arranging sticks and dried leaves in a little pyre. She sets a match to it, making herself lovely in its sudden licking glow. Castor’s pulse quickens at the light on her throat. He feels a terrible urge to gather her red hair in his hands and preserve it from the threat of the flame.
He returns unwillingly to his body, sprawled in its armchair beside a badly smoking lamp. It’s eerie, the way his eye so often seeks a fire. As though it too remembers, and is determined he should never forget.
The Roseville house was an old clapboard tower half a mile outside town, far from his daddy’s white family on the hill. John Wylie had lost both legs from the knees down out East on the ships before coming home to Manitoba tomarry the girl he’d always loved. The fact that Mary Lariviere was the finest looking woman in Roseville did nothing to change the purity of her blood.
Squawfucker
. Some said it to Wylie’s face, others behind his back out of respect to his stumps.
The bedrooms in that old house were on the second floor, Wylie having insisted that was where bedrooms belonged. As soon as he was big enough, Castor helped his mother carry her crippled husband up the narrow stairs.
Castor was fifteen the night it happened, old enough to have hauled Wylie up to bed on his own. The engine was what woke him. By the time he’d shaken the sleep from his head and stumbled to the open window, three men were dragging a large wooden box from the bed of a truck. They hunkered down around it and there came a flickering, as though all three were lighting cigarettes at once. As Castor turned to go wake his parents, a terrible squealing arose from below. He spun back to the casement, saw the men stagger backwards as the crate burst open in flames.
Fire shot in all directions, running crazy zigzags through the grass. At first Castor thought they were gas trails, but then one of the burning strips leapt into the air, showing itself to be alive. Several of the flaming creatures—
weasels
?—tore into the dead lilacs that were crumpled like newspaper around the house. Castor’s feet took root. He covered his eyes. Heard drunken laughter and spinning tires, the growl of the truck’s escape.
The door flew open behind him. His mother was wearing one of Wylie’s undershirts and nothing else. Already Castor could see smoke curling up behind her, hear a devouring rush from below.
“Jump!” she yelled. “Jump for the tree!” And she disappeared into the thickening smoke. He stood motionless, whimpering. She was back in a heartbeat, the baby in her arms. “Jump, Castor!” She rushed at him.
“But what about—”
“Jump!” she screamed. “NOW!”
He scrambled up onto the sill, felt her palm at the small of his back, and sprang. The elm was like a giant leaf pile laced with sticks. It cut and battered him as it broke his fall.
“Castor!” His mother stood above him at the window, backlit by the terrible blaze. Her face was savage. She held the baby out like a gift, and Castor struggled to his feet, extending his bloodied arms. He braced himself. And then she did it—shut her eyes and let her month-old baby fall.
He took the shock of it into his body, staggering forward on impact, twisting violently to put himself between little Renny and the ground. He hit hard, his head bouncing so the world around him wavered and went dark.
When he came to, Renny was squalling on his chest amid a shower of sparks. Behind them, the house let out a deafening roar. Stunned as he was, Castor knew what he had to do. Keep hold of his baby brother, get up on his feet, and run.
HIS MOUTH
Mathilda’s inky eyes have sunk deep into her skull in search of sleep. She’s been up all night, trying everything she could think of to rid herself of the little red book. After endless aborted attempts at ripping it page from page, she stole out to drown it in the back ditch. Unable to bring herself tosubmerge it, she built a small fire and let the book
He returns unwillingly to his body, sprawled in its armchair beside a badly smoking lamp. It’s eerie, the way his eye so often seeks a fire. As though it too remembers, and is determined he should never forget.
The Roseville house was an old clapboard tower half a mile outside town, far from his daddy’s white family on the hill. John Wylie had lost both legs from the knees down out East on the ships before coming home to Manitoba tomarry the girl he’d always loved. The fact that Mary Lariviere was the finest looking woman in Roseville did nothing to change the purity of her blood.
Squawfucker
. Some said it to Wylie’s face, others behind his back out of respect to his stumps.
The bedrooms in that old house were on the second floor, Wylie having insisted that was where bedrooms belonged. As soon as he was big enough, Castor helped his mother carry her crippled husband up the narrow stairs.
Castor was fifteen the night it happened, old enough to have hauled Wylie up to bed on his own. The engine was what woke him. By the time he’d shaken the sleep from his head and stumbled to the open window, three men were dragging a large wooden box from the bed of a truck. They hunkered down around it and there came a flickering, as though all three were lighting cigarettes at once. As Castor turned to go wake his parents, a terrible squealing arose from below. He spun back to the casement, saw the men stagger backwards as the crate burst open in flames.
Fire shot in all directions, running crazy zigzags through the grass. At first Castor thought they were gas trails, but then one of the burning strips leapt into the air, showing itself to be alive. Several of the flaming creatures—
weasels
?—tore into the dead lilacs that were crumpled like newspaper around the house. Castor’s feet took root. He covered his eyes. Heard drunken laughter and spinning tires, the growl of the truck’s escape.
The door flew open behind him. His mother was wearing one of Wylie’s undershirts and nothing else. Already Castor could see smoke curling up behind her, hear a devouring rush from below.
“Jump!” she yelled. “Jump for the tree!” And she disappeared into the thickening smoke. He stood motionless, whimpering. She was back in a heartbeat, the baby in her arms. “Jump, Castor!” She rushed at him.
“But what about—”
“Jump!” she screamed. “NOW!”
He scrambled up onto the sill, felt her palm at the small of his back, and sprang. The elm was like a giant leaf pile laced with sticks. It cut and battered him as it broke his fall.
“Castor!” His mother stood above him at the window, backlit by the terrible blaze. Her face was savage. She held the baby out like a gift, and Castor struggled to his feet, extending his bloodied arms. He braced himself. And then she did it—shut her eyes and let her month-old baby fall.
He took the shock of it into his body, staggering forward on impact, twisting violently to put himself between little Renny and the ground. He hit hard, his head bouncing so the world around him wavered and went dark.
When he came to, Renny was squalling on his chest amid a shower of sparks. Behind them, the house let out a deafening roar. Stunned as he was, Castor knew what he had to do. Keep hold of his baby brother, get up on his feet, and run.
HIS MOUTH
Mathilda’s inky eyes have sunk deep into her skull in search of sleep. She’s been up all night, trying everything she could think of to rid herself of the little red book. After endless aborted attempts at ripping it page from page, she stole out to drown it in the back ditch. Unable to bring herself tosubmerge it, she built a small fire and let the book
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