Alone with her the next day, he saw she’d managed to sew her dress together with a length of sinew. He pointed to the dress, pointed in the general direction of Mackinnon, then proceeded to mime out picking something, cooking it, Mackinnon eating it, holding his belly and pitching over dead. It made her laugh behind her hand. He convinced her that it was not a joke and she began to wash her hands in the air, biting her lip, darting glances all around, as though even the needles on the pines knew what they were planning. Then she signaled him to follow.
She searched the woods until she found scraggly stalks that drooped with black shriveled berries. She put a bit of cloth on her hand, picked the berries, and tied them in the cloth. Then she searched out a stand of oaks, again covered her hand, and plunged it into the snow near a cracked-off stump rotted down to almost nothing. Eventually, from beneath the snow, she pulled out some dark-gray strands that might once have been mushrooms.
That night Wolfred used the breast meat of six partridges, the tenders of three rabbits, a shriveled potato, and the girl’s offering to make a highly salted and strongly flavored stew. He unplugged a keg of high wine, and made sure Mackinnon drained it well down before he ate. The stew did not seem to affect him. They all went to their corners, and Mackinnon kept on drinking the way he usually did until the fire burned out.
In the middle of the night, his thrashing, grunting, and squeals of pain woke them. Wolfred lighted a lantern. Mackinnon’s entire head had turned purple and swollen to a grotesque size. His eyes had vanished in the bloated flesh. His tongue, a mottled fish, bulged from what must have been his mouth. He seemed to be trying to throw himself out of his body. He cast himself violently at the log walls, into the fireplace, upon the mounds of furs and blankets, rattling guns off their wooden hooks. Ammunition, ribbons, and hawks’ bells rained off their shelves. His belly popped from his vest, round and hard as a boulder. His hands and feet filled like bladders. Wolfred had never witnessed anything remotely as terrifying, but had the presence of mind not to club Mackinnon or in any way molest his monstrous presence. As for the girl, she seemed pleased at his condition, though she did not smile.
Trying to disregard the chaotic death occurring to his left, now to his right, now underfoot, Wolfred prepared to leave. He grabbed snowshoes and two packs, moving clumsily. In the packs he put his books, two fire steels, ammunition, bannock he had made in advance. He doubled up two blankets, another to cut for leggings, and outfitted himself and the girl with four knives apiece. He took two guns, wadding, and a large flask of gunpowder. He took salt, tobacco, Mackinnon’s precious coffee, and dried meat. He did not take overmuch coin, though he knew which hollowed log hid the trader’s tiny stash, a gold watch, and a wedding ring, which Mackinnon rarely wore.
Mackinnon’s puffed mitts of hands fretted at his clothing and the threads burst. As Wolfred and the girl slipped out, they could hear him fighting the poison, his breath coming in sonorous gasps. He could barely draw air past his swelled tongue into his gigantic purpled head. Yet he managed to call feebly out to them.
My children! Why are you leaving me?
From the other side of the door they could hear his legs drumming on the packed earth floor. They could hear his fat paws wildly pattering for water on the empty wooden bucket.
Almond Joy
SEPTEMBER AGAIN. OVER the course of the day it became oppressively hot. Not a leaf stirred. It was the first day of school and by the time the class let out, Maggie and LaRose were drooping. When they got on the bus, trees started whipping around. Hot grit flew through the air. By the time they jumped off at their stop, big fat drops were smacking down. Nola and the dog met them with a flimsy red umbrella that nearly flew out of her fist. They struggled inside and just as they shut the door lightning pulsed around the edges of the yard and half a second later there were slams of thunder.
Inside, before the dog could shake himself, Nola rubbed him hard with an old towel she kept by the door. The dog trembled with excitement, but was unafraid. He fixed Nola with a calculating gaze, then jumped onto the couch, trying his luck. She had taught him the rules for everything—no begging, no jumping on people, no chewing anything but chew toys, no shitting in the yard, only at the edge of the yard, no puking or drooling in the house, if he could help it. She even taught him not to eat until she said eat. The only thing she was inconsistent about was the couch. Sometimes she ordered him off, sometimes she allowed him on. Sometimes she even let him get close to her. He had to read her mood to find out if he would be allowed onto the hallowed green poly-filled pillows. Now the signs were good. He curled silently between Nola and Maggie, and allowed his weight incrementally to sink against them. Gradually, his brows unknit. Moving by centimeters, he managed to rest his head near Nola’s thigh.