cabinet door. She found the charts unreadable, a grid of swirling lines and tiny numbers. Drew cut them from the paper. He often photocopied them and made marks on them. The one before her had a series of small red lines drawn across the humps of several isobars. At least she thought they were isobars. One could never be sure. She could, however, interpret the red marks. The marks meant Drew had found something to interest him. They meant he was tracking a storm. It might mean that they would have company as well, for she knew that Drew had been talking to some people from a magazine. There were going to be visitors, a photographer, professional surfers. Kendra found the whole thing vaguely distasteful.
When she had finished with the tea, she pulled a leather jacket over the clothes she had slept in and went outside to see about the tanks. There were two of them. They were short and fat and had been painted to look like giant ladybugs. It was the work of the trailer’s former tenant, the one murdered by Marvus Dove. The two had apparently quarreled behind a bar. Marvus was believed to have followed her home, cut her throat ear to ear with a rigging knife, and left her to bleed to death on the kitchen floor. Found two days later at Neah Heads with blood on his boots, Marvus had asserted his innocence then hanged himself at his earliest convenience. Amanda’s landlord had driven down from Brookings, scoured out the trailer, and put it up for sale. It had been sitting empty for two weeks when Drew bought it and put it on his land.
Kendra took the tank from the front of the trailer and started with it down the long flight of stairs. The fog clung to her face and filled her lungs. Rheumatism and consumption. The Shaker missionaries had found them the principle ailments among the indigenous inhabitants.
The indigenous inhabitants had blamed these ailments upon evil spirits, Skwai-il chief among them. “You must not do wrong,” the Tolowans were reputed to have told their children. “Skwai-il will see you, and take you as his dwelling place.” She supposed the children had been frightened. She would have been frightened.
It was all in the books Travis had lent her. Skwai-il, Kitdongwes, sorcerers and shamans. As Travis had suggested, the latter were generally women. Spirits would come to them while they were intrances and put a pain into them. In order to heal, however, the pain need be paired with another, and it was this they were to go in search of, alone, to remote and sacred places. Some of these were high in the mountains, some upon dangerous cliffs above the sea, and here they would stay, and dance, awaiting the arrival of the spirit and the second pain. When it came, the intensity was such that the shaman would temporarily lose her senses. She would retire to a sweat lodge where the pains would become a slimy substance that in time might be expelled from her body.
Kendra found herself moved by this image of the woman, dancing alone in some sacred place, awaiting a pain. She went so far as to imagine that this might have something to do with why she walked in the woods, in a dead girl’s clothes. The books, of course, had nothing to say about that. They didn’t tell her what she wanted to know.
Perhaps, she thought, upon reaching the mud at the foot of the stairs, if she had not miscarried. If Drew had not been bitten. If she had not been left alone for days at a time. She could, in fact, envision another life here—some gleaming, untraveled road. As it was, she found herself thrown back upon unpleasant memories. She felt privy to what the trailer had seen and what the steam cleaning had failed to wash away. She had taken to sluggish days and wakeful nights, to the sound of rain on the tin roof while she pitched the cork for the cat that had been the dead girl’s and that had been taught to fetch. And now there were to be visitors. It was an absurd proposition. Drew had promised big waves, a secret spot. If
When she had finished with the tea, she pulled a leather jacket over the clothes she had slept in and went outside to see about the tanks. There were two of them. They were short and fat and had been painted to look like giant ladybugs. It was the work of the trailer’s former tenant, the one murdered by Marvus Dove. The two had apparently quarreled behind a bar. Marvus was believed to have followed her home, cut her throat ear to ear with a rigging knife, and left her to bleed to death on the kitchen floor. Found two days later at Neah Heads with blood on his boots, Marvus had asserted his innocence then hanged himself at his earliest convenience. Amanda’s landlord had driven down from Brookings, scoured out the trailer, and put it up for sale. It had been sitting empty for two weeks when Drew bought it and put it on his land.
Kendra took the tank from the front of the trailer and started with it down the long flight of stairs. The fog clung to her face and filled her lungs. Rheumatism and consumption. The Shaker missionaries had found them the principle ailments among the indigenous inhabitants.
The indigenous inhabitants had blamed these ailments upon evil spirits, Skwai-il chief among them. “You must not do wrong,” the Tolowans were reputed to have told their children. “Skwai-il will see you, and take you as his dwelling place.” She supposed the children had been frightened. She would have been frightened.
It was all in the books Travis had lent her. Skwai-il, Kitdongwes, sorcerers and shamans. As Travis had suggested, the latter were generally women. Spirits would come to them while they were intrances and put a pain into them. In order to heal, however, the pain need be paired with another, and it was this they were to go in search of, alone, to remote and sacred places. Some of these were high in the mountains, some upon dangerous cliffs above the sea, and here they would stay, and dance, awaiting the arrival of the spirit and the second pain. When it came, the intensity was such that the shaman would temporarily lose her senses. She would retire to a sweat lodge where the pains would become a slimy substance that in time might be expelled from her body.
Kendra found herself moved by this image of the woman, dancing alone in some sacred place, awaiting a pain. She went so far as to imagine that this might have something to do with why she walked in the woods, in a dead girl’s clothes. The books, of course, had nothing to say about that. They didn’t tell her what she wanted to know.
Perhaps, she thought, upon reaching the mud at the foot of the stairs, if she had not miscarried. If Drew had not been bitten. If she had not been left alone for days at a time. She could, in fact, envision another life here—some gleaming, untraveled road. As it was, she found herself thrown back upon unpleasant memories. She felt privy to what the trailer had seen and what the steam cleaning had failed to wash away. She had taken to sluggish days and wakeful nights, to the sound of rain on the tin roof while she pitched the cork for the cat that had been the dead girl’s and that had been taught to fetch. And now there were to be visitors. It was an absurd proposition. Drew had promised big waves, a secret spot. If
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