book in his hand was somehow reassuring. He dropped it into the duffle and turned toward the door.
Then he stopped. He knew he couldn't just leave. He had to get out before Katrina returned, but he couldn't let her come home to an empty house, no sign of him anywhere, without an explanation. Abraham pulled one of his spiral notebooks back out of the duffle and sat down at the table. He wrote quickly, not going into long explanations. When he was as satisfied as he could be with the note he left it on the table, weighted down by the saltshaker.
The sun hadn't risen, but it lined the horizon in red and gold, and Abe stopped for a moment to stare down at the beach, and then up at the cliffs where the Cathedral of San Marcos loomed over the waves. His throat was tight, and his stomach was queasy. For that one moment he considered staying. He could just sit down on the porch, wait for Katrina to return, tell her the whole story, and the two of them could find his mother together.
Then he closed his eyes and felt the dreams hovering just out of sight, and knew he had to do it alone. She would be hurt. She would probably wait for him, and if she didn't he would find her and somehow make it right, but he had to do this alone. He'd already come closer to physically hurting her in his sleep than he was comfortable with, and he knew that things were likely to be much worse before they ever got better. Nothing about that mountain was safe, with or without the nightmares and the bitter memories that lodged between his thoughts and distracted him.
His hand strayed to the medallion, and he felt the beginnings of a bruise on the back of his neck where the leather thong had dug into his skin. The touch of the smooth metal cleared his thoughts, and he started off toward the beach at a jog. He knew if he went straight out to the road, Katrina would see him. He would have to run down the beach and come up further down the road, then double back to the bus stop.
He jogged down to the beach and turned right, toward the cathedral and the cliffs. His heart ached, but he did not look back. Behind him, just out of hearing, the phone rang.
NINE
Deep in the hills, there are different rules. Things shift, boundaries blur and time warps with the sudden, powerful draw of blood. Abraham knew this better than any. The blood of his brothers and cousins, uncles and aunts ran through the veins of the hills that towered over him. The asphalt shimmered in the bright sunlight and waves of heat rose to the heavens. Abraham stared through them and let them warp the green of the trees and the blue of the sky. He was coming home.
On his shoulder, his duffle bag was a familiar weight; as familiar as the scent of pine on the breeze and the soft whisper of wind through the trees. He turned and glanced back down the road the way he'd come. It was a good four miles to the turnoff from Cotter's Point. The trucker who'd let him off would be halfway to the state line, trying to make a warm bed and stiff drink before the orange-red of the sunset bled down the side of the hills and faded to black.
In the breast pocket of his flannel shirt the letter from his mother was neatly folded. He heard her voice whispering the words, and knew it was silly to keep the short note. He would never forget.
"He's back, boy."
The equal armed cross that was drawn on the bottom of the letter covered another symbol. It was a dark squiggle, serpentine and bleak. When Abraham studied it he got the impression of layers—one thing covering another and blocking it. There was power in the old symbols, and he knew, for the moment, that his mother's cross, like the one he wore about his neck, had proven the stronger. Nothing more was written. No explanation was offered, or needed. Civilization drained down slowly, swirled through the veins of his legs and seeped into the earth. Blood to blood; Abraham started to walk.
The final two words of the short note echoed
Then he stopped. He knew he couldn't just leave. He had to get out before Katrina returned, but he couldn't let her come home to an empty house, no sign of him anywhere, without an explanation. Abraham pulled one of his spiral notebooks back out of the duffle and sat down at the table. He wrote quickly, not going into long explanations. When he was as satisfied as he could be with the note he left it on the table, weighted down by the saltshaker.
The sun hadn't risen, but it lined the horizon in red and gold, and Abe stopped for a moment to stare down at the beach, and then up at the cliffs where the Cathedral of San Marcos loomed over the waves. His throat was tight, and his stomach was queasy. For that one moment he considered staying. He could just sit down on the porch, wait for Katrina to return, tell her the whole story, and the two of them could find his mother together.
Then he closed his eyes and felt the dreams hovering just out of sight, and knew he had to do it alone. She would be hurt. She would probably wait for him, and if she didn't he would find her and somehow make it right, but he had to do this alone. He'd already come closer to physically hurting her in his sleep than he was comfortable with, and he knew that things were likely to be much worse before they ever got better. Nothing about that mountain was safe, with or without the nightmares and the bitter memories that lodged between his thoughts and distracted him.
His hand strayed to the medallion, and he felt the beginnings of a bruise on the back of his neck where the leather thong had dug into his skin. The touch of the smooth metal cleared his thoughts, and he started off toward the beach at a jog. He knew if he went straight out to the road, Katrina would see him. He would have to run down the beach and come up further down the road, then double back to the bus stop.
He jogged down to the beach and turned right, toward the cathedral and the cliffs. His heart ached, but he did not look back. Behind him, just out of hearing, the phone rang.
NINE
Deep in the hills, there are different rules. Things shift, boundaries blur and time warps with the sudden, powerful draw of blood. Abraham knew this better than any. The blood of his brothers and cousins, uncles and aunts ran through the veins of the hills that towered over him. The asphalt shimmered in the bright sunlight and waves of heat rose to the heavens. Abraham stared through them and let them warp the green of the trees and the blue of the sky. He was coming home.
On his shoulder, his duffle bag was a familiar weight; as familiar as the scent of pine on the breeze and the soft whisper of wind through the trees. He turned and glanced back down the road the way he'd come. It was a good four miles to the turnoff from Cotter's Point. The trucker who'd let him off would be halfway to the state line, trying to make a warm bed and stiff drink before the orange-red of the sunset bled down the side of the hills and faded to black.
In the breast pocket of his flannel shirt the letter from his mother was neatly folded. He heard her voice whispering the words, and knew it was silly to keep the short note. He would never forget.
"He's back, boy."
The equal armed cross that was drawn on the bottom of the letter covered another symbol. It was a dark squiggle, serpentine and bleak. When Abraham studied it he got the impression of layers—one thing covering another and blocking it. There was power in the old symbols, and he knew, for the moment, that his mother's cross, like the one he wore about his neck, had proven the stronger. Nothing more was written. No explanation was offered, or needed. Civilization drained down slowly, swirled through the veins of his legs and seeped into the earth. Blood to blood; Abraham started to walk.
The final two words of the short note echoed
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