Blood Fugue (3 page)

Mr. Jimenez smiled.

‘Well, I can take a look for you. I’ve got some pretty good maps. I can’t guarantee anything, though.’

‘We appreciate any help you can give.’

‘Which trail are you after?’ asked Kerrigan.

‘This one.’

Where Mr. Jimenez was pointing was one of the more unusual places for a trail to have existed. It was a branch of an old track that ran parallel to the tree line and just far enough inside the forest that the mountain wouldn’t be visible. The primary track was remote enough; it appeared to skirt the mountain for several miles before stopping. But there was no logic to the one they were looking for. It wasn’t circular, it didn’t lead to a place of particular beauty and it didn’t relate to anything else on the map. It led away from the old track and the mountain, and down into the forest. At the end of the trail there was an icon; a man whose legs had become roots and his arms branches.

Kerrigan laughed a little too loudly.

‘What does this signify?’ he asked.

When there was no answer, he looked up at Mr. Jimenez and the faces of his family. Their expressions were guarded.

‘We are not sure,’ said Mr. Jimenez.

A shadow was all the creature required to be safe. As the sun fell beyond the peak of Bear Mountain, a colossal gloom engulfed Hobson’s Valley, bringing not nightfall, but its presage. Revelling in the chill of the early twilight, the creature flitted between the pines, silent and swift. When the sun no longer touched the town, it became the creature’s playground.

Long before it reached the outskirts, a scent came to it and the creature halted to sample the air with its tongues. It chose a new direction, moving slower now, stalking. Its gaunt, pale body slipped between the trees like mist, leaving no trace. It came to a fence, beyond which was a small dwelling made of stone. A warm glow lit its windows.

The creature paused and tilted its head, as though the scene were familiar. It shuddered but could not hesitate. It leapt the fence and followed the scent through the neat rows of vegetables, padding silently towards the house.

Chapter 3

Kerrigan frowned.

‘So why go there?’

Again the silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Kerrigan, ‘It’s none of my business. I’m just curious.’ He smiled and their expressions relaxed. ‘I have to admit I’ve never spent much time hiking in that part of the forest. It’s quite a distance.’

‘If you could show us the way we would be most grateful.’

‘I can do better than that. I’ll mark it on a waterproof map and let you use it until you finish your holiday.’

Kerrigan saw the relief and simple excitement on their faces as everyone stepped back from the table.

‘Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Something cold?’

As he stepped out of the kitchen to get the right map Mr. Jimenez replied in embarrassed tones.

‘We have troubled you enough already.’

Kerrigan poked his head back into the kitchen.

‘The kettle’s there, the cups are on the drainer. You set it up and I’ll make the drinks. How’s that?’

‘Luis, do as Mr. Kerrigan says.’

Kerrigan left them to it.

His maps were laminated and he kept them rolled up and stacked in an old umbrella stand in his pantry. He’d spread them onto the table more times than he could count, for every kind of visitor. He’d seen young couples looking for excitement in the wilderness, recently divorced mothers taking their children into the woods while they mourned a split home, teenagers looking for a quiet spot to eat psilocybin mushrooms and solitary men who disappeared into the woods in search of themselves to return days or weeks later, bearded, gaunt and crystal-eyed with the harsh peace they’d discovered. He’d advised them all, marked pathways on their maps, explained where to find clean water, told them what to avoid.

He pulled the light cord in the pantry, flooding it with a dim yellow glow. He reached for the maps but his hand was drawn to the carved walking staff rising above them in the umbrella stand. His fingertips fluttered over the dark wood and he drifted for a moment. His eyes wandered along the racks of tinned and dried goods, drawn downwards. Beneath the lowest shelf, nestled in the shadows was a wooden chest, layered with dust. He tried to remember what it contained and made a mental note to check once the Jimenez family were safely on their way.

‘Here we go,’ he said, walking back into the kitchen.

He rolled the rubber band down the tube of encapsulated paper until it sprung off into his hand. Mr. Jimenez folded his leather wallet closed and made space. Kerrigan unfurled his map across the table and used four heavy grey stones to hold it flat. He’d always believed a rolled map would last a lifetime or longer.

Solid paperweights were a necessity for every map inspection. Years before, Kerrigan had selected four smooth rocks from Singing River, the waterway that had created Hobson’s Valley over millions of years. The slate grey stones were the size of ostrich eggs, speckled with sparkling flecks of mica. A sun-ray catching them just right would release a glitter of cobalt sparks from their surfaces. The four he’d picked all had the same ‘feel’. He liked to think he’d found four stones that had once been part of a single boulder.

He set a stone on each corner of the chart.

‘If you put your map down over here,’ he said, ‘I can use it to estimate the position of your trail.’

With reverent care Mr. Jimenez placed his leather bound map once more upon the table and with a red marker Kerrigan inscribed his directions over the contour lines of the new map, creating a dotted path on the plastic coating.

‘This is where you are now. You can drive another two or three miles but the road finishes at a picnic area called The Clearing. You can leave your vehicle there for a few days, even a week or two if you want. From The Clearing you’ll take a trail known as the Eastern Path. It’s not popular because there isn’t much to see. You’ll be hemmed in by pines, so it’s kind of a gloomy walk.’

He glanced up at their faces but they were intent on the map. All but Carla who held his gaze for a moment.

‘About five miles along, the path forks. The left fork is called Trapper’s Trail and it’s well signposted. It leads out of the tree line and up towards the summit over a lot of loose shale.

‘You’ll be taking the right fork, into dense pine forest. That’s the continuation of the Eastern Path and it’s not so well trodden these days. It could be overgrown and there may be fallen trees. Slow going, believe me. Eventually, it leads to a pass that goes into the next valley but you’re not going that far. You need to follow the trail for about another twelve miles. Then you’ll be at the start of the trail you’re looking for.’

He looked up again. They were staring at the map, absorbing every word he said.

‘This is a long hike, folks. Are you sure you’ll be OK?’

‘Please don’t take us for stupid tourists, Mr. Kerrigan. We are not strangers to the outdoors.’

Kerrigan frowned.

‘Okay. Well, that’s good. So, around the twelve mile mark, should be the start of the trail on your map. How you’re going to find it, I don’t know. Maybe there’ll be some kind of marker or sign but I doubt it. If this trail is as old as your map looks, I doubt you’ll even find it. I’m expecting you to come back tired and disappointed.

‘If you do find it — and if you can re-break it — it’s eight more miles before you reach this . . . whatever this place is. And when you’re done, you’ve got to come all the way back knowing exactly how the scenery will look. I think it will take two or three days to get there. I’ll expect you back here in a week at the outside.’

There was silence around the table. Maria’s expression tightened. What he’d taken for excitement was, in her case at least, trepidation.

‘Now, up by Trapper’s Trail, there’s a spring for collecting fresh water.’

‘We will work it out, Mr Kerrigan.’

‘Okay, sure, but have you got enough food such a long —’

‘We have everything we need.’

The water had been boiling on the gas stove for some time and the steam was beginning to fog up the kitchen. As Kerrigan turned to remove the kettle, Buster, his Siamese cat, leapt on the map for a closer look at the latest batch of strangers. The Jimenez family all jumped at the same time as Buster skidded to a halt at the centre of the stones. Mr. Jimenez snatched up his map and backed away.

‘Yeesh, he won’t hurt you,’ said Kerrigan, ‘Will you, Buster? You like visitors, right?’

Buster perused the four faces above him. He padded towards Carla and stared at her with his paws right on the edge of the table. She reached out her hand as if she thought he’d bite her. Buster stretched towards her. She touched her fingers to the top of his head, giving him a little scratch before pulling away. He waited for her to do it again and when she did they were friends.

My choice too, buddy.

Kerrigan finished making the tea and handed the mugs around. They looked uncomfortable, unsure what to do.

‘Here, sit down.’

He gestured to the four rickety chairs around the table, all damaged by him leaning back on two legs and stressing the joints. He pulled up a stool and, with the map no longer the focus of the discussion, silence was king once more.

‘I can’t help wondering why you’re going all the way out to this trail. I mean, what are you hoping to find there? Treasure?’

He laughed but no one else did.

‘We have come to find the last resting place of my grandfather, Raul Rodrigo Jimenez,’ said Mr. Jimenez.

Kerrigan was intrigued.

‘He came here too?’

‘He lived in this place.’

Kerrigan flicked his gaze across all their faces.

‘In Hobson’s Valley?’

‘In this house.’

Kerrigan realised his mouth was open. He shut it.

‘You’re kidding.’

José Jimenez shook his head. The others were quiet, solemn. Buster jumped from the table onto Kerrigan’s lap and he stroked his fur as he thought about what this piece of information implied. The notion that their ancestor had lived in this house, his house, stabbed at his root. He’d been undercut, preceded. Negated. The strength of his reaction frightened him.

‘It is okay, Mr Kerrigan,’ said Mr. Jimenez, ‘we are not here to evict you. We merely wish to take my grandfather’s bones and return them to the land of his birth. If we cannot find them then we are here to pay our respects and see the land where he made his life. We are fulfilling his wishes, as stated in his will.’

‘But why now? Why after so much time has passed? Couldn’t he have arranged to have his body returned to Mexico for burial at the time of his death?’

‘My grandfather was from Spain, Mr Kerrigan, as are we.’

Kerrigan blushed.

‘God, that was stupid of me. I’m sorry.’

‘No matter.’

Carla and Luis made a show of studying the map. Their parents sipped his tea.

‘I ask too many questions,’ he said.

‘No. I am glad to speak of it,’ said Mr. Jimenez, ‘and you were good enough to help us before you asked your questions.’

He placed the leather map case on the table.

‘This was left to me in his will. We received it two months ago by mail with a letter from Symmons and Sons, a law firm in Boise, and a copy of the will. They were instructed to keep the map in a safe deposit box before passing it to a Jimenez at a time specified by my grandfather. I am the only Jimenez left. In the will, he asked that his remains be brought home to San Sebastian to be cremated and scattered in the Pyrenees, the beautiful mountain range of our region where he spent his childhood. He has left us quite a task.’

‘He sure has,’ said Kerrigan. ‘But why wait all this time?’

Mr. Jimenez looked embarrassed.

‘It is superstition. He believed that any descendents who touched his remains within a generation would be cursed.’

Kerrigan had never heard of such an elaborate will, or such long lasting paranoia.

‘Sounds like he was a little — eccentric,’ he ventured.

‘There is no doubt of that, Mr Kerrigan.’

‘How will you transport his — remains?’

‘Let us first see if we can find them.’

Another silence bunched up in the small kitchen. Kerrigan had stopped stroking Buster. The cat jumped up onto the table again and then into Carla’s lap. She accepted his advance with more confidence this time and began to stroke him in the same way Kerrigan had.

Mr. Jimenez placed his mug down on the map.

‘What are those?’ he asked.

He nodded his head towards a mobile that swung idly over the kitchen sink. Each piece was hand crafted from polished pine and withy strands to create a simple X shape within a circle. The handiwork was rough and ready.

Kerrigan cleared his throat.

‘Those are, uh — binders.’

‘What are binders?’ asked Mr. Jimenez.

‘That’s a good question.’ He groped for an answer and found, as always, that it was difficult to explain. ‘They — well — I always used to notice the shape in the stained glass windows of our church when I was a kid. Round windows with even-armed crosses in them. I’d kind of stare at them and daydream when I was meant to be singing or listening to the preacher. I started carving them out of fallen branches and reeds from the edge of the river. I make a couple of new ones every day. I’ve got a whole drawer full.’