Andrew Ervin - Burning Down George Orwell's House

Maybe that was all there was to his visit after all — the mail. Farkas seemed like a good guy, even if he was delusional. “Thank you, I appreciate this a lot,” Ray said. “It’s difficult being so out of touch. I came here with all kinds of romantic notions of communing with nature or whatever, and for a while I felt like I was getting close, but it ultimately hasn’t really worked out.”

“Give it time, Ray. Give it time. Thanks again for the whisky. I suppose I’ll see you in Craighouse next Friday evening. You’ll be joining in the carnage, is that right?”

“The hunt — yes. I wouldn’t miss the chance to practice my aim.”

“I wouldn’t think so. I’ll come meet you at the end of the public road, save you a bit of a walk.”

“You’re obviously a very good sport about all of this, so let me ask you something. How do you know you’re a werewolf? You have to admit that it sounds a bit far-fetched. What evidence do you have?”

Farkas took a deep breath. “To tell you the honest truth, I don’t think in terms of evidence. I have memories of doing things — atrocious, horrible things beyond the ken of mankind. They’re more like visions or dreams than memories, but they’re as real as you or me. There comes a time every so often, usually around the time of the new moon, when I cannot control my actions, when my body operates at odds with my best rational thoughts. I hate it. I hate it more than I could possibly convey to you. I’m not an educated man, but I know what I know, and I know that I’m capable of terrible things.”

“Aren’t we all.”

“Aye, but until you’ve awoken with the taste of blood so strong on your lips, and tufts of some pelt beneath your nails, you cannot hope to understand the things I’ve done.”

“Have you considered the possibility — and I hope you’ll forgive me for this — have you ever wondered if you’re delusional?”

“Ray, I pray that I’m delusional because that would be preferable to the waking nightmares I’ve had all these years. And now I should be off. Good night.”

From the doorway, Ray watched Farkas’s progress into the utter darkness of Jura. A biblical swarm of insects sought the light of the sitting room, so he went in and poured another drink, and then another. Farkas didn’t sound crazy, except that he kind of did.

It was a good hour before Ray felt ready to read his mail. A black, imageless postcard read “Rio de Janeiro At Night” on one side. On the other:

Ray, I hope you still

feel as optimistic as

I do. With love — f .

He was overjoyed to learn that Flora was still thinking about him. He read her haiku again and again looking for clues about the true nature of their relationship. “With love,” it said. He then opened the three identical greeting cards:

Thinking of you

and wishing you all

the blessings of our

Lord and Savior .

Next he tore into the large envelope from Helen. She had used her personal stationery, not her lawyer’s, and had had it reprinted to redact his name from her own. He scanned the cover letter for the only news that really mattered … and … there it was. Molly would be ecstatic.

Helen had agreed to his final and somewhat awkward stipulation of the divorce settlement, perhaps in violation of her own precious ethical standards: upon the successful completion of the minimum requirements of admission, Molly Pitcairn was to receive a full, four-year scholarship to attend the university where Helen taught. The offer included a generous housing stipend and a work-study job in the college of fine arts to cover additional expenses. Ray had it in writing. He had secured Molly’s ticket off Jura and couldn’t wait to tell her. Her father would be furious, perhaps murderously so, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Ray had acted in Molly’s best interests and anyone who didn’t like it would be cordially invited to go fuck himself.

In exchange for the scholarship, Ray had surrendered all rights to his share of the condo and agreed not to pursue additional monies from Helen. He was now broke. It felt liberating.

HE FOUND A PEWTER flask under the sink and filled it with a young and lightly peated scotch, tucked the legs of his trousers into his socks, and without locking the door behind him trekked out to meet Farkas, who simultaneously was and was not a werewolf. The shotgun he left behind. Ray had nearly killed himself and, besides, a real weapon would never work against an imaginary beast.

Hiking to the public road would be some of his greatest physical exertion since Molly’s abduction. Jura’s terrain had all but destroyed his canvas sneakers. The blisters under his socks begged to come out for an encore; he would need to finally pick up a pair of wellingtons from Mrs. Bennett if she was still open. Whisky formed a warm kiddie pool in his belly. He drank half the flask before he got up the hill and past sight of Barnhill.

The evening grew colder and worked its way through his sweater, his feet ached, and although he wasn’t much closer to piecing together the bits of his fractured mind he felt something like happiness about the night ready to unfold, about participating in a werewolf hunt on the Isle of Jura on the night of the summer solstice.

Farkas stood waiting for him next to his compact car, an Eastern European model that had gone out of production shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “You can throw that shite on the seat into the back.”

“Good to see you, Farkas. What can I expect from this affair tonight?”

“I don’t fully participate, for reasons you can appreciate, so I can’t rightly say. But if these goings-on are at all consistent with every other aspect of life on Jura, it’s fair to warn you to keep your expectations to a minimum.”

“A salient point. I’ve brought some scotch — care for a blast?”

“Wouldn’t say no to a wee sip, would I?” Farkas took Ray’s flask in his hairy hand and, steering with the other, drank what appeared to be the entire contents. He looked disgusted and rolled down his window to spit it out. “Have I insulted you in some way, Ray?”

“Insulted me? No!”

“Then why in heaven’s name are you giving me this new malt? That shite is best left to the tourists, and that flask of yours might have done with a good washing up as well, I might add.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Farkas handed the empty vessel back and reached into his own pocket. “Try on this tasty little fellow for size,” he said. He passed over a flask that contained a whisky so delicious it might have come from the Virgin Mary’s own tender nipples and been used to suckle the baby Jesus in his downy crib as mother and child were serenaded by a host of angels.

“What on earth is this?” Ray needed to know.

“I told you that we—” he hit the brakes to let a family of red deer pass. They scampered off unaware of their near collision and of the fictional wolf in its make-believe den waiting for darkness to come in order to find the most vulnerable among them. “I told you that we Diurachs save the best of the whiskies for ourselves. Well I personally keep a small collection, an archive if you will. And what you have here was aged for twenty-eight years and will never again see the light of day. When this final bottle is gone it will be gone for good. Try it again while you can.”

Ray took another sip. It tasted entirely different the second time down, and even better. More nuanced. It tasted like caramel and wood smoke and moonlight glowing on a winning lottery ticket. It tasted like drinking joy itself. “I didn’t know whisky could be this good.”