There Will Be Lies (17 page)

2,700 milligrams
, I say. I don’t know the sign for milligrams so I say it with my mouth.

What?

The amount. Of codeine
.

She looks at me blankly.

He would have died
, I say.
From that much
.

How do you know I put all of them in the
–

Oh, so you didn’t? Where are they then? Because they’re not in my make-up bag. I’m going to run out in like five days because I only have my first bottle
.

I didn’t think
, she says.

Yeah. You just thought about killing Luke so he couldn’t rat on us
.

As I say this, I’m sure I’m right. I mean why bother knocking him out and then leaving? It would be the same as just saying see-you-later and getting on a bus or getting a taxi to take us back to our car. No, the only way to be sure he wouldn’t tell anyone about us would be to …

… to kill him.

Shut up
, says Mom.

Why? You don’t like hearing what you did? What you are? Once a murderer, always a murderer, Mom
.

Even as I say it, I’m aware that it’s something I can’t take back, and so I’m not surprised when Mom slaps me. I don’t hear it, it’s almost totally silent, but I feel the shock of it, the sudden blossoming of red-hot pain.

Go to your room
, she says.
I’ll come for you when it’s time for lunch
.

I want to ask her, did you lie to me again? This story about you being Anya Maxwell, is it another lie, like when you said that Dad was alive and wanted to kill us? But I don’t know how to ask that question. I know how to argue with her about codeine but not how to challenge the whole
story
we’re living in.

And anyway my blood is boiling too much to allow me to speak to her.

Instead:

Fine
, I say.

I go into the room that has been assigned to me and stand by the bed. I don’t mind being alone, because (
a
) Mom is freaking me the hell out, and (
b
) I want to get back into the Dreaming, to find out what is going on. First a coyote appears on the street when I get hit by a car, then I see one from the window of
our
car, then Mark turns into one?

There is something seriously messed up happening and I want to know what it is.

And Mark has some explaining to do. I mean, I trusted him. I liked talking to him. I liked having someone other than my mother to talk to, and he was that someone. Now I don’t know what to think any more and continue to be glad that I’m apart from Mom for a bit, giving me the time to sort through some thoughts in my head.

Thoughts like, (
c
) Mark doesn’t exist in any meaningful way, apart from in the Dreaming, and (
d
) Mark is a fricking coyote. Or Coyote, I should say, with a capital
C
. Whatever.

I’m sure there’s an
e
too, and
f
and
g
and
h
, in terms of good reasons to be in this wood-panelled room on my own, but I don’t follow that train of thought because there’s a quick way to get answers.

Holding the knife, I close my eyes and focus on finding the gap
between worlds, between here and the Dreaming. It is getting easier and easier, and part of it is thinking about sound, thinking about those vibrations coming into my ears, the rushing of the river water, the breathing of the elks, the hooting of owls, far off in the distance, the canyon and above it the long strip of black sky, dusted with –

The scene takes a second to resolve itself in front of me, and then the wolf is flying through the air towards the first of the trapped elks.

Huh, I think. Mark was right. Time doesn’t pass the same in the Dreaming, when I’m in my world.

I move forward, thinking in some vague way that I have to try to protect the elks, though who knows what I’m going to do. At the same time, the coyote that used to be Mark is flowing, there is no other word for it, flowing liquidly towards the same place –

and the elk leader is moving too, all of us converging –

but it’s the leader who gets there first, the big elk who carried me over the river, and he lowers his head as he charges, folds his forelegs so he skids across the sand – he must weigh close to a ton, and when his antlers hit the leaping wolf, they spear it right through.

The elk stands, then violently shakes its head, and the wolf is dashed on to a rock, lying limp and unnatural over it, blood haloing the elk’s antlers. The elk bellows, stamping its foot.

The coyote slides to a halt, panting.

For what feels like a long time, there is silence. The elks are all watching the coyote, fear in their eyes. All apart from the leader, who is looking at it – looking at Mark, I keep having to remind
myself – with an expression of prideful resistance, and something like anger. But mixed up with … what? What would you call it?

Submission, I think. A kind of reluctant, angry submission.

Coyote, says the big elk. Then the resistance fades from his eyes, and he lowers his head.

Coyote, say the others. Tension pulses in the brightness of their eyes, and they bend their front legs and bow, half in trepidation, half in tribute – the posture says fear, very clearly. But unless I’m imagining it, it also says reverence.

Tension hangs in the air, like mist.

Coyote, says the first elk, when finally he looks up. Would you change your skin? You are scaring our young.

As the elk says it, I see it’s true – the smaller elk are cowering behind the larger ones.

Mark, Coyote, whatever, nods and then jumps up into the air again, shifting as he does, fur becoming skin, and clothes, until it’s a man standing there; Mark.

Thank you, says the elk.

You are welcome, says Mark. I did not mean to frighten you.

The elk kind of snorts air through its nostrils, like it’s laughing. You are Coyote, it says. Who knows what you mean?

I frown.

Maiden, says the elk. I look around, and then realise it’s addressing me. Why do you walk with First Angry?

First Angry? I say.

Yes. The One Who Caused the Flood, the One Who Created Death, the One Who Scattered the Stars. Coyote. He has many names.

I glance at him. I don’t –

I am helping her to rescue the Child, says Mark. To kill the Crone.

Why? says the lead elk.

Mark gestures to the dead wolves, to the parched ground beyond the thin strip of beach. Because of all this. The drought. The wolves.

The lead elk snorts. Was it not given to Coyote and to Coyote alone to call the rain? he says. It is one of your gifts. Why can you not simply make it rain?

I look at Mark. You can make it
rain
? I say.

Yes, he says. I mean no. Usually I can. Usually, I am the only one who can. But not now.

Why not?

Because the balance has been upset, he says. The Crone has the Child. Now her power is greater than mine. I have no more say over the rain. When she is dead, then … then I can call a downpour and soak the land. But not before.

Truly? says the elk.

Would I lie? says Mark.

Yes, says the elk. You are Coyote. The Liar. The Player of Tricks.

I am not lying now, says Mark.

Listen, I say loudly. Mark and the elks turn to look at me. Can someone tell me what the
hell
is going on here? I am
not
the Maiden, I am Shelby Jane Cooper. You are Mark. But you’re … you’re a coyote, suddenly?

No, says Mark. I am Coyote.

And the difference is …

The difference is that between a lightbulb and the sun.

Oh, yeah, I say, fake unfazed. Totally. Sure. That’s normal.

Coyotes are born and die every day, he says. I am older than this
world. I am the son of the sky and the earth. Some say that I made man and woman.

And did you? I say.

He just shrugs.

And outside the library … when the car hit me … that was you?

Yes, he says. I wanted to warn you.

About the lies. ‘There will be two lies and then there will be the truth,’ right?

Yes, he says.

So you being Coyote, and keeping it secret, was that one of the lies?

No, he says.

What about my mother saying that Dad was coming to kill us?

He nods his head.

And this stuff about being Anya Maxwell?

I can’t tell you that. Some things you have to learn for yourself.

If you want me to kill this crone, or whatever she is, and rescue this child, you need to answer my –

I don’t want you to rescue the Child, says Coyote.
You
want to rescue the Child.

I stare at him. What? I say.

Listen, he says. Close your eyes, and listen to the wind.

What? Why would –

Just do it, he says.

I close my eyes and I hear Mark mutter some words. I concentrate on the wind. It is not loud – it is a low breeze, humming through the canyon, a quiet hushing sound difficult to separate from the running of the water, but very slightly higher pitched, almost like a voice, almost like someone …

someone crying …

and then I hear it, under the wind, so faint, but there. The sound of a child crying, and then it seems to get louder and louder, until it’s vibrating in every cell of my body, resonating in me, like it does in my dreams.

And of course that’s what it is, I realise.

It is the crying from my dreams. The very same crying. The little child, sitting on the floor of the hospital, reaching its arms up to me, wanting to be comforted, wanting to be held …

I feel wetness welling up in my eyes. I open them and take a breath. Stop it, I say to Mark.

He nods, and the crying is gone.

That was the Child, he says. It is dying. We must save it. Yes?

Yes, I say. Yes.

We all look at one another for a moment.

I hid my true face from you, says Mark to the elks. And I am sorry for that. But will you still stand with me? Will you stand with the Maiden?

Yes, say the elks, together.

But I don’t understand, I say. The Child, who is it? I mean, did I have a sister once, or … or what? Why do I know that crying?

It is the Child, says Mark, as if that’s a simple answer that makes any kind of sense. The Dreaming bleeds into your world.

I don’t know what that means, I say.

No, he says. But you will.

The Crone’s castle is still unimaginably far away but the elks offer to carry us. They take a step forward, and begin to bend their backs, for us to mount them. The big leader steps delicately around the corpse of the wolf at his feet, skirting the rock on which its back
broke by splashing through the shallows of the river. And at that moment, I see a movement out of the corner of my eye. A liquid movement, a sine wave slipping through the water, fast.

I grab my knife and shout. Look out –

But it’s too late. The snake’s head flicks up out of the river, and its fangs glisten for a moment in the starlight, and then it clamps down on the majestic elk’s leg, mouth snapping shut with a click that I can hear.

No, I say.

Knock
.

Mark whips into motion, his hand seizing the snake as he bends, and then he flings it far out into the river, where it hits the water with a splash.

He pushes the elk out of the shallows, towards the rock wall, the path. He is patting its side, whispering to it, eyes narrow with concern. The other elks are doing that panicked bellowing again.

Knock
.

I look down at the leader’s leg.

Two drops of crimson welling from the fur. The hide. Whatever it’s called. Suddenly I wish I knew what it was called.

No, I say.

It is all right, says the elk.

No, I say. No, it’s not all –

But his legs are already crumpling. We are many, he says as his eyes begin to dim out of the world. We are Elk.

No, I say. I’m still clutching the knife like a talisman, like something that can keep me safe. Keep us all safe.

Knock
.

Save the Child, says the elk. Don’t let us all die. Don’t let –

But he doesn’t say anything else because then his legs buckle and he falls to the ground, foam beginning to fleck the corners of his mouth.

Shelby? Shelby, what are you doing in there? Shelby, I’m coming in.

It’s Mom’s voice, breaking into the Dreaming.

No
, I scream. No, not now; but then there is a hand on my shoulder and it’s not a hand in this world and I am –

– standing in the middle of the room in the judge’s cabin, and Mom is shaking my shoulder.

I HEARD her, I think. I heard her, when I was in the Dreaming. Calling through the door. How is that possible?

But then I suppose if she was shouting loud enough, I WOULD hear. I mean, I have 10 per cent hearing.

She must have been shouting loud. She must have been worried.

Mom takes a step back and signs at me.
What the hell, Shelby? Are you OK?

I …
My hands are shaking. A physical stammer.
I’m … fine
.

Then I realise that the knife is still in my hand. I look down at it, the sharp blade reflecting liquid light.

Mom looks too.

It’s not mine
, I say.
I found it in
–

What’s not yours?

I stare at her.
What?

What are you talking about?
she says.

This
, I say. I show her the knife.

Your hand?

I shake the knife.
This. This knife
.

I don’t see a knife
, she says.
I just see your hands
.

Shocked, I look down, but yes, the knife is in my hand, the solid antler handle of it, the wicked gleam of the blade.

Are you kidding?
I say.

She touches my face.
I’m really worried about you, Shelby
, she says.
I think you need to have something to eat. Then you need to rest this afternoon
.