The Midnight Country

Chapter 13

It would be hard to describe how elated I felt upon returning to our fishing spot and finding the trout gone, though in truth I couldn’t be sure if Ghost had gotten to it or some other predator—at least not until I stepped through (having had some difficulty in locating the portal, I confess) and saw the fresh prints.

And yet of Ghost himself there was no trace, even after I’d called out to him—in the hopes he might recognize my voice— and laid the new fish down (a giant halibut which had cost me my entire allowance); positioning it halfway in and out of the portal so I could monitor it even while studying on the nearby rocks.

Nor did I have to wait long, for I’d barely cracked my history book when I just happened to look up and see the halibut yanked all the way in, at which I stood abruptly and approached—but was beat to the mark by Ghost himself, whose snout emerged out of thin air and was quickly followed by his neck and body—even the entirety of his tail—until we were facing each other next to the Mohawk River: Ghost still swallowing and licking his non-lips, and both of us, I think, chilled by the November wind.

“That’s it,” I said, rubbing my gloves together, splaying my empty hands. “No more. At least not today.”

He c****d his head at this, his pink, rabbit’s eyes blinking, before rearing back and barking at the sky—like a sea lion, I thought—just yark, yark, yark!

“Nope. All done. You’re just going to have to wait until tomorrow—when I’ll try to bring more. Can you do that?”

He just looked at me, his little fore-claws opening and closing—a kind of prehistoric hand-wringing, I supposed. And it occurred to me—not for the first time—that, at least in the short-term, I might be his only means of survival; that, indeed, if I didn’t feed him he might very well starve.

What did not occur to me, at least until he began sniffing the air between us and slowly moving toward me, is that I myself might be in danger—that, in lieu of more fish or perhaps even a big dragonfly, he might try kid. Might try lying little turd-wad who was going to start 7th grade next year. Might try Denial Boy who was still convinced his parents were marooned on a desert isle and would turn up any day.

Which is when, having begun backing away, I tripped over an above-ground root and fell, sprawling, onto my back, at which instant the animal’s snout darted for my head and I screamed—only to find, seconds later, that it had not attacked me at all ... but begun licking me; yes, licking me, sliding its great, pebbly tongue up and down my face, slathering my cold cheeks in gooey spit, breathing into my nostrils—filling the world with cow. Filling it with heat and musk and stench.

And filling it, too, with something else, something I’d been missing since the last time I’d seen my mother; a thing frowned upon in Grandma’s house (where the nape of the rugs always lay left to right and the plastic floor runners always gleamed and the books in their glass-faced cabinets always stood so silent, to be viewed and not read).

Mere touch. Mere contact. Mere things coming into contact with other things. Like what I felt for Jenny or even my favorite T-shirt and wool blanket—the one with the U.S.S. Enterprise on it—like what I felt for my plastic model kits and comic books and beat-up fishing pole (even though I never used it).

Something familiar, something secret. Something, I supposed, like love. Or what a boy could know of it.

I returned many times after that—through the winter and into the spring—always bringing more fish and eventually moving up to chuck steaks and whole chickens (which I bought from the meat market in the strip mall near the school); something, alas, that I soon regretted, especially the chuck steaks, because after eating red meat he began to spurn everything else, and it was getting expensive.

Nor would anything have changed, I think, at least until he outgrew my ability to feed him, if it hadn’t been for the escaped convict and the glint of his nicked and worn folding Buck knife—an incident which happened right there behind Larry and Sue Miller’s newest 7-11 store just a day after my 13th birthday. Even now, looking back, it’s hard to believe what occurred that day, or that it would set in motion a chain of events that would shake not just my world but the town of Comet’s Tail—population 9,893—in general; indeed, the entire nation (if the NBC Nightly News was any indication). Mostly, though, it would effect Mrs. Dalton, the Vietnamese wife of my father’s best friend, Stuart. Mostly it would make me wonder if I ever wanted to get married, even to Jenny, if it was capable of bringing such pain.

Here’s what happened: I’d been playing the stand-up Space Invaders game at Larry and Sue’s 7-11 (I knew them by name because they were longtime friends of my parents, who had known everyone, it seemed), mostly just to get out of the rain (a storm had hit while I was riding home from Jenny’s), when, by virtue of simply looking up, I realized my bike was being stolen—and gave chase.

But I didn’t get far, because by the time I’d followed the blur of my bike around to the back of the store its thief was waiting for me—right there, by the drainpipe—and before I knew it he’d grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the block wall, where he promptly stuck a knife to my neck.

“Okay—now, don’t move, dig?” he breathed, releasing his grip, moving the knife to my throat, and I didn’t move, not an inch. “Here’s how it’s going to be. You’re going to reach down and empty your pockets—like, real slow, okay? And you’re going to put whatever is in them right here, in my free hand. Okay? You dig?”

But the truth was I had nothing in my pockets—except my key to Grandma’s house and a couple quarters, maybe—and told him so, my voice quavering, sounding small, and my legs beginning to tremble. “I spent everything on Space Invad—”

“Shuttup,” he spat, veritably spat, so that his saliva sprinkled my face. “Just shuttup. I’ll take what you got. Now get on it, let’s go, before I swipe this thing straight across your throat.”

I could hardly think I was shaking so hard, hardly breathe, but I did as I was told, handing him the key and what turned out to be three quarters— after which I turned out my pockets to show there was nothing left.

At last I stammered: “La-Larry’s going to come looking for me, you know. Li—like any minute now.” I indicated the back door with a movement of my eyes. “Li—like right through that door.”

He didn’t waver, didn’t bat a Charles Manson eye. “Then I’ll cut him too, runt. And no, no, he’s not; he’s too busy counting his money.” He pressed the blade still tighter against my throat, hard enough that I felt sure it would break the skin. “You, on the other hand, are someone who could identify me—now, aren’t you?” He paused, his dark eyes seeming to glitter, like so much crude oil. “Say now, you’re kind of a pretty thing, aren’t you?”

I think my heart must have stopped, if only for an instant.

“Look at all that golden hair; why, you should have been a girl.” He fondled my shoulder-length hair with his free hand. “You know, it shines is what it does. Yep, shines just like the sun—why, it’s almost white.” He looked me up and down. “That key—is that for your folks’ place? Oh, I bet you got a preetty mother, just laid out hot and fresh, like a piz—”

In truth, my fist was impacting his nose before I’d even made a conscious decision to do so—impacting it with a squish, not a smack (like on Star Trek), so that he dropped the knife and stumbled back as I bolted for the trees—though why I did that instead of running around to the front of the store remains a mystery to me even to this day.

Regardless, I was well beyond the tree line when I first heard him piling after me, shouting something indiscernible, breaking branches—as though he were a wendigo and not a man at all; as though he were some vengeful spirit and not just an escaped con, which is what he turned out to be. And then I was running, running for our fishing spot, which wasn’t far, doing it like the punch, without even thinking about it, until I burst into a familiar clearing and found the Mohawk River, and hurried for the portal—

And could not find it. Not anywhere. For, indeed, I had always found it before by following Ghost’s prints, and the rain had washed them completely away. The convict, meanwhile, was almost there—hooting and hollering like a chieftain, emerging into the clearing while brandishing his knife, running at me through the muck and the silt.

“Ghost!” I cried. “Ghost! Where are you?”

But there was no response, no familiar yark, yark, yark, nothing so much as a mew, and before I knew it the convict had pile-drived me harder than I had ever been hit in my life and I flew, veritably flew, over the rocks—landing with a grunt; gasping for breath, as the criminal straddled me and pinned me against the sand, as he raised the knife and suddenly paused.

For a shadow had fallen over us both—a shadow as familiar to me by that point as my very own—a shadow which said, in a language older than words: Your day will come—as it does for us all. But that day is not today.

And then Ghost’s jaws closed about the man’s head and he was lifted high into the air, screaming at the top of his lungs (though the sound was muffled, which somehow made it worse), grabbing at the animal’s head, kicking his feet like a marionette even as Ghost began shaking him like a rag doll and the sounds intensified—before stopping abruptly; just bam, like that, because ... Because—

No. I will not speak of it. Suffice it to say that I saw in that instant the most horrific thing I had ever seen; either before or since. And that, having seen it, I found my breath where I thought there was none and scrambled to my feet, after which I ran from the sound of Ghost eating—the tearing and the cracking, the squelching and the crunching—and did not stop, not until I was home and tracking filthy muck across Grandma’s perfect white carpet. Not until I was curled up like a fetus beneath the weight of my wool Star Trek blanket and whimpering like a beat dog—coughing and sniveling, crying like a little baby.

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