don’t.”
“But why?” Core said. “These people think I have something to do with this?”
“I didn’t say that. But you can’t stay here.”
“What’d you find?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Her parents? Or the husband’s parents?”
“Nothing yet. Follow me back.”
“No one knows anything?” Core said.
“We’ll know something soon.”
Core started his truck, let the engine warm, saw his breath frozen on the windshield from the day before. For sixty slow miles he stayed trained on the taillights of Marium’s truck, two eyes ashine on a face of unbroken black. He fought to keep his own vehicle from slipping across unplowed roads, fought to stop sleep from slamming onto him. The window half open to let the frozen air slap him awake. The radio loud, an upset singer complaining of heart pain. Hard to tell how close the hills and trees came to the road. Impossible to know if there were humans in that darkness. He remembered nothing of this route from the day before.
At this hour of night he could have no accurate notion of the town. He’d expected some lesser oasis at the center of this dead world but the town seemed barely that. In its sickly fluorescent light the motel beckoned from the road without a sign to welcome. He followed Marium into the parking lot, then went to his driver’s window to cadge a cigarette.
“How long you staying?”
“I don’t know,” Core said. “How long should I?”
“A few days, I’d say. At least. Until we get this figured. You can’t remember anything she said to you about where she might go to?”
“She didn’t say anything to me about leaving. We talked about wolves and we talked about this place. That’s all.”
“You’re sure she did this, but tell me how.”
“With a rope. I don’t know.”
“I don’t mean what’d she do it with. I mean how .”
“I’m not prepared for this, Mr. Marium. You have to talk to the people of that village.”
“A tiny old woman came to me when I arrived tonight, as soon as I got out of my truck. She was just standing there. She told me Medora Slone was possessed by a wolf demon. She called it a tornuaq. That’s what you get when you talk to the people there.”
“I’m not prepared for this.”
“You see this main road out here?” He pointed with his cigarette. “Our station is at the end of it, on the left down there. Across from the market. Come talk tomorrow please. You should go catch some sleep now.”
But sleep would not come. He stretched on the bed in this dank room, hungry without the energy to eat. And he imagined Medora Slone’s face in the dark above him. He remembered the flesh of her from the night before, her naked form quaking against his own body.
He could name the facts of nature.
A quarter of all lion deaths are the result of infanticide. A male bass will eat his offspring if they don’t swim away in time.
Female swine and rabbits will stifle their young if the young are sick or weak, if resources run low. It’s called “savaging.”
Prairie dogs kill so many of their own young it’s practically a sport for them.
Rats eat their own young if they are hurt or deformed. But they are rats.
Wasps. Sand sharks. Sea lions. Tree swallows.
Those dolphins we so admire for their intelligence: they’ve been recorded ramming calves to death, nose-first, like football players.
Over forty species of primates kill their own young. Our ancestors? Darwin doubted they participated in such barbarity: they weren’t that “perverted,” he wrote. Goodall observed female chimps killing and eating baby chimps.
Thirty percent of infant deaths among certain baboons are the result of infanticide.
Postpartum depression will cause a human mother to murder her child. But scientists have said that most human infanticide is caused by social or economic woe. The mothers are almost always very young. If there’s a choice between children, a boy and a girl? The girl goes.
An Aborigine tribe has been
“But why?” Core said. “These people think I have something to do with this?”
“I didn’t say that. But you can’t stay here.”
“What’d you find?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Her parents? Or the husband’s parents?”
“Nothing yet. Follow me back.”
“No one knows anything?” Core said.
“We’ll know something soon.”
Core started his truck, let the engine warm, saw his breath frozen on the windshield from the day before. For sixty slow miles he stayed trained on the taillights of Marium’s truck, two eyes ashine on a face of unbroken black. He fought to keep his own vehicle from slipping across unplowed roads, fought to stop sleep from slamming onto him. The window half open to let the frozen air slap him awake. The radio loud, an upset singer complaining of heart pain. Hard to tell how close the hills and trees came to the road. Impossible to know if there were humans in that darkness. He remembered nothing of this route from the day before.
At this hour of night he could have no accurate notion of the town. He’d expected some lesser oasis at the center of this dead world but the town seemed barely that. In its sickly fluorescent light the motel beckoned from the road without a sign to welcome. He followed Marium into the parking lot, then went to his driver’s window to cadge a cigarette.
“How long you staying?”
“I don’t know,” Core said. “How long should I?”
“A few days, I’d say. At least. Until we get this figured. You can’t remember anything she said to you about where she might go to?”
“She didn’t say anything to me about leaving. We talked about wolves and we talked about this place. That’s all.”
“You’re sure she did this, but tell me how.”
“With a rope. I don’t know.”
“I don’t mean what’d she do it with. I mean how .”
“I’m not prepared for this, Mr. Marium. You have to talk to the people of that village.”
“A tiny old woman came to me when I arrived tonight, as soon as I got out of my truck. She was just standing there. She told me Medora Slone was possessed by a wolf demon. She called it a tornuaq. That’s what you get when you talk to the people there.”
“I’m not prepared for this.”
“You see this main road out here?” He pointed with his cigarette. “Our station is at the end of it, on the left down there. Across from the market. Come talk tomorrow please. You should go catch some sleep now.”
But sleep would not come. He stretched on the bed in this dank room, hungry without the energy to eat. And he imagined Medora Slone’s face in the dark above him. He remembered the flesh of her from the night before, her naked form quaking against his own body.
He could name the facts of nature.
A quarter of all lion deaths are the result of infanticide. A male bass will eat his offspring if they don’t swim away in time.
Female swine and rabbits will stifle their young if the young are sick or weak, if resources run low. It’s called “savaging.”
Prairie dogs kill so many of their own young it’s practically a sport for them.
Rats eat their own young if they are hurt or deformed. But they are rats.
Wasps. Sand sharks. Sea lions. Tree swallows.
Those dolphins we so admire for their intelligence: they’ve been recorded ramming calves to death, nose-first, like football players.
Over forty species of primates kill their own young. Our ancestors? Darwin doubted they participated in such barbarity: they weren’t that “perverted,” he wrote. Goodall observed female chimps killing and eating baby chimps.
Thirty percent of infant deaths among certain baboons are the result of infanticide.
Postpartum depression will cause a human mother to murder her child. But scientists have said that most human infanticide is caused by social or economic woe. The mothers are almost always very young. If there’s a choice between children, a boy and a girl? The girl goes.
An Aborigine tribe has been
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