Chapter 13: Shake the Rust Off

1-12 if you are out of the loop

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?"

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Here's the next chapter... Title is,

"If at First you Don't Succeed..."