Thock.
Again.
Thock.
I sit there on the couch, washcloth pressed to my forehead, plaid blanket pooled at my hips, and I stare at the moose head. It stares back. We have a long and quiet moment of mutual understanding.
"He hates me," I confide in the moose.
The moose offers up a shocking lack of disagreement.
I lower the washcloth and look at it. There's a smudge of blood on it, brownish at the edges, fresh red in the middle. It's not really that much, but the migraine it's left behind is a real bitch.
I take stock of the room again, slower this time. There's a small kitchen at one end. It contains the sink I saw him at, the window I saw him through, a stove that runs on propane by the look of it, a stack of cast iron pans hanging from a pegboard. A round wooden table with two chairs, one of which has a book splayed open face-down on it, spine cracked. (My mother would have killed him for that.You break the spine, you break the soul, Caroline.)
The other end of the room has the couch, the fireplace, a worn armchair, a braided rug. A doorway leads off into what I assume is a bedroom and, God willing, a bathroom. There's a rifle on a rack above the front door and a row of pegs for coats.
No photographs. Not one. Not on the mantle, not on the wall, not propped up on the side table next to the bourbon. Nothing in this cabin that says a person lived a life before arriving in it.
Which, I suppose, is the point.
Thock.
Thock.
Thock.
I lie back down. It's funny how naive I was when I first embarked on this insane odyssey. Two little envelopes sent me on my way—one from Afon, one from my father. Afon handed me the first one himself; my dad sent the latter via Matvei Satyrin from beyond the grave. I didn't open Afon's for a long time. I guess I was scared of what might be in it.
When I finally did, what was in it changed everything.
It's the reason I'm on this couch. The reason I suffered all those wrong turns and dead ends, those "never heard of him"s and "What's an A-Fawn?" I had to find this man so I could ask him to explain, because what little bit that envelope contained wasn't enough to satisfy me, not in the least.
I had to know more.
I had to know everything.
I open my eyes. The moose is still there. "I'll try again in the morning," I vow. "I bet he'll be more talkative then."
Thock,goes the axe outside.Thock. Thock.
I pull the blanket up to my chin, because the fire is burning low and the cabin is starting to get cold. I'm just gonna rest my eyes for a minute while I wait for Afon to stop pouting and come back inside. Just long enough for the room to stop tilting.
But the thocks keep going, and I'm pretty comfy. Just a minute longer before I open my eyes again. A minute more. He's a stubborn son of a bitch anyway, so it wouldn't surprise me if he stays chopping wood all night long. That's probably easier, for a man like him, than sitting in a room with an equally stubbornwoman like me and answering questions about the past he left behind.
Winter's long,my ass.
Maybe it is.
But I'm not going anywhere until he explains some things.
3
CAROLINE
It's the hottest, stinky, slobbery breath for me.
Does it interrupt a dream about adifferentkind of tongue exploring my face? I mean, maybe. I'll never tell, but maybe.
