Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History (36 page)

The lady was somewhere behind me, and I could hear her dress rustling as she drew close. Her skirts brushed the backs of my legs, making me want to pull away, but then I would practically be in the man’s arms, and suddenly, the thought of it terrified me, made my heart beat faster until I was sure I would be sick.

They never touched me, but their inspection took apart everything I was, and I knew how little that was. Having them so close was like having spiders crawling up my skin, and the moment I thought that, I knew that they knew how I felt, and even worse, that it pleased them just fine. I thought I would scream, and then they let me go, stepping back like they would from a horse they decided not to buy.

“You’re monstrous,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around my body. I could still feel spiders running up and down, and I wondered a little madly if they would ever stop.

“If you say so,” the lady said politely. “Do you want your answer or no?”

I nodded mutely, my jaw clenched so tight I thought I would shatter my teeth. I wanted the answer. I had earned it, but more than that, I needed it.

“Very well. You were named Edward Graham, called Ned, and born to Matthew and Alice Graham on July 6th, in the year of your Lord 1880. You were born on the night of the new moon, which we call unlucky in my land, but is the best of luck in my companion’s home.”

“You are the great-great-great-grandchild of a man who was taken to my home and then walked back of his own accord, and you have something of his stubbornness and something of his faith, as well,” the gentleman supplied.

“You are strong, but not as strong as you will be if you live your full span, and water pulls you close. If you die early, you will die of water.” The lady pointed to the river behind me for illustration, and I could see too clearly that she was right.

“You’re of the race of men, who are of the earth, and to earth you will return,” finished the gentleman. “That is what you are.”

“That’s all?” I whispered. “That is all you have to say to me?”

“Did you expect to be the sleeping king awakened?” The gentleman tapped his foot impatiently, and I saw starlight bounce off the silver chasings of his boot.

“No… no… I… I thought I must be… like Bridget Cleary.”

“That poor woman? That was a bad business,” the lady tutted. “But you mustn’t take it so close to heart, lass. She was no kin of yours.”

I looked up, first startled by the similarity of her words to my brother’s, and then I heard another word.

“Lass?”

She smiled tolerantly.

“Of course. A great big girl, if one who knows nothing of how to act or behave herself.”

“I…” The stone in my belly swelled, heavy as granite, recognizing its name.

“There’s another gift for you, then, if you did not know,” the gentleman said, tipping his hat.

They both turned to go before I found my voice, and it was a thin, wailing thing.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

When they stepped away, it was like a veil had dropped between us, and they lost their sharp edges. I saw the suggestion of stag horns above the lady’s head, and the gentleman seemed even taller, tall enough to snatch down a star.

“Anything you want.”

“Yes,” agreed the lady. “Go to London and learn to dance, or run away to the Americas to seek your fortune. Find a child so you can be a mother, or shave your head and become a mendicant nun.”

“Come with us,” suggested the gentleman slyly. “Present yourself at court. The queen has a love for silly country girls who clomp and shout. Make a name for yourself, and come back in a hundred years, when Belfast might love you better.”

For a moment, they sharpened, him reaching out his hand, her reaching out her fox’s paw, and I lurched back with a cry.

The heel of my foot found no ground beneath it, and in a panic, I threw myself forward to avoid tumbling backwards into the river. I fell flat on my face on the cobbles, and when I looked up, the only thing left of the gentleman and the lady was the sound of their laughter.

I shuddered, and remembered that the friendly folk had never much cared whether the people they played with lived or died.

I wondered if I would be sorry for not reaching for them, and then thought of the man from Clonmel with his feet shredded to ribbons, and a dress folded neatly on a stump, and I didn’t think I would.

I walked home slowly, following the path of the river but keeping a healthy space between myself and its banks. Soon the Albert Clock would chime five, and I would start rousing the people who paid me to make sure they made it to their factory jobs on time. I got a penny for every room I woke up, and God only knew that it wasn’t much, but it helped.

I thought of Paul, and I thought of poor Bridget Cleary, too. They hadn’t told me whether she was a witch or not, only that it was a bad business all around. It was, and my steps faltered as I imagined Paul screaming in my face, asking me the names of God and the saints, demanding to know where his brother had gone.

I also thought about Paul’s clever hands and honest face, and how tightly he had held my hand when we came to Belfast, the dirt from our parents’ graves still dusting our shoes.

They had said I could come back when Belfast loved me better, but I knew that it would not matter if Paul were not there to love me at all.

As I walked, I knew that the stone in my belly would always be there, though it seemed lesser now than it was before. I thought about Paul having a younger sister and not a younger brother, and it grew smaller still.

There was no boy I could imagine myself being, but I could see a girl. Not a witch or a fairy, but a great clomping girl, a wandering nun, a dancer, a dairy maid, or a flower seller.

A sister.

The sky grew light and lighter still, and though I knew that Belfast had not changed, and that I had not either, everything was different, and I was not afraid.

Art by Aaron Paquette

1919
Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

The smoky-grey dire wolf loped between darkened hulks of wooden boxcars on the sprawling CPR train yards of Winnipeg. The early June air was already warm and the sun had yet to rise. Warehouse doors clanged open at the looming Canadian Pacific station.

The wolf came to an abrupt halt, sniffing the air. The scent of human body odor grew stronger through the heady mix of diesel and tar stench. A faint smell of pines tinged with oil lingered beneath.

The wolf’s stocky shoulders were as tall as the tops of the massive, grimy wheels, and he knew what would come next: a hostile shout, warning off strangers; or worse, a cry of alarm at the sight of a wolf the size of a bear. He’d been shot at enough in the war. Best to hurry, then. Thomas Greyeyes shivered his thick fur to adjust the army-issue satchel that hung beneath his torso.

Didn’t matter if you were a veteran of kaa-kii-kichi-miikaating, the Great War; honest work was hard for a man to come by in 1919. And though Thomas had been making ends meet in the dwindling fur trade since being demobbed, that wasn’t the reason he had come to Winnipeg. Here, white workers had shut down a city run into the ground by its white owners. The general strike would make it difficult to find who he was looking for.

Thomas slipped underneath the couplings between two cars. The grind-clap-grind of leather soles on hard-packed ground told him the man approaching was used to being in charge.

He turned his snout down to the dark ties and crushed slate and called up the power to change from the earth below. The energy flowed, melting his fur back into bare skin and pulling his snout back into his human face, the rest of his body quickly shedding all traces of his lupine form. He shivered despite the warm air, squinting to the east where the sky brightened to orange. He strained to hear – with dull, human ears, now – the man’s approach, and scrambled to get dressed in the clothes carefully folded in his satchel.

He was just tying up his shoelaces when a gruff voice said, “Hey! This is private property!” A kerosene lamp glared across the space between the cars.

Thomas stood. At thirty-nine, his knees were starting to feel sore even after the rejuvenating fire of the change. He wore the same army-issue shirt, coat, and trousers he’d had when returning from the bloody fields of France, and the cap that bore the symbol of his battalion, the timber wolf. He’d since replaced the shoes and leather belt with his own. His hair was jet-black, his nose shaped in a proud hook like his father’s, and his skin was just slightly darker than that of the white man who now faced him.

“Listen, chief: this is no hotel. Scram.”

Thomas squinted in the harsh chemical light. “I couldn’t find the room service bell anyway.”

“Company boxcars are private too.”

Thomas stepped away from the couplings. He threw his satchel over his shoulder so the Canadian Expeditionary Force sigil and the symbol of the 107th Battalion on his cap were plain in the lamplight. “Then it’s a good thing I walked here.”

“Where from?”

“Red Sucker Lake.”

The CP man lowered his light. “Infantry?”

“That, and engineering.”

The guard looked him up and down. Now was not the time to comment. If you looked too much like an out-of-work Indian they might even find an excuse to call the cops. Winnipeg’s boom years still hadn’t made it “the Chicago of the North,” and the city seemed to take out its resentment on anyone who didn’t look or sound Anglo enough.

The CP man chewed the inside of his lip. “Four hundred miles to come to the railyard? That’s a long walk, chief.”

Thomas took a deep breath. He could never be sure what would sting a white person as much as
chief
. Probably for the best. He put his hand into the ragged pocket of his coat and clenched his fingers for the hundredth time around the letter he’d received only a week ago. “Don’t trust airplanes much.”

The other snorted. “They have an airport up there already?”

Thomas allowed a slight smile. “Nope. That’s why I don’t trust ‘em.”

The CP man spat off to his left. “If you’re not after work, what
are
you looking for?”

“A family named Fotheringham.”

“What, the clothesmakers?”

Thomas shrugged. “Mrs. Alan Fotheringham?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. But you won’t have much luck at their shop. All closed up.”

“The strike?”

The CP man nodded. “Mood’s ugly in town, if you’re just in from the north. First the war, then the ‘flu, now the strike. Most of our mechanical department fellas walked off the job, but I’m still here. Police all got fired two weeks ago when they wouldn’t sign away their right to a union, and now the city’s got some ‘special constables’ running around. Big fight with them and the strikers the other day.”

Thomas was used to dealing with the North West Mounted Police near his reserve – some of them honorable fellows – but he didn’t know much about the city police. He wondered whether the Ukrainian wolf pack in the city’s North End he’d heard about were mixed up in the strike. Best if he stayed out of their way, too. “That doesn’t sound good.”

The CP man put a hand up to the side of his mouth. “Bunch of thugs. Don’t tell anyone I said that.” He glanced to the brightening eastern sky. “Going to get worse before it gets better. Rail and post office the only things still going for sure.”

“Maybe I’ll try that shop. Do you know where it is?”

“It’s probably locked up tight – but it’s ‘Ladies’ Day’ at the Soldiers’ Parliament today.”

“The what?”

“A lot of vets aren’t for the strike, but the ones who are meet in Victoria Park. They’ll probably come after you, too. Today they’re letting the women run the show and make the speeches.”

“Hm,” said Thomas.

“Just about all the workers at Fotheringham’s are women. All on strike.”

Thomas took a deep breath. “They might know how to reach her, eh?”

The CP man shrugged.

“It’s a start. Miigwetch.”

“Beg pardon?”

Thomas had been up north long enough to have slipped into Island Lakes Dialect Ojibwe without thinking. “Thank you,” he said.

The guard waved it off. “Now, I wouldn’t stick around, if I were you. Boss doesn’t like Indians.”

Thomas clenched his jaws. The boss would probably like a wolf at his door even less. He turned in the direction of Main Street and left the CP man to his rounds. Though his infant granddaughter was safely hidden with relatives on the reserve, he needed to find this nice white woman who had made off with his children.

The Fotheringham shop was closed, all the windows shuttered. The stink of uncollected garbage muddled up the heavy air.

At Victoria Park, men in full suits mingled with women in dresses and hats. It might have almost seemed a picnic but for raised voices and pro-labor placards. Veterans hurried through the crowd in their olive uniforms. The newspapers Thomas had glanced through over lunch had made much of the “foreign” and “Bolshevik” supporters of the strike. But here, the accent that soared most often through the air was distinctly British, not Russian or Ukrainian. A funny kind of Bolshevism, Thomas thought.