was alone again.
He considered going back to watching the basketball game, but his heart wasn’t in it. He thought about calling Gordy Hudacek and maybe playing some video games. Finally he settled for texting Marlee.
Where RU?
A minute later, she replied, School. Play practice. Done @ 1. Drive?
No car, he texted back.
Got my moms.
Great. CU @ 1.
He’d just ended his message when the house phone rang, and he bounded from the sofa and jogged into the kitchen to answer.
“O’Connors’ residence. This is Stephen.”
“Hello, Stephen. It’s Hank Wellington, from Thunder Bay.”
Henry Meloux’s son. Stephen was instantly concerned.
“Is Henry okay?”
“He’s fine. But he would like to talk to your father.”
“My dad’s not here right now.”
Wellington spoke to someone on his end, then said into the phone to Stephen, “He’ll talk to you.”
“Great. Put him on.”
“ Boozhoo, Stephen. It is good to hear your voice.”
“Henry? Is that you?”
“Let me check.” A moment of silence. “Yes.”
He could feel the old man smiling, could imagine his face cut by more lines than a tortoiseshell.
“Is everything okay?” Stephen asked.
“Here,” the old man said. “It is there that worries me.”
“Everything’s fine,” Stephen said.
“That is strange,” Meloux said. “Because I have been dreaming. The same dream three nights now.”
Meloux fell silent, but Stephen didn’t ask about the dream. He knew that when the old Mide was ready, he would tell him.
“Stephen, have you dreamed?”
“No, Henry. No vision dreams anyway.”
Meloux said, “If you do, I want to know the dream. I want to know if it is my dream.”
A long silence followed, and Stephen waited patiently for the old man to continue.
“I saw an evil thing,” the old man finally said. “A majimanidoo .”
Evil spirit, Stephen translated. Devil.
“This majimanidoo is always in the shadows. I cannot see it clearly.”
Stephen almost blurted a question—What was this devil doing?—but he’d learned a long time ago to bridle his impulses when he was dealing with Henry Meloux, to trust that the old man was guiding him.
“What worries me, Stephen, is what this majimanidoo is up to. In my dream, it is always watching your house.”
“Just watching?”
“Yes. But its heart is dark, Stephen, so black I cannot see into it, and I am afraid of what is there.”
“Do you think we’re in danger, Henry?”
“I do not know, Stephen.”
Then Stephen had another thought. “Is it maybe someone we care about, Henry? Do you know the Daychilds, Marlee and Stella?”
“I know them,” Meloux replied.
“Somebody killed their dog last night and cut off his head.”
The old man’s end of the line was silent a long time. “I will dream some more,” he said at last. “Will you tell your father about this majimanidoo ?”
“I will, Henry.”
“And, Stephen?”
“Yes?”
“I want you to dream, too. Maybe you can see this evil clearer because you are there and you are young and you have the gift.”
Stephen had visions sometimes, dream visions, but they always came unbidden. He didn’t know if he could dream on demand.
“How do I do that, Henry?”
“When you go to sleep, clear your mind and leave it open. It will be an invitation.”
“I’ll try, Henry.” He was about to say good-bye when he thought of something else. “Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Annie’s home. She’s having some trouble, personal problems, and she needs a place to be by herself to sort things out. I was thinking . . . well . . .”
“My door is always unlocked,” the old man said.
“ Migwech, Henry,” he said, offering the old man an Ojibwe thank-you. “I’ll let her know.”
Stephen hung up and stood at the kitchen sink, staring at the faucet, not seeing the shards of broken sunlight that came off the stainless steel but seeing instead Dexter’s shaggy, headless body lying on white snow spattered with blood.
He considered going back to watching the basketball game, but his heart wasn’t in it. He thought about calling Gordy Hudacek and maybe playing some video games. Finally he settled for texting Marlee.
Where RU?
A minute later, she replied, School. Play practice. Done @ 1. Drive?
No car, he texted back.
Got my moms.
Great. CU @ 1.
He’d just ended his message when the house phone rang, and he bounded from the sofa and jogged into the kitchen to answer.
“O’Connors’ residence. This is Stephen.”
“Hello, Stephen. It’s Hank Wellington, from Thunder Bay.”
Henry Meloux’s son. Stephen was instantly concerned.
“Is Henry okay?”
“He’s fine. But he would like to talk to your father.”
“My dad’s not here right now.”
Wellington spoke to someone on his end, then said into the phone to Stephen, “He’ll talk to you.”
“Great. Put him on.”
“ Boozhoo, Stephen. It is good to hear your voice.”
“Henry? Is that you?”
“Let me check.” A moment of silence. “Yes.”
He could feel the old man smiling, could imagine his face cut by more lines than a tortoiseshell.
“Is everything okay?” Stephen asked.
“Here,” the old man said. “It is there that worries me.”
“Everything’s fine,” Stephen said.
“That is strange,” Meloux said. “Because I have been dreaming. The same dream three nights now.”
Meloux fell silent, but Stephen didn’t ask about the dream. He knew that when the old Mide was ready, he would tell him.
“Stephen, have you dreamed?”
“No, Henry. No vision dreams anyway.”
Meloux said, “If you do, I want to know the dream. I want to know if it is my dream.”
A long silence followed, and Stephen waited patiently for the old man to continue.
“I saw an evil thing,” the old man finally said. “A majimanidoo .”
Evil spirit, Stephen translated. Devil.
“This majimanidoo is always in the shadows. I cannot see it clearly.”
Stephen almost blurted a question—What was this devil doing?—but he’d learned a long time ago to bridle his impulses when he was dealing with Henry Meloux, to trust that the old man was guiding him.
“What worries me, Stephen, is what this majimanidoo is up to. In my dream, it is always watching your house.”
“Just watching?”
“Yes. But its heart is dark, Stephen, so black I cannot see into it, and I am afraid of what is there.”
“Do you think we’re in danger, Henry?”
“I do not know, Stephen.”
Then Stephen had another thought. “Is it maybe someone we care about, Henry? Do you know the Daychilds, Marlee and Stella?”
“I know them,” Meloux replied.
“Somebody killed their dog last night and cut off his head.”
The old man’s end of the line was silent a long time. “I will dream some more,” he said at last. “Will you tell your father about this majimanidoo ?”
“I will, Henry.”
“And, Stephen?”
“Yes?”
“I want you to dream, too. Maybe you can see this evil clearer because you are there and you are young and you have the gift.”
Stephen had visions sometimes, dream visions, but they always came unbidden. He didn’t know if he could dream on demand.
“How do I do that, Henry?”
“When you go to sleep, clear your mind and leave it open. It will be an invitation.”
“I’ll try, Henry.” He was about to say good-bye when he thought of something else. “Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Annie’s home. She’s having some trouble, personal problems, and she needs a place to be by herself to sort things out. I was thinking . . . well . . .”
“My door is always unlocked,” the old man said.
“ Migwech, Henry,” he said, offering the old man an Ojibwe thank-you. “I’ll let her know.”
Stephen hung up and stood at the kitchen sink, staring at the faucet, not seeing the shards of broken sunlight that came off the stainless steel but seeing instead Dexter’s shaggy, headless body lying on white snow spattered with blood.
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