Chapter 13: Shake the Rust Off
The morning could not
crawl, because it was frozen in place- paralyzed and dumb. He fell into a
brooding silence.
His mom asked him if
he would eat breakfast.
She got no answer, because
he was very busy hating the thing that had mauled Joe- and wondering what it
really was. She stood there looking down on him, and after a couple minutes she
ran her fingers through his hair, and walked out of the room.
She came back later-
what may have been an eternity later- and set a plate of pancakes on the coffee
table.
He did not eat them.
His phone buzzed, and
he glanced. It was Emily. He didn't want to talk.
But he told her to
call. So he did what he should. "Hi Em."
"Harold what the
hell." Her voice was thick with accusation. "What do you have to tell
me that was too important to say over text?"
He hesitated.
She filled the
silence. "You sounded awfully... Hesitant in your voicemail. I can only
think the worst. Who was it?"
He almost choked. How
did she know somebody died but not know who it was? "Em, it was Joe."
"Joe? What the
fuck. Ew. Don't call me Em anymore- and don't call me, period." She hung
up with a click.
Harold was baffled,
and when it dawned on him, it didn't make him feel any better. She thought he
cheated on her with his best friend? He tried to call her back, but she did not
answer.
He thought about
texting her, but it wouldn't be right to tell somebody's death in a text. And
besides, stubbornness was welling up in the pit of his stomach. So all he
texted was: 'You need to call me back.'
His phone buzzed a
second later. 'I don't NEED to do
anything.'
He threw his phone to the
floor, and his back to the sofa.
"What the
fuck?" He asked to no-one in particular.
After a pity, he
grabbed a pancake, rolled it up and stuffed it in his mouth. Angry eating
didn't calm him down. He clenched a fist, and picked the phone up off the
floor.
'Dammit, you don't understand. Call me!'
'Fuck yourself Harold. Or fuck Joe I guess, because you won't ever be
fucking me. God I can't believe this- I can't believe I let myself fall for
you!'
His eyes nearly popped
out of his head. In the course of a couple hours he'd learned his best friend
was dead, and now the one girl he liked wanted nothing to do with him.
He threw his phone
down again, and stormed out of the house.
But there was nowhere
to go, not to escape the random hell he'd found himself in.
By the dead fire, all
he could see was the healthy, living Joe of last night. The shed door mocked
him. The fire pit mocked him.
He wanted to break
something. He wanted to break the coyote.
But it was away, like
a thief in the shadows. And it had stolen too much from him already.
What else could he do?
What else could he smash?
He ran to the shed and
punched the door open- he did not notice if there was pain in his fist, or
rather he didn't care.
The smell of rancid
meat kicked him in the nose. He raised his sneaker over the bait (which was
untouched) and stomped plate, dog food, meat, and empty cans into the ground.
He cried, it was an
ugly sound from inside his throat. His lips trembled and his eyes shut tight.
With his eyes closed,
the smell filled his senses- it was more than just rancid meat- more than the
salty dryness of Rufus' dog food... There was something acrid, like ammonia. He
opened his eyes and drew his nose closer. A whiff.
It was urine.
He shouted then, his
rage boiling over, "Mother fucker!"
Harold went to pick up
an axe, he didn't know what he was going to do with it- he just wanted to heft
something deadly.
He turned to the
corner of the shed, where the tools were, and saw leaning against the wall, the
iron spike he and his dad had found in the dirt... In the skull.
His eyes widened, and
this time he did not scream it: "Motherfucker."
Something clicked in
to place in his mind, but before he could give credence-
There was a knock at
the door.
His father.
"Dad?"
"Harold, I heard
you yell." His eyes flicked to the smeared mess on the floor. "What
happened?"
"Emily called
back. She misunderstood what I was saying in the voice mail, didn't understand
what I meant by something happening last night that I couldn't tell her over
text. She asked me 'who' I thought she knew somebody, um, died. But didn't know
who. So I told her Joe. Turns out she thought I was telling her I cheated on
her- with Joe."
"You're mad about
what happened to Joe. Don't take it out on her. It's not totally bizarre that
she figured betrayal before she figured tragedy. Cut her some slack, and cut
yourself some slack. You can sort it out with her later."
"I know, I know.
That's not why I'm so mad anyway. It got me mad. It all got me real mad. But
smell this."
"I already can.
It's rotten meat."
"No, no smell it
closer. This is what made me so fucking livid."
His dad sniffed, but
wrinkled his brow and shook his head. "Why would you use ammonia in the
bait?"
"We didn't. It's
urine dad. That shitting coyote pissed on our bait. It was taunting us."
His dad raised his
eyebrows and whiffed again. "My god. It's piss. You're right. But... A
coyote isn't smart enough to know this was a trap- it's just a dumb animal. It
couldn't possibly taunt you." He hesitated, and looked at the pile of ruined
food. "It was marking its territory or something. Probably planned to come
back later."
Harold was not
convinced. "Would a coyote even do that?" In fact he was no longer
convinced the beast was a coyote at all.
"I don't know.
Seems like one did, doesn't it?"
"But dad... How
could a coyote kill a strong kid like Joe? Aren't they terrified of people, I
mean they're kind of small and they usually hunt like squirrels and
rodents."
His dad shrugged.
"What else could it be?"
"Maybe a
wolf?"
"No. They haven't
been in the area in over one hundred years."
"Maybe something
escaped from the zoo? Maybe a lone wolf wandered far from its territory. There
are ways. But maybe it was bear and not a wolf. Or maybe..." But he
tapered off. He gave as many sound, physical possibilities as he could- because
the one suggestion that flashed most prominently in his mind was utterly
impossible to admit. It was far too foolish. Too nonsensical. Too
superstitious.
No.
But...
"Dad?"
"Look, whatever
the case, the police are involved. I'm sure they're working with animal
control, they'll get to the bottom of this, and they'll get whatever animal it
is. I'm sure of that."
"Ok, but
dad-"
"We gotta clean
up this mess Harold. I know I said you were on your own, but I changed my mind.
Let's get to it."
"Ok, but Dad!"
His dad, stopped and
turned towards him, waiting.
"We'll clean. And
thanks for not making me do it alone. But when we're done, I need something to
distract me. Can we bring that iron spike we found over to the museum or the
historical society or something? I want to see if they can make anything of it,
and I want to take my mind off everything else."
His father nodded, and
gave the closest thing to a smile any of them had managed that morning.
"Sure. We'll try the museum. But first things first."
They used a flat
bladed shovel to scoop all the slop and garbage into a big garbage bag. And
they had to do a little scrubbing. Then they coiled the rope, and his dad
grabbed the iron bar.
"Breakfast first
Harold. Though by now, it's probably truer to call it lunch."
The single dry pancake
he'd eaten hadn't done much for his stomach. They had some cereal, and some
coffee.
Harold ran to get his
backpack- with the skull- and then they were on their way out the door.
His dad handed him the
spike, and got into the driver seat.
"Will they know
over at the museum dad?"
"They're usually
busy sifting through pieces of pottery and stone tools and stuff- it's too bad
we didn't make an appointment. If they can't figure anything out, they'll
probably know someone who can. Either way I better give Gary a call and see if
he still has any pull, with the current lead historian."
Harold leaned his head
against the rest and stared out the window.
"Hey, Gare! This
is Bill.... Bill Maria. Yes! What've you been up to since retiring? Hey do you
still have any pull with the people over there? Yeah, Harold and I found
something real neat while...."
It was soothing to
listen to his dad's voice, and it didn't matter what he was talking about- so
the content faded out and Harold tried to let himself relax.
It wasn't a long drive
to the museum.
As they entered the
security guard stopped them, "Sir you can't bring a... What is that?"
"Dunno."
Harold said. "That's why we're here. We found it, buried with a wolf skull
and we're wondering if anyone could take a look and maybe tell us what it is.
Gary Manning made us an appointment with the lead historian."
At the mention of
Gary's name the security guard's did a full 180, "Oh, right this way then.
Follow me."
He walked them to the
general historian's office, where they met a short, fat man with a well groomed
moustache.
"Hello! Gary said
you'd be coming!" He offered them both a handshake, "Let's take a
look. Ah.... hmm. It's an iron bar. Normally I'd just tell you to go home, but
if it was really found lodged in this skull," He looked at the bone,
against the light, "it's worth looking at. Take the skull to osteology,
first. Sheryll will make time."
The woman who led the bone-
department told them, "Yep, it's a wolf. A big one. But wolves were hunted
out of this state by the 1900s. Bit of a mystery as to why this one was staked,
but they might have just really hated wolves. Anyway, the bone itself isn't
that remarkable. Kinda big and broad for a wolf. Not much else to tell you. If
they're not to busy, go to 19th century artifacts, and have 'em look at that iron
stake."
They bounced over to
the next expert- in a room full of nameless artifacts in varying degrees of
deterioration.
... Where a busy man
in round spectacles that seemed too large for his face said he had never seen
anything like it, but he noted that the spike was pretty rusty. He sent them to
restoration, located in the basement of the building. A man with a neck beard
and a sweaty forehead took a look at the spike and grunted, "Pretty rusty.
I'd guess civil war era. I'm ahead down here, so if you want me to give it a
quick cleaning, for shits and giggles?"
They agreed.
He took Harold's cell
number, and the spike.
They browsed the
museum for a while, then they ate an overpriced lunch in the lobby. They didn't
talk about what happened to Joe, or the animal that did it.
Instead they talked
about US history, and spent the rest of the time talking about nothing- and
that was an improvement.
Harold didn't mind the
silence. It would have been unbearable alone, but with his dad it was
manageable.
They went back to
wandering the exhibits.
The museum was
emptying out, it was evening. His dad asked, "Whaddya think? Ready to
fetch our big rusty nail, and head home?"
Harold chuckled, for
his dad's sake. "Yeah."
As they started
towards the basement once again, the guy from restorations called them:
"Hey, Harold
Maria? Hey, I removed a good amount of the rust. I wouldn't call this
professionally restored, but it's a start. Come take a look, you'll like what
you see. It's a cool find."
"On our way,
thanks." After he hung up Harold turned to his dad. "Pretty good
timing, huh?"
His dad nodded, "Yep."
And his eyes spoke more. His eyes were plain, and utterly readable to Harold.
His dad seemed an anguished twist of relief and sadness. Sadness for Joe- for
Harold and Joe's loved ones.... And relief that Harold was still alive.
"Dad. I wanna
kill that thing."
His dad shook his
head.
"I'm serious dad.
I wanna kill that motherfucking thing."
"I don't think
so." His dad clenched his jaw. "You tried that once already, it
didn't go so well."
They were right by the
door to Restorations.
Harold stopped walking,
and pled with his eyes. "Dad I want your help."
His dad opened his
mouth, but his engine stalled. After a minute, he managed: "We'll talk
about it on the drive back." He opened the door, and went through.
Harold had to follow.
The neck-bearded man stood
up, his eyes were lit with a nerdy passion and he spoke quickly, "Take a
look at this! There's writing or symbols or something all over the shaft."
He passed them the iron, which was much cleaner than it had been upon
excavation. His words kept racing, and they had to look at him instead of the
iron in order to follow along: "Some of the debris on there was just clay
that kinda got stuck. Less rust than it looked like, in fact, that's probably
because the clay kept it mostly air tight, so it's not in awful shape. Speaking
of shape look at each end! Look how sharp! And look at the other end. See the
opening? It was clay and sediment, so it seemed like a solid end- but no! It
must have been mounted. Do you get it?"
Harold raised his
eyebrows, but it was his dad who spoke, "Looks like it was mounted on a
handle- like a shovel or-"
The restorations guy had a huge smile on his face,
"Or a spear! Strange shape for a spearhead, but I think this was a
weapon!"
"That's cool... What do the words say?"
Harold turned the point over in his hands and tried to read them, they were
hard to make out but he did his best.
"Looks like German," he said, as he turned
the spearhead over and looked at the other side, "And there's more writing
on the other side. A language I've never seen. And here's another line, I think
it's latin."
He saw: 'Der Geisterwolf ist tot, er jagt keine Rache. Gott sei dank.' The back was unfamiliar in every regard. and the third line, 'Lupus daemonium, expulso est. Non repetiturum.
Sit laus Deo.'
His
dad took the iron, and offered, "I took german in high school, maybe I
can... Nope. It's German but all I can figure out of this is 'something wolf'
and 'dead'."
"The
ghost-wolf is dead, he does not hunt for revenge. Thanks be to God. That's what
it says." Harold's muscles tensed, and his ears perked forward... But the
bearded guy was in his glory, "I already looked it up. And you're right Harold.
The other line is Latin. It translates to something like 'the demon wolf is
expelled, never to return. Glory to God.'"
Harold
spoke, or tried to but his mouth was dry and he choked on the words. It took a
second attempt, but he got it out, ""Ghost wolf?"
The
man nodded, and grinned wide. "Yep, if you're German. If you're Roman then
it's a demon wolf."
He
was the only one who laughed at his apparent joke.
Harold
scrunched his brow, "Why three languages? You think it's civil war era?
Why isn't it in English?"
The
restorer faltered, and his smile cracked. "I... Good questions. Any time I
see Latin I think catholic church stuff. No idea about the other two, no idea
why there's no English. I guess maybe they ran out of room?"
His
dad asked, "And that other script doesn't ring a bell at all?"
He
shook his head, and shrugged his palms up into the air. "No idea. I don't
even recognize the alphabet."
"Who
else can we ask?"
"The
general historian."
So
they ricocheted once again, this time in the direction of their starting point.
"Dad
I meant what I said."
"About
what, Harold?"
"I
want to kill that damned thing, and I want your help."
"You
want to kill the ghost-dog?" He
smiled. Until he looked at Harold's face, then he frowned. "Sorry. I
shouldn't be making light of it- but you shouldn't be making more of it than it
is. It's not a thing, it's an animal. Only an animal. It's a coyote- or maybe a
wild dog. Not a demon. Not a ghost. Be realistic."
"Ok
fine. But whatever it is, I don't want animal control to have the pleasure. I
want revenge, and I'm going to try for it. Whether you help me or not
dad."
"I
said we'd talk about it in the car. And we will. Let's go talk to the
boss."
And
so they came full circle.
The
lead historian was entranced when he saw the lettering that the restoration had
revealed. "What is it?" He asked himself, turning it over in his soft
hands. "What is it?"
Then
he looked at them, but he didn't hand it back. "I've never seen lettering-
or glyphs like it before. I think you should leave it with us." And raised
his shoulders, and plastered his face with a cheeseball smile, "What do
you think about making a donation to the museum?"
Harold
felt incredibly uncomfortable at the prospect of this relic being kept beyond
his reach. He didn't admit to himself that he believed the creature was a ghost
or demon. He didn't admit to himself that he believed the spear head had any
magic behind it... He did not admit any superstition.
But
when he looked at the short man with his gentle hands and raised eyebrows... He
couldn't help but feel that the sharp point and iron strength would go to waste
in a museum case. He was able admit to himself that the mother fucker (whatever
it was) needed a little poetic justice, and that the spike he and his dad found
would do an excellent job braining the bastard if it had been good enough for
an oversized wolf.
He
held out his hand out for the antique weapon, "No."
The
man's smile drooped. "Why not? Oh never mind, it's obviously not up to me.
And either way I'm gonna have to thank Mr. Manning for sending you over!"
He passed it over to Harold. "Wait a minute! Can I take photos? My
curiosity is piqued, and it hurts to watch this piece walk out the door. A couple
snaps so we can do some research- maybe we'll find something that'd be of
interest to you."
Harold
nodded. The little man scrambled to make a backdrop out of white paper, then they
laid the spearhead across it and a ruler beside it. He took photos from
different angles, with the flash and without it.
He
sighed deeply, and handed the spear back to Harold. "You know, Iron can
rust, and it would be a shame for an interesting find like this to corrode
away." He looked imploringly one last time, but met with silence.
"Just keep it dry, will you?"
---------------
Here's the next chapter... Title is,
