SIX
Arthur idled the small outboard motor at a steady pace. Sitting in the front of the boat with his rifle slung casually over one shoulder, Kyle had his camo jacket zipped to the neck and the hood thrown over, probably more to hide his scowl than to protect against the spatter of ocean that occasionally threw up over the side of the boat. But he came, nonetheless, Arthur thought to himself, hunched down with one hand on the rudder. Up ahead, the island loomed in the dying of the light. Already his trawler, the Pygmalion, would be half-way back to the mainland by now with Sean at the controls. He let his thoughts drift with the gravity of the situation back to Kieran, his son.
The cuffs of his shirt under his jacket were now dry with Kieran’s blood, and he prayed to whatever god was left to him that he’d make it through the night. The son of a bitch bear had nearly disemboweled him, and even if Kieran did survive, in what capacity? He’d have a hell of a scar, in any case. You just do what you gotta do and live, he thought to himself, trying to will the words in his head to reach Kieran telepathically, or else by some method of connection that tied them through a common blood. You live, and I’ll make sure the bastard that done you pays, he thought, muttering the last bit aloud under his breath.
The splashing of waves and the roar of the engine drowned him out, so he whispered it to himself again, louder, but not enough for Kyle to hear him. It became a kind of mantra for him, a way to fuel his anger, keep it burning as hot as the bullet he intended to put between the old grizzly’s eyes. The very one who had – no, he mustn’t think that way – killed his only son.
He grit his teeth, felt the enamel wearing down under the pressure, and spit viciously into the ocean. Up ahead, Kyle turned back, a bored look on his face, the kind that belonged to men who had experienced the weather too long, and now merely huddled under it, offering small silent prayers for its mercy.
“Comin’ in,” Kyle barked, “you wanna make for that north shore? Looks sandy enough… I don’t fancy getting ripped to shreds on those cliffs, not before we’ve finished this fool hardy mission of yours.”
Fool hardy yourself, Arthur wanted to snap back, you didn’t have to come. But Kyle would have anyway. It wasn’t so much that he shared Arthur’s taste for revenge, it didn’t even wholly have to do with some misguided sense of loyalty or sentiment. No, there was another layer to Kyle that he was hiding under the veil of an obligatory duty to Arthur.
Both of them had seen the bear Arthur shot – and then, the muscular naked man it had become when they arrived on shore. Since Sean and Kieran had departed, he had taken a chance and whispered to Kyle about the rumors of shifters, creatures in Native lore that could change their shapes at will, becoming animals or trees, even rocks, or the very waves they were sailing over.
Kyle scoffed at the notion, as Arthur figured he would, but he’d come along anyway. Incredible legends and make-believe monsters heard over campfires were one thing. But when you actually came upon such a fable, in the flesh, it was time to reevaluate what was possible in this world. Kyle was going through a metaphysical crisis. Let him, Arthur mused, I’m past that now. Just let me see the bastard… bear or man, or both… that cut my boy, and I’ll skin the fucker with my bare hands if I have to.
The promise of revenge in his imagination tasted bittersweet. For him, it was a kind of duty, something that he equated, on a primal level, with his own perception of manhood. There was nothing particularly pleasant about the notion of revenge, for him it was more about justice. A balancing of opposing forces, some imaginary status quo. At the same time, he couldn’t deny another basic instinct, a kind of giddy preoccupation with the hunt, with looming vantage that power gave him.
He nodded at Kyle’s suggestion and gently turned the outboard toward the sandy shore. The waves increased as they neared, and he saw Kyle grip both sides of the boat to support it. Already the light was dying, and instead of stars, he saw only a blurred halo where the moon was perfectly bisected. Cloud cover was marching in, a thunderous black cohort, and he swore to himself. The only thing that could spoil revenge was rain.
Kyle hopped out into the ankle deep water and hauled the boat up on the sand, even as Arthur stepped out as well and burdened himself with the dark green backpack. They’d have to make camp soon, preferably somewhere near the giant pinnacle of rock and vegetation that was the island’s highest point. From there, it would be a perfect base to reconnoiter the island.
“Kyle, keep your ears sharp. We don’t want to surprise them, not before we have to,” he glowered, slinging his own rifle onto his back, “and let’s hide this boat for Chrissakes.”
For as long as he’d known him, Kyle had always been an astute hunter, an even warier person back in the throng of civilization. He lacked the sort of leadership mentality that Arthur attributed to himself, which was more a mixture of charisma and intimidation that forced those around him to do his bidding with a kind of wordless awe and muted contention. No, Kyle was not a leader, only because no one ever seemed to follow him. He was a loner, but of a caliber that set him apart from other loners, because he was able to survive it.
“Aye,” Kyle said bluntly, lugging one end of the rope over his shoulder and struggling without complaint up the shore, the outboard coughing over the rough sand and gravel.
When they’d finally marched through the dark thicket to the base of the outcrop, it was quite dark, and a fine rain had started in, sparking on the leaves and turning the pathless wilderness to a mire. Finally, inside the cramped canvas tent, the two men dumped their gear, save for their rifles.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, in the middle of the night? I’ve done night hunting, Art… it’s not pretty, and less than successful. Animals can hear you a mile off, even in the rain.”
“We’re not hunting just animals,” Arthur reminded him grimly, which shut Kyle up.
Reluctantly, the younger, skinnier man followed him out into the rain which was increasing, leveling with a head-wind that was spiraling from the north, adding an extra chill to its grip. Both men ducked their heads low, cowed by their hoods, each blanketed by their own private fantasy as they trudged downhill; for Kyle, it was vodka in his favorite bar back in Vancouver, for Arthur, reliving the moment of his revenge again and again.