Call it fate or chance, but Tyson had chosen an absolutely stunning day to take this trip out west. The Des Moines River shimmered underneath like a luminous green-brown ribbon as they drove on the Kale Road Bridge into Fraser, Iowa. It hadn’t been the first time that day they’d taken such a crossing over its length, but the lack of intimacy with the land made each step along their course feel unique and continuously new for Trace.
The ermine smiled as the wind and warm temperatures generously graced his muzzle with an intriguing yet delightful consideration in hopes that their combined presence could lift his spirit. He relished this act of kindness from the open window as he stared dreamily at the placid, partly cloudy sky and the phone wires which bisected it.
“You remember Marie Romero, right? I’m not sure if you remember her all that much,” Tyson breathlessly prattled, “but she called my mom last night—“
“Oh yeah, your old babysitter,” the ermine kindly answered with quiet acquiescence.
The ermine risked a peripheral glance and saw the raccoon tightly gripping the wheel. Trace may have been unable to read Tyson’s eyes behind the Aviators, but the young man’s tense fingers were a sure indication of turbulence. They trembled as if the controls themselves were the only mechanisms that tethered him to the shores of safety. The young man had been on edge ever since they left behind the highway’s interminable procession of traffic. Trace noted it back then and had expected that Tyson would relax as they steadily drew closer to journey’s end. But ultimately the contrary was the case. Not only did his confidence refuse to return, it only seemed to worsen with the wear of travel.
“It’s been quite a while since we’ve seen her, hasn’t it? How’s she doing?”
The raccoon’s recent behavior had the stoat concerned for his health. Tyson was apparently determined to overcome the material threat silence posed. In his desperation, the young man urgently filled the cabin’s closed quarters with the empty words of inane chatter. Trace could tell that Tyson’s heart wasn’t invested in whatever response the ermine could offer. But the stoat chose to humor Tyson until he could no longer do so in good conscience.
“Well get this, she’s out in Utah. Yeah, Marie’s in grad school. But it’s not too surprising when you think about it. She has to be in her late twenties by now. Anyway,” he pressed on tirelessly, “I’m not really sure what she’s studying at BYU, but Sasha said she’d always wanted to go into AgTech. Maybe she wants a teaching gig back home? I don’t know. But Marie did tell my mom that she misses her family back in Red Oak. So she could come around some day. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
The two of them were only about thirty miles from home, yet the tracts of farmland they passed gave the impression that they were both far removed from all semblances of civilization. The tall treetops swarming along the river banks provided the backdrop to some undiscovered alien world. Even with the inviting breeze and amicable sunshine, Trace felt that distinct displacement from normalcy well before their car ventured into the seething vegetation of Holst State Forest. More than anything, he was doubly sure that Tyson felt those very same feelings even if he chose not to openly confront them.
The path from Ames to Fraser was circuitous, but the young man had run into no problems whatsoever navigating the rural landscapes after their exit off US 30. Fraser, Iowa, a tiny burg of little more than one hundred people, was hidden off the beaten trail north of Boone. There’d be no reason to know much of Fraser unless one either lived around there or wanted to spend a weekend’s withdrawal from a busy life at the Scenic Valley campsite.
“Tyson, how did you know to get back here?” Trace asked as it now dawned on the ermine that Tyson hadn’t pulled over even once since they left Ames. He tore his eyes from the countryside’s allure and gave Tyson his full focus.
In the end, this supposed voyage through the unknown was but a mechanical progression from their home to some predetermined rendezvous point. Their whole quest, in fact, felt more like a simple errand than what any road trip could promise. Everything that led up to this moment was oddly uneventful and anticlimactic.
“We haven’t come up here since the night of the attack. And I didn’t see you look over any maps at home or in school. So how did you know the right way to find this place if you didn’t ask around?”
“That’s the thing. I swear, Trace, I’ve been here before,” he asserted. “And not just that one time but a whole bunch. To answer your question, I just knew. I knew that if I took one road it would take me down another that would eventually lead me here. It shouldn’t be this easy, but here we are. This is going to sound weird, but it almost feels like we’re going home.”
“Pull over,” the ermine demanded in a hushed tone. The time had come to tackle the issues at hand as a matter of importance. Tyson’s deep-seated fear would never diminish if the ermine kept ignoring Tyson’s panic-stricken plea for help. Those murky, insatiable waves would drag Tyson under if Trace didn’t reach out and pull him from the water’s clutches. The time for good humor had surely passed.
“Yeah, okay,” Tyson submissively conceded.
The young man obeyed and slowly turned right onto the long dirt and gravel extent of 155th Street. As they made their turn, that horrible ruckus remerged from a copse of trees at the corner like a harbinger’s signal.
*clink-clank-clink*
There was no hesitation. Trace promptly spun around in his seat to face the sound’s source, but he was not prepared for what lie in wait. What waited for him in the shaded alcove of bur oak was not some diabolical fiend. Trace could effortlessly see every detail even when the source shrouded itself under the shady cover of numerous intersecting tree branches.
When he turned to meet the ill-omened racket head on, the stoat didn’t assume he’d stare into the eyes of a young man who looked around nineteen or twenty. He was a tastefully clad ferret with bleach blonde hair that seemed to roll off his head in a fringe like white waves under sunlight. The ferret donned a powder blue, short-sleeved dress shirt, dark gray bow tie and black dress pants held up with black suspenders. The young man followed the black sedan with his eyes as it made the turn, but his real interest rested with the ermine inside. He glared at Trace with the sullen severity of unwavering reproach.
The ferret opened his mouth to speak and spoke two words that sent chills down the stoat’s spine when they registered as whispers. It was like the young man had muttered directly into his ear.
‘Turn back.’
The ermine gasped when he heard those veiled words and their cautionary courtesy. The thunderous din of the cicada hordes made no difference. It was like the young man hidden underneath the branches was seated in the back. For whatever reason, the ermine felt elicited to attack, but the man’s words were only intended to warn the two and not threaten them.
It wasn’t a voice whose anger was overfull and eager to scald. The ferret looked upon the ermine with such enmity, yet those words were unable to disguise a desolate tenderness that couldn’t have belonged the same man. Trace dared not look away from the phantom’s expression as Tyson drove off the pavement of Kale Road. In that moment Trace swore he saw his face soften with regret, and the stoat’s chest ached with an unfathomable yearning that physically hurt.
Trace heard one last word before the ferret vanished from view behind the covert:
‘Please.’
“What is it?” Tyson asked with mounting wariness.
“Don’t worry about it,” Trace coolly replied, simultaneously trying to remove the ferret from his thoughts and store the words he’d spoken for later retrieval. The ermine was able to disguise what impact the ferret had left behind, but Trace couldn’t hide the fact that his arms ached once again. It would’ve been much easier to tolerate the swelling if that had been the only disruption, but much to Trace’s irritation, it returned with a collaborator that merely worsened the sting of electric shock.
This time the shooting pain coursing down his arms was joined by a peculiar pressure that suddenly surfaced below his right breast. What first began as a dull twinge at its center grew with escalating strength into a profound throbbing pain that would soon overtake his senses if relief didn’t arrive soon enough. Thankfully, the tidal waves of panic withdrew their wrath the very moment mitigation washed over his back like a rush of deliverance. Just like before, the pain receded with the same rapid pace with which it struck.
“Everything is fine,” the ermine said, both eyes still wide with bewilderment. Trace knew that it would be impossible for him to assure Tyson that those words had any merit. He’d seen the ermine struggle, so the stoat’s only option was to shrug it off and hope that the young man didn’t pry after the Honda Civic came to rest on dirt.
“I’m just a little nauseous, but it’ll pass. Right now my real concerns rest with you, Tyson. I’m thinking that you’ve been on edge ever since we drove out of Boone. You mind telling me what’s wrong?”
“I don’t even know,” Tyson admitted, both relieved and frightened at having the chance to reveal the reason behind his uneasiness. Now that the valve had been released, there was no way to tell if Tyson could thwart the stream from submerging his breath. Tyson dared not tear his eyes away from the road as he unloaded all his grief.
“I’m scared. Alright? I’m pretty much numb all over. I can barely feel my arms and legs, and what I can feel really hurts. It scares me. It really does. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like my body is coming undone and I don’t know what to do to stop it. I’ve felt this way ever since we left, and I don’t know why. I feel like I’m going crazy, Trace, and I—“
“Drink some water,” the stoat asserted. There was no real need for any subterfuge now that the ermine had gotten the young man to open up, “Relax. You are going to be fine, Tyson. If anything, this is just a panic attack. It may feel like you’re going to die, but it’s all in your head. I’m sure you’re just afraid about going back to Barkley, and that’s understandable. But there’s really no need to be so restless. I’ll be here to help you. I’m sure we can handle whatever we find in those woods today. Anyway, that monster’s not going to be there—“
“I’m not afraid of seeing that thing again,” he said, interrupting the ermine mid-sentence. Tyson’s voice still shook, but there was levity to be found beyond the trembling. While his voice was no longer on the verge of unraveling into white noise, Tyson was still out of breath and in dire need of resuscitation. The young man was still very much afraid, but his attitude had not yet deserted the sake of hope. Optimistic anticipation reinforced each word like a protective enamel. The young man drank a mouthful of water before saying his peace.
“No, that’s not it at all. I just wish you knew what it’s like to feel this way. All the things I’ve seen. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that we need to be there today.”
He then turned from the windshield, his confidence reborn, took off his sunglasses and gave the ermine a look that was evenly distressed and encouraged. It pained Trace to watch Tyson almost tear up from the tiring dissonance.
“I hear her voice all the time, Trace. It didn’t used to be this way, but now I can even hear her in my sleep. It’s like she’s screaming my name from inside this huge, empty house. And her voice has only gotten louder now that we’ve gone this far inside. You know what I mean? It’s like a signal: the closer we come, the stronger it gets. She wants to be found. You understand, right? Daeja is alive, and we need to find her.”
***
Try as he may, the ermine was unable to escape his own thoughts as they traveled on foot up the withered riverbed of Elkhorn Creek. Trace was incredibly uneasy with the fact that Tyson wanted to rest for a minute before they embarked into the forest proper. He was none too happy that they’d even gotten this far, but there was little the ermine could say that would likely dissuade the young man from this course of action. The truth behind his apprehension would only alarm him, and a casual lie lacked the weight or commitment of authenticity.
Thankfully for Trace, Tyson appeared cheerfully adrift in the calm, open seas of his imagination. The raccoon would briefly divulge his thought process on occasion, but he was much more interested in enjoying the scenic beauty of this pristine woodland.
The young man had been like this for most the way here, and this had been a welcomed blessing for the ermine. Tyson may not have had any real desire to let Trace swim with him in those placid waters, but at least he was calmer. The raccoon was once more his usual cheery self, and the ermine was immeasurably thankful for this restoration.
The stoat, too, remained mostly silent as they traveled up the creek’s course. He only spoke whenever Tyson involved him in conversation. Far too many concerns were contending for his care, and Trace was resolute in his ambition to prioritize them before any threat could reveal itself. As Tyson sat down on a small log, drank more water from his bottle and spaced out, Trace stood alert and at the ready on the loose detritus as he accessed the situation.
‘We need to keep moving. It doesn’t matter where we go from here. We just can’t stand still,’ Trace determined as he surveyed everything in sight for even the smallest sign of movement.
For whatever reason, the ermine felt calmer than he expected to feel given this unfavorable circumstance. Although these woods were certainly unfamiliar territory, Trace still felt inexplicably acquainted with their timbered confines. This appreciation for the environment didn’t put his mind at ease, but at least it provided him with some degree of unthinking competence.
He peered past the dense underbrush and into the stifling assemblage of boxelder and butternut trees beyond them. Collectively they surrounded them on either side with a nearly impenetrable wall of lush wilderness that was unlikely to expose even a single stray skulking shadow. The ermine didn’t know what he expected to find prowling in the underbrush, but the old growth could easily shroud any sign of imminent danger underneath its green cloak. Trace feared what may lurk undetected behind this opaque veil of vegetation. And that menacing, wraithlike ferret had given him a very good reason to consider retreating.
He or one of his allies was no doubt hiding in wait below the field of vision. Trace wasn’t sure how he knew this to be true, but the veracity behind such a perception was simply a matter of fact. The bottomless lust of primal hunger had set its sights upon them from deep within the tree line. The stoat could feel the same ravaging hunger pricking the skin and raising his fur along the neck and down his spine.
Soon the thrill of the hunt would arouse the senses and ignite the flames that predictably preceded the massacre. It was now only a matter of time before they struck.
‘I can’t see anything out there, and that puts us both at a distinct disadvantage,’ the stoat thought, reflecting upon the validity of possible outcomes. ‘We’re more vulnerable to an attack if we head deeper into the forest, but now it might be too late to turn around. We could just as easily be attacked on our way to the car. I don’t even know how long it will take for us to get back. This place feels too big. Like we’ve been wandering around longer than we should. It’s not right.’
The stoat didn’t argue with Tyson as he parked the car off the gravel road a mere twenty feet from the glistening Des Moines River. The stoat had spent most that time trying to come up with a convincing excuse that would bring them back toward the road. It wasn’t smart leave it stranded by the river’s edge, but any trifling concerns of that nature were dispatched to the background. It was doubtful that anyone out here would drive away with it, but it was still an unnecessary risk all the same.
‘Damn it. I should’ve talked him out of it. We really shouldn’t be here. Now we’ve got no choice but to keep moving. That ferret, or anyone else for that matter, could ambush the two of us at any moment. He must’ve followed us all the way here from Ames, but I doubt he’s out for a fight. Even if the guy did look angry, I still didn’t hear that in his voice. Regardless, the guy’s connected to all of this in some way. Even if he’s not out for blood, he’s still an uncertainty. A big, taunting question mark.’
The burden of his regret then made the ermine deeply sigh with all the defeat of a pathetic confession. The unrelenting pressure of such responsibility began to weigh upon his back like a heavy stone. If the waters were any deeper, he’d just about sink to the ocean floor.
‘What was I thinking? I should’ve forced his ass back home the second I saw the guy. It was reckless of me to wait this thing out. And I’ll be the one responsible if we come under fire.’
But there was simply too much else that demanded more consideration at the time. If it wasn’t the spooky ferret with the bow tie and his dire omen, then it was a couple other troubles vying for preeminence at the foreground of his mind.
For one, it didn’t take long for the muscle ache to resume after its short reprieve. It first began to creep up on Trace again when they walked passed a vehicle depot a short distance off 155th. The stubborn swelling promptly became an all-encompassing affliction that not only set upon both arms but soon affected his entire body. It was like all his appendages were being drawn down to dirt by one insufferable, immeasurable weight.
The stoat had never suffered anything like this in all these years with the Bishop family. Standing a few inches over six feet, he always felt just as strong as he looked. The ermine often loomed over others with his muscular build and broad shoulders. He’d probably intimidate enough people if they could actually see him. Now Trace could only help but feel horribly crippled as he languished in this enfeebled position. His body was now but a condemned house set to fall in upon itself with the next strong gust of wind. This profound and peculiar weakness had caused the ermine to once again think of that mysterious gray fox and his supposedly contradictory agenda.
‘What did he want from me?’ the ermine pondered as he examined his weakened hands. As he flexed his rigid digits, Trace regained interest in his theory concerning the gray fox’s motivation. This task only served to stoke his anger to a boil. It didn’t matter how many times Trace thought about this issue, closure’s sweet relief would never follow.
‘Did he only wait to act until he knew for sure what I’d do if given the chance? Was it all some test? And for what? Why did he think I’d ever want to hurt Tyson? I didn’t know the kid before that night. Like I’d just hurt some random stranger for the hell of it. And a child no less. And he had the gall to say it was my fault. That I was the guy that sent him to the hospital.’
Trace tried to clutch both hands into defiant fists, but the strain had taken its toll. It hurt tremendously to even do that much. Normally, the stoat could tread ground for miles at a time and never once grow weary, but now it took everything in his power not to topple helplessly onto the smooth, gray river rocks. Trace was keenly reminded of how he’d felt after being beaten savagely by that body-stealing impostor. The ermine was acting purely on adrenaline by the time that hooded interloper took him by the scruff of his neck, but his many injuries were healed when he arose from the basketball court. Every ache and pain, all that was surely battered and broken, was miraculously mended.
The ermine had long since surmised that the meddlesome fox, whatever his intentions, was the only one capable enough to restore his health with such ease and efficiency. But therein lie the one pressing question, the one perplexing puzzle, that often pestered Trace day and night ever since the attack. If indeed the gray fox was the man who healed his wounds, then what would he stand to gain from aiding the man he swore to kill?
‘So much of that night makes no sense to me. That fox came prepared to kill both times. He wanted me dead from the very start, and yet the guy chose to heal me even then. Why would he do that? Why would anyone in their right mind try to kill a man, heal him hours later and then threaten his life again when he’s all done with it? Dude’s probably crazy.’
The ermine gasped as the pain from his wrists throbbed once more. He prayed Tyson hadn’t heard him sharply exhale and then draw in an agonized breath through bared teeth. The last thing Trace wanted was for the young man to see him standing, arms and legs trembling from exhaustion, on the verge of complete collapse.
‘But still, I need help. I’m no good like this. How can I defend myself or anyone else if I can’t even make a fist? I need to be strong for him. I can’t afford to fall apart right now. Not when our lives could be in grave danger. Crazy or not, I’d still accept his help if offered. I know he helped me before, so there’s a chance at least he’d do it again. But why would he help me now? It’s not like I can just ask him to heal me. It would be nice if it were that simple, but things in life are rarely—.’
The stoat choked on those words as he saw arcs of electricity snap and sizzle around his fingers while they twitched with fitful spasms. The ermine stood aghast, mouth agape and eyes wide open, as his mind drew an unnerving comparison to that horrifying night ten years ago. The memory that rose to recollection was the last lucid thing he remembered seeing after being thrust into the glass coffee table.
Everything from that moment up until he saw the gray fox again was one fierce and frenzied blur of almost unfathomable violence. The ermine never forgot the black bile’s hypnotically potent taste as it poured down his open throat like torrents of pure energy. But that was the only fragment from that shocking scene Trace could still actively recall. Nonetheless, one image had etched itself onto his memory as the ermine buried his sharp teeth into the monster’s vulnerable neck. As the blood began to stream down and his vision darkened, there was one specific detail right before lights out that never faded with time:
“It’s red,” the ermine muttered, feverishly watching the lively electric currents shooting out in sporadic bursts. “I remember this. This electricity. I saw this when I killed that creature. It came out its neck when it fell to the floor.” The longer the ermine stared, the more distressed he became. He feared that if no effort was made to look away, he’d soon face the consequences of learning some awful truth that he’d been effectively ignoring for many years. It rested precariously on the tip of his tongue, but thankfully for him, Trace couldn’t quite reach the crest. What he knew for sure, even if many dots still stayed isolated and unconnected from each other, was this symptom’s revelation: a strong wind was surely coming.
“Am I dying?”
“What, dude?” the young man inquired after he’d taken a drink of water. The ermine had been so occupied with diagnosing the disorder that he failed to notice the rising volume of his own voice.
“Uh, Tyson, why didn’t you just take the car to the campsite?” Trace abruptly asked Tyson, doing everything in his power to redirect the discussion away from him. The stoat grit down and used every ounce of his strength to curl each hand and compel them both down to his sides. The stinging pain was absolutely excruciating, but the ermine fought back the urge to scream by channeling that stress as best he could manage into idle conversation.
“It was probably just a mile or two up the road from where you parked. I’m sure it would’ve been much easier to enter the woods from there. I don’t get why you had to stop the car near the river.”
“I’m surprised you even have to ask, Trace. Really, I thought you’d figure that out by now,” the raccoon replied cheerily, screwing the lid back onto his bottle. “That’s where they found us. Remember? We followed the creek—this same path—all the way back to that gravel road.”
The young man then shivered as if his body was suddenly doused with cold water. But Tyson didn’t let this stop him completely.
He simply paused for a moment before continuing, “Yeah, I know, it’s not the best place to leave my car, but in the end, it’d be harder to retrace my steps from Scenic View. I’ve never been there. I mean—think about it—we took this way out the first time, so we’ll get to where we want to go if we just work backward from the road.”
“Tyson,” Trace answered, his irritability escalating with the unending, insurmountable pain, “where exactly are we going? Don’t tell me you want to find that weird place with all the cars. What do you even expect to find once we’re there? It’s not like you’re going to run into—”
But before the ermine got the chance to finish, he was forcibly cut off by an unexpected rumbling that shook the earth under his feet like a small earthquake. The unstable soil caused him to lose traction and tumble, but his fall was broken by the wet river rocks as they collided with his left knee. The impact shot a bolt of white hot agony up the leg where it cratered in his mouth, crashing his teeth together, and wired his jaw shut like the watertight lid of an oil drum.
The thunderous aftershock was powerful enough for the ermine to arch his back from the collision so that his squinted eyes looked directly into the Sun’s glare directly above their heads. To his astonishment, the daylight had diminished to a mere shadow. Early afternoon’s sunny disposition had waned to match twilight’s contemplative temperament, but this change soon proved fleeting.
The pain he felt no longer held sway in his mind’s foreground. What interested him in this moment was the light’s oscillating authority over the sky’s domain. The sunshine wildly wavered from day to night like a dying bulb before the former won the right to claim its evanescent throne in heaven. Noonday’s brightness had returned to its proper position.
“Oh my God,” said Tyson with unmistakable excitement. “Trace, look!”
The stoat promptly turned his sights away from the harsh glare to face whatever challenges had arisen in the afterglow’s wake. Trace’s mouth grew slack and fell open when his eyes gazed upon on Tyson’s bracelet emanating a hypnotically enticing blue glow that consumed his entire left hand. A river of tears streamed down Tyson’s face as the young man raptly scrutinized the lively light show, but fear wasn’t to be found in those wide, starry eyes.
Tyson didn’t seem scared but rather overcome with joy at witnessing this otherworldly affair unfold before him. Tyson’s muzzle was brimming with an overabundance of exhilaration that manifested in a large, childish smile. The stoat could see in Tyson’s face the same set of conflicting emotions, the same dissonance, he remembered seeing by the roadside. And now, just as it had been back then, he seemed barely able to keep everything from unraveling.
The young man murmured one short sentence under his breath and sharply shifted his focus from the blue glow to the enveloping forest to his right and across the receding creek. He bolted up from his seat on the log, stared intently at a grove of black oak and then shot into the direction of virgin wilderness.
“C’mon,” Tyson cried, his excitement now uncontained and spilling over the cusp, “it’s this way!”
Trace looked on helplessly as Tyson, vaulting from rock to rock, leapt fearlessly into the undiscovered world up ahead.
“Wait! Tyson, wait up!” the ermine called out weakly. But his plea fell on deaf ears.
Tyson had already reached the sandy shore and showed no sign of easing up. The young man would not be deterred now that his mind had locked onto a target. As the stoat strenuously strove to regain a foothold on the loose rocks, he saw a distinct trail of light directing Tyson into the state park’s shrouded interior. The path itself was delineated by small blue orbs that sailed over the ground like heavenly beings pitching and flipping in and out of existence.
There was no hesitation. Once his feet stabilized at long last, Trace raced after the young man as fast as his weary flesh would allow.
‘Shit. He’s too far ahead. I can’t let him go in there alone,’ Trace thought, stumbling after Tyson as he followed the same path across the retreating waters of Elkhorn Creek. His steps weren’t nearly as nimble as Tyson’s, but Trace still coped with the crossing even when the tormenting soreness and swelling robbed his feet of graceful discretion. He had come midway when Tyson took the rash plunge past the green cloak. ‘I won’t be able to live with myself if I get him killed. For the life of me, I won’t let that happen.’
Once Trace jumped off that last rock, the earth shook tremendously once more. Thankfully, this tremor was hardly as strong as the one which preceded it, but it was still capable of making the stoat teeter, and not tumble, from side to side like a drunkard. Trace intuitively lifted his sights to the sky above and saw the same convulsive, quivering motion from day to night it had made beforehand, but the second time around wasn’t nearly as pronounced. Even then the effect was still unsettling. It was violence in action, and there’d never come a time when such terrible forces at work would not elicit such feelings of awe and terror.
“Hurry up!” the young man yelled from out of sight, his voice becoming weaker and more obstructed as the gulf separating them only grew and deepened with distance.
What captured Trace’s attention was not Tyson’s euphoria but what was trailing in the echoes of his jubilation: a spectral chorus of heavenly expression. It was barely above the register of perceptibility, but what little music could be heard over the arboreal ambiance was enough to arrest the senses. Goosebumps wrinkled the stoat’s skin all over with unrestrained wonder. A single tear rolled down his face as their collective, comforting spirit sailed into his open ears with the wind. Trace might have lingered there indefinitely if the young man had not broken the trance with more ecstatic shouting:
“Trace, you hafta hurry! I think we’re close. It’s gotta be right up this hill. I can’t wait to show you this place!”
“What’s wrong with this kid?” Trace asked himself, wheezing and sweating profusely as he hurled headlong into the shaded underbrush. The stoat was ultimately grateful that the path of swirling blue orbs was left intact after the rumbling had ceased. The footpath of bright blue lights weaved and careened wherever accessible space could be found underneath the brawny arms of mighty oaks. Surprisingly enough, there was ample room to maneuver over the scruffy forest grass and sheet moss cover.
There’d be no fear of losing Tyson if he stuck to it, but there was no way to tell if that was ever his plan. The young man was so caught up with whatever mesmerized him that Trace could only trust that the two of them had the same idea in mind. What was safe to conclude, if only for the time being, was that the one thing truly lost was Tyson’s mind.
“Isn’t he it all bothered with any of this crazy stuff? If it’s not a chorus of angels, then it’s everything else,” Trace said aloud, lumbering over root, fern and clover with clumsy, leaden feet. ‘I don’t care who you are, you’re going to notice an earthquake. And the sky? I’m sure he must’ve seen the sky having a conniption fit. Not once but twice.”
Thoughts of disbelief and mistrust rose to mind as Trace began to climb the steep slope Tyson had taken. Although it was impossible to see him through the dense layer of vegetation, the raccoon’s laughter and labored breathing guided the stoat over the terrain’s uneven soil. As he pushed aside more invading tree branches from his path, Trace began to consider the creeping suspicion that everything set before him was merely for his own assistance and his alone. For all he knew, the young man was all but deaf to the heavenly chorus and blissfully ignorant of the innumerable blue orbs floating above ground like ghosts.
“What if Tyson didn’t feel the earthquake?” the ermine said, giving voice to his doubts.
The strain of travel was impeding his progress up hill, and the persistent swelling only served to make this trek all the more tiring. His appendages were sapped of strength, and the aching joints that connected them threatened to seize up at any moment. The old, forsaken house was about ready to collapse, and the wobbling of legs meant it would take just a gentle breeze to make the structure come crashing down.
“It doesn’t make any sense—I know—but he didn’t even so much as flinch. At least, I didn’t see him react in any way you’d expect. It’s that damn bracelet again. He’s never taken the thing off. Maybe it’s controlling him? Making him act out. What if he can’t see or hear anything apart from that weird glow? What if I’m the only one who—“
*clink-clank-clink*
The ermine sensed a chilling presence overtake the veins and strangle his breath like an icy draft of frigid air from the open ocean. There’d be no escape now that they’d ridden the downward spiral to its inevitable conclusion. Trace once had the chance to turn this all around, but that time had come and gone. The hunt was over, and the unsuspecting prey had been cornered with mortal wounds. This was what it felt like to be defeated.
‘Don’t turn around. Just keep moving,’ it breathed directly into his ear.
Trace resisted the overwhelming urge to defy that demand and confront the hunter head on, but the stoat stayed his hand nonetheless. What mattered most was that he catch up with Tyson and guarantee the young man’s safety. Even though striking back seemed satisfying, Trace knew then that the cost of impatience might later prove too steep a price to pay. Regardless, the stoat chose not to betray any weakness lest this apparition be provoked to attack.
“Who are you?” the stoat curtly asked.
‘So it is true, isn’t it? You really don’t remember me, do you?’
“Answer the question,” the stoat retorted. It was not the kind of response he expected to hear, but Trace’s defenses had yet to fall. He may have been caught off-guard and sincerely concerned with what came next, but that didn’t mean he’d drop his pretense of disinterest.
‘I’m a friend,’ it whispered in return.
Again, like before, its tone was more conciliatory than sinister, but this creature was hardly benign. It was a killer. But there was still a chance that his instinct here would soon be vindicated. This ferret, whatever he happened to be, had yet to prove his intentions as either friend or foe. That cold wind wrapping around his arms and legs may have felt like a knife blade scraping over skin, but the blade was merely poised for the plunge. It not yet endeavored the kill. The ermine felt its frigid digits run across his back and realized that this creature, regardless of intent, knew just where to pressure the knife. No innocent man would aim a knife for the heart.
‘Yeah, I bet,” Trace countered with blunt derision. “You’re that ferret, aren’t you? So tell me, what do you want from us?”
‘We’ll talk later. It isn’t safe here. But you need to be told a few things. It’s not too late to catch up to him. Do whatever you can, but make sure Tyson gets back to the car.’
The ermine had been so absorbed with what laid behind that he’d almost overlooked what lurked out front. The more Trace traveled the path set before him, the more he was eerily reminded of that eventful night ten years ago. Each feeble footstep onward revealed more and more warm, red and yellow light filtering from the hilltop’s summit wherever empty space could offer escape.
Also, the closer his approach took him up the steep slope, the more the chorus of voices grew louder and strengthened in their sonorous solidarity. The music itself was entrancing, but its irresistible charms simply shook the stoat to his very foundation. The boisterous choir only served to stir up an indescribable dread that threatened to tear down his whole world in a panicked flurry. And yet all the stoat could do was continue to march onward—eyes watering, knees buckling and chest tightening—into the dissonant din of heavenly bliss.
“What’s up there? Where does this trail lead?”
‘I don’t know. That’s a very good question. There’s still so much about this earth that man has yet to discover. In the end, the world is but a dragon that swallows the damned. We’ll likely never learn all its many secrets. But I’m sure whatever you two find up there isn’t meant for folks like us. All this light and noise has got to hurt. You’re more afraid of it than that boy up there, aren’t you? And why do you think that is, Trace? You might not remember anything, but you’ve given this some thought over the years, right? You’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Any theories?”
“What the hell are you going on about?” Trace asked, attempting to convey a resilience he no longer retained. The stoat was tired, and his body was about ready to collapse under its own weight. But Trace knew he had to summon the strength to press on even if his own body should fail along the way. He couldn’t afford to give up.
‘Right now that doesn’t matter. I want to see the two of you get gone. Just grab him and get out. But make sure you take him before the light envelops him entirely. You won’t be able to reach him if he gets too close.’
“What is it? You know what’s going on. So why don’t you just tell me what we’re—“
‘Listen. You’re both sick and in their crosshairs,’ the hunter intruded with urgent, resolute firmness.
‘You know these feelings aren’t normal. They made you weak so that you’d be easier to manage. They had this in mind from the very start. Don’t let these bastards win, Trace. There’s still time. If you’re lucky—if you hustle—you’ll hit the road before they drop you. I’ll tell you everything you need to know once you get away. By then you’ll be ready for the truth.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’? And what do you mean by the truth? Tell me what we’re up against!”
But it was of no use. That morbid, bitterly cold wind had released its hold over Trace’s body and suddenly departed the scene in a chilly squall. The stoat kept still for a silent second as his overactive mind processed the information. Trace knew that there’d be no progress made if he stood there and let the young man roam freely into the forest.
But for a brief moment, the ermine was simply unable to put one foot before the other and keep the march alive. It was then in this hush of deliberation that Trace recognized what was most absent from his surroundings: laughter and shouting.
Tyson’s liveliness had simply vanished and in its place was the same celestial chanting that summoned them both into the depths. Only this time the chorus was cresting like the consuming ire of the rising tide. The water would soon engulf his entire body and submerge his breath with the undertow. A cold sweat matted the fur on his forehead as the specter’s statements made their impact at last.
“Wait. Tyson’s sick?”
Upon reaching this conclusion, Trace spent the rest of his energy on one last charge past the old growth. It took him only a few more steps before his feet fell upon level ground. He was much closer to the summit then he realized, but even then, the stoat could not see signs of Tyson anywhere in sight. Trace stumbled past the last hurdle of invading branches and underbrush only to face with the heavenly sound’s source.
The stoat could hardly stand his ground now that he’d seen the doorway’s splendor. His eyes watered as the lips quivered and his mouth fell open with quivering fear. The stoat was confronted with a sphere-shaped hole in the forest that was bursting with soft white light. It was bordered by two neatly arranged rows of picture-perfect cottonwood. The white light from the doorway’s maw was contrasted by filtering rays of red and orange hues that bathed the nearby area with the raging textures of an autumnal kaleidoscope. For whatever reason, the stoat could only shiver with fright as he tried to comprehend the clashing of colors amidst the swelling chorus of immaterial voices.
The sound was pleasing to the ears, but the effect was damaging. It was like Trace had been thrown into the auditory equivalent of an acid bath. The sound waves seared the skin under his fur and in its wake left sensations akin to some terrible allergic reaction.
‘A rainy day isn’t a sad day. It’s a wet day.’
“Tyson?” Trace asked meekly, distinguishing the raccoon’s voice from the multitudes. He had been so enraptured by the fearsome sight that he didn’t the young man’s voice at first. But now Trace heard it above the rest after he’d given it his full consideration. Now that he’d heard it again, Trace could only make out one sentence being persistently repeated like a mantra.
‘A rainy day isn’t a sad day. It’s a wet day.’
“Tyson, where are you?!” the stoat cried. But there was no response other than the same enduring refrain:
‘A rainy day isn’t a sad day. It’s a wet day.’
In his panic, Trace searched the scene from top to bottom in hopes that he’d fine at least one clue pertaining to Tyson’s disappearance. His search took his as far as the tip of his low-top sneakers. Trace stared down at his feet and saw Tyson’s bracelet, still aglow with ethereal blue light.
“It’s that damn bracelet,” he barked, unable to fend off the overwhelming pain any longer. He bent over, picked up the artifact unthinkingly and read what was inscribed underneath in clean, even script:
You will always be my squid. – DJ
“’You will always be my squid.’? What the hell does that even mean?! And why hasn’t Tyson ever bothered to talk about this—”
‘A rainy day isn’t a sad day. It’s a wet day.’/ ’You’re just not seeing it the right way.’
This time around, Tyson’s chant returned with an answer from some other person. This person was also speaking in the same rhythmic trance. And unlike Tyson’s, this voice was coming from that a young woman.
‘A rainy day isn’t a sad day. It’s a wet day.’/ ’You’re just not seeing it the right way.’
“Oh my G-g-g-g-g-g-od,” he said, stuttering over the same stumbling block. “’DJ’. It can’t be. Did she really call us out here—“
But before he could finish, the ermine was already out cold. Just like that terrible night ten years ago, the last thing he saw before fading was the sight of spiteful electric red coursing from his open mouth. He tasted that same charge as all muscle movement arrested and his immobilized body fell into a limp heap onto the fiery floor below. The chorus had been choked silent and so had the variegated colors of passion’s fury.
In that moment, there was no light. There was only darkness.
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