renna let herself slide into her most enduring fantasy: What if?

What if she were living out the aftermath of the sickness alone? It was a daydream scenario she’d honed to perfection during her time trapped with the Konungar. After she escaped, it was the thing she fervently prayed for while she stumbled around in the woods, looking for food and trying to hide from feral dogs. Renna, the last person on earth, tucked safely away from people and beasts. What if it were only her in their cabin tonight? One woman huddled at the window, watching a windstorm.

What if?

She could set up sound alarms in the woods, the way Curran had at his home in the stump. Use the basement as a hiding place, the way Arie had used her attic.

Renna breathed out, long and slow, sitting with the sensation, listening to the rush of the trees. One of the rafters in the loft gave a low creak when a particularly hard gust pushed against the roof. Isolation settled over her like a second skin. The inky darkness beyond the clearing seemed to deepen and the rooms at her back felt profoundly empty.