Christopher Buehlman - Those Across the River

I nodded.

“We are goin back out there, but this time we got dogs. And we will find them.”

I felt my heart beat faster.

“Do you know what’s out there?” I said.

“Do you?”

“Have you got time to talk?”

“I’ll make time.”

I told him.

I told him everything. The boy in the woods. What Saul Gordeau had seen (most of that, anyway). What happened at the Nobles’. How the silver in my gun had wounded one and chased off another. I told him how I killed a monster on my stair at night and in the morning pried up a man.

I knew I was breaking covenant with Martin, but after the attack on my wife I was ready to betray any number of taxidermists to strike out at them. The man-wolves. Ursie with the tablecloth on what was left of her arm. If Martin felt squeamish about harming his “lepers” across the river, I did not.

When I was through, Buster nodded, sorting through it all in the no-man’s-land between belief and disbelief.

“I’ll come with you into the woods on one condition,” I said.

“I’m listenin.”

“Someone’s got to go to the mill town, and I mean tomorrow, and get bullets made for every gun we take with us.”

“Silver?”

“Silver.”

“Ain’t no way we can take that much time fore we go out there. Besides which, won’t nobody else believe this.”

“You do.”

He nodded slowly, looking at his boots.

Then he shook my hand and left.

It turned out he went straight to Pastor Lyndon’s house and asked him for the big, silver collection plate he had used so long to pay for the damned things’ dinner.

WHILE THE NEW sheriff went to the mill town to have bullets cast for the posse and in the days before those bullets would be ready, Whitbrow settled again into the spell of waiting it had learned so well these past months.

Stores and houses were put up for sale as refugees continued to limp away from the hurt town, but nobody came to buy. Some didn’t wait for buyers. Those who left went as far away from Whitbrow as their money would take them. Some to Morgan, but more to the mill town. One family to Nashville. Several to Atlanta. All of them were glad when they got on the road. Poverty and hunger were not as bad as what they left behind, and when they got where they were going, I doubt they talked about Whitbrow.

Sarah Woodruff left her father’s house on a clear night when the stars raged overhead, taking one change of clothes and a sack of books she could not abandon. Charley Wade saw her walking out of town with the boy who talked about the army; she walked with him all the way to the bus station in Morgan. Like my mother, she got out of this place; I hope she did a better job getting it out of her.

EUDORA BEGAN TO sleepwalk on the same night that Sarah ran off. The same starry, cool night.

I woke up when I realized my wife was not in her bed. I ran a hand over the plain of warmth her body had left and I rolled over and smelled her scent on the pillow. Her new scent, alive with beeswax and trees. I lay diagonally across the bed, stomach-down, feeling the beginnings of an erection and meaning to ambush her with it when she returned from what I presumed to be a trip to the outhouse. I began to drowse again and then sprang awake when I realized it had been a very long time and she was not back. I rolled over.

“Dora?”

I sat up in bed and unraveled my feet from the top sheet. A glance at the clock told me it was three in the morning.

I swung my legs over and stood up nude in the cool room, trying to feel rather than hear her.

She was not upstairs.

“Eudora?”

I had a premonition that I was rehearsing for something unpleasant, that I would find her this time but that eventually I would be left alone in this or some other house. I went out of the room and stood at the top of the stairwell, reminded of the view from behind the cannon. It was then that I saw her, standing where I had first seen the monster, at that hairpin angle where the common room led to the kitchen. The light from stars and a crescent moon outside were so weak I had to strain to make her out. She just stood there, naked like me.

I walked down the stairs, squinting at her.

“Honey, what are you doing?”

I got close to her and saw that she was not awake. Her eyes looked through me and she swayed as if she were trying to find her land-legs. Her lips moved gently. A hand twitched.

Was it bad to wake a sleepwalker?

I seemed to remember hearing that. So I sat on the overstuffed sofa watching her. Until she moved again. Into the kitchen. She put water in the teapot and set it on the stove even though there was no fire. Stood swaying in the kitchen. Then she went to the back door and tried to open it but could not figure out the latch. She walked back to the spot I found her in, and I was tempted to speak to her but did not interfere with her until I saw her go to the front door and unlatch it successfully. It swung open, letting a chilly breeze in, and she walked slowly onto the porch.

I called her name and went to her then, putting an arm around her. She responded by moving her face towards me, but did not wake up. I steered her around and directed her back inside, latching the door. I guided her back up the stairs one by one and when I put her in bed I tucked the top sheet around her so tightly I would feel it if she got up.

By and by I slept.

Just before dawn she made love to me drunkenly, the strength in her legs pressing at my hips while she rode me. I thought she might break the bed again. I was not sure she knew who I was.

After, I watched her sleep while daylight bled into the sky.

For the first time I was afraid of her.

IN THE MORNING I wanted to hear music, so I went to where I had moved the gramophone for easy loading into the moving van, not far from the front door. I ran my fingers over the walnut casing to see if it had been nicked or gouged by the shrapnel that had coned down from the stairwell when the cannon went off. The wood was cool and smooth to my touch. The old Aeolian Vocalion. My father’s last birthday present to me. I imagined my father’s spirit as a falcon mantling over the gramophone to protect it from the shrapnel. A sleepy, slurring falcon with reading glasses on. I chuckled and opened the hood. Touched the brass arm holding the needle. The little brass arrow of the volunome. The guts of the thing.

I thought of France and all its smashed houses, the litter inside them. Everything made to be enjoyed for a little while and then broken. One day this, too, fractured like pot shards under a city.

I put a record on the turntable and then fitted the brass crank into its port and turned it. I was rewarded with the slow, sweet jazz a colleague had sent me from Berlin. A woman chided her faithless lover in German, sending goose bumps up my left side. This song always moved me. German usually sounded like a chisel to me, but this woman turned it into a paintbrush.

Dora walked barefoot down the stairs.

“I’m sorry. It’s loud, isn’t it?” I said.

“I’m glad it woke me. It’s nearly noon. Honestly, I seem to be sleeping my life away.”

“It’s this place. You’ll come back to yourself in Chicago.”

“Have you eaten, Frankie?”

“No. Nibbled.”

“I’m starving.”

“There’s still some of that smoked ham in the icebox. How do you feel otherwise?”

“No, I finished the ham while you were sleeping. I don’t feel half bad. Foot’s a real pill and my head’s not clear, like we went to bed tight. But we didn’t touch a drop, did we?”

I shook my head.

She came and draped her arms around my neck.