The River

Smoke-Mouth: Episode Four

Smoke-Mouth is a dystopian supernatural novella, serialized in twelve projected parts. This is Episode Four.

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Previously, Jenny and Lula arrived in the old logging town of Vail.

In this episode, the travelers attempt a hazardous river-crossing.

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Photo by Ali Kazal on Unsplash

Wolf said…Wolf said…Wolf said…

Jenny-Dog curled into a shell of herself in the tall grass, soft grass, shaking.

Wolf said…Wolf said…Wolf said…

Where are the red walls? she wept. Where are the womb-red walls of my childhood, seasoned by the sea? All of the houses here are the color of curdled milk, all are bleached-bone and heavy with impurity. The streets of the city of the gods are running with spoil, and no one seems to see the demons whispering in their ears.

Wolf said!

Jenny Douglas is a frigid bitch. Jenny Douglas is a dog.

Jenny-Doug. Jenny-Dog.

Wolf called her Jenny-Dog and smiled big, bit the hands off his children when they tried to grab for God. Sharp teeth! Frigid bitch!

Jenny runs, and the clamor of tin-can rubber-wheel paws behind her tells her she isn’t safe anywhere. That she’ll always be hunted by him.

Run, Jenny! Run fast, be clever! Frigid bitch!

Jenny Douglas is nothing now. She runs for Helen’s open arms, but the giantess seems to draw further and further away. Jenny’s hands are missing. Her eyes are wide.

Wolf said. Wolf took her hands.

Wolf said.

Wolf said.

Wolf’s Head.

Jenny-Dog woke with a start in the roadside thicket and realized that she had been biting down hard on the ring finger of her left hand. She moved her hand away gingerly, finger throbbing under angry red teeth-marks and warm drool, and sat up.

The sun was up and climbing in the sky, casting long shadows on the low hills. Lula was still asleep nearby, wide-brimmed hat resting over her face and patchwork-sleeved arms crossed over her chest.

The ghost-horse was standing in the tall grass, mumbling at the green new growth. It shook in her phantom teeth, worried by the straps of the halter, but did not break.

Jenny-Dog looked up at the horse, and the horse looked back at her. The memory of the night before came and went like the squeeze and release of nausea, the overwhelming physical force of the sadness that had grown up around Vail’s ghosts like thistles. Though the weight of it was gone, the memory remained.

The horse called Ellen looked up and met Jenny’s eyes. A question seemed to pass between them—well, what will you do now?—before the mare lowered her head to shake the grass again.

As Jenny-Dog stretched out her sore limbs Lula stirred, pulled her hat away from her face, and looked up at her, squinting.

“Sun’s awful bright,” she said.

Jenny shrugged and twitched her head at the thick wall of forest not far from where they lay. “Better than being in there.”

Lula sat up. She saw the horse.

“Oh,” she said. “Ellen’s still here.”

“Looks like it.”

The ghost-horse flicked her tail and regarded the two women. She had been alone for a long time. The stirring of ancestral blood reminded her that she was made for a herd. And where no other horses could be found, these two women would serve well enough. Her needs, indeed, were simple.

Jenny looked down at her hands, her throbbing ring finger, her dirty nails. “I should thank you, I reckon. For getting me out of that place.”

Lula shrugged as she re-braided her hair into two long dark plaits. “I was real scared. I had to get out.”

“Sure. But you didn’t need to take me with you, and you did. So…thank you.”

Lula smiled. “You chased that angel off me back in Yelm, so that makes us even.”

Jenny-Dog grunted. She stood and left the ditch on shaking legs, peering one way up the road and then the other. She needed to get a sense of the landscape.

She scoped out a bigleaf maple with a low corona of branches thick enough for her weight and climbed up into it. Not too far, just enough to look out and around a little, get a sense of where they stood.

But there was no sense to find. The old forest stretched out further than she thought, an endless sea of black trees that swallowed the light. The old lumber company had owned vast acres, and all of them were thick with regrowth now. In all of those hundreds and hundreds of acres it was possible that Vail was the only pool of sorrow, but how could she be sure? Was she willing to risk it?

No roads, and no cutting across through the forest.

Think, Jenny!

When she climbed back down and rejoined Lula in the thicket, the fool girl had packed up her bag and was standing in the middle of the old logging road, big eyes wide.

“How am I gonna get to Smoke-Mouth now?” she asked. “I don’t wanna go back in those woods.”

Jenny-Dog shook her head. “No, there’s no going back in there. You’ll need to veer east before you head south anyway. So I say we skirt the edge of the woods and head due east until we hit the river.”

Nisqually. Her longtime friend. Nisqually would lead them true. There were plenty of little towns along its stretch, of this she was sure. Plenty of other places for her to find her blessed solitude.

Lula peered up at her, tilting her hat back. “You mean you’re coming with me?”

“Not to Smoke-Mouth,” Jenny said, quickly. “But I can’t very well stay here. I’ll have to try my luck somewhere else anyway. I’ll walk with you to the river, find myself a spot there.”

Jenny-Dog always finds a place to sleep.

Before setting off they picked their fill of gem-black brambles from the roadside, jammy-sweet and sun-warm. It wasn’t quite enough to satisfy for a long walk but it would have to do; Jenny was saving her supplies.

Don’t be a fool like the girl, Jenny!

Then they began their walk, leaving the road behind and cutting straight east, keeping the line of the woods on their right-hand side at a safe distance. Ellen the horse followed, the sound of her hoofbeats a kindly tattoo, heavy head dipping and bobbing. Her ears flicked at every sound of a fluttering bird in the empty air, the passing of furtive quail in between patches of spent wildflowers.

The woods were talkative. At first Jenny thought it was the rolling of her own thoughts back and forth in her brain, round and round, but no. The woods were muttering, baiting with sweet promises, trying to draw them closer. Generations of hopes and dreams pinned on the felling of forests and dashed by the crushing weight of misplaced timber had turned to wheedling whispers.

“You hear the trees talking?” Lula asked.

Jenny nodded.

“What a place,” Lula said. “What a despondent bear-trap of a place.”

Ellen snorted softly. To be safe, the trio veered left and put a bit more distance between themselves and the woods until the whispering was indistinguishable from the wind.

It was a long walk. Hours and hours of it. They stopped on the way to rest and drink water, and paused for an hour to split a can of cold chicken soup—a reluctant offering from Jenny-Dog’s own supply—but kept pace as well as they could to reach the river in daylight.

When the heavy beating of wings alerted them to the passage of an angel with a body as big as a livestock dog they threw themselves into the brush and waited, covering their mouths to keep their breath from drawing the many-eyed thing closer.

It reesked and rasked and circled, round face reeling, looking for souls and finding none, before it flew away again over the tree-tops and vanished.

*******

It was late afternoon, nearing another dusk when they reached the bank of the Nisqually River. Jenny had been looking forward to reuniting with it, but when they crested the hill and saw the river in its low gorge, Jenny stood and stared.

Golly-gawd, Jenny. What’s wrong with the river?

Nisqually was nearly unrecognizable here. Jenny had known the river in its calmer stretches around Yelm. She had never seen it so powerful, seething against its banks and pummeling the rocks as it whisked north on its way to distant Puget Sound.

“It’s too wild to cross,” Lula said.

Too wild! May it never be! This is Nisqually!

“No, no, there’ll be a place. You wait.”

Jenny led Lula and Ellen along the bank, looking for a good spot to cross. She knelt down to look the river in the eye, gauging depth, begging it for an answer.

“There,” she said, pointing. “There’s a shallow spot. See the stones?”

Lula looked. There was indeed a gap-tooth ridge of exposed rocks big enough to step on, crowns dried in the sun, the river gnashing and barking as it tumbled past them.

But Lula took off her hat, wiped her forehead, and frowned. “You sure?”

Jenny grunted. “We’ll have to cross sometime. Unless you want to cling close to those whispering woods all the way south, too.”

Lula shuddered. Ellen shifted her weight and tossed her head.

“I’ll go first,” Jenny said. “Watch where I step.”

Jenny-Dog was careful. She had fleet feet, climbing feet. She took off her boots and held the laces in her hands, climbed up onto the ridge of stones and picked her way across like a goat. She kept her gaze forward and confident, slow and steady as the river shrilled at her from underneath. Beside her in the water Ellen passed her by, walking through the tumult like it was nothing.

Easy for you, ghost-mare! Who needs nimble feet when you’ve got no flesh!

Jenny reached the other side and Ellen did, too. They climbed up onto the far bank and Jenny stood in the low sun, letting her damp feet dry. She waved across to Lula.

“Did you mind where I put my feet? Did you see?”

“I saw,” Lula called back, the river swallowing her voice. Her big sunflower-center eyes were wide. Scared. She took off her boots and climbed onto the first stone, tipping back and forth until she found her balance.

Slow and steady to the next. Then the next. Easy does it.

And then those big eyes made the mistake of looking down…and the rest of her followed.

It happened so fast Jenny-Dog thought for sure a hand had reached up from the waves and pulled the fool girl in by the ankle. But in a tumble of patchwork and dark hair and legs Lula was gone, barely able to cry out before she sank under the surface. All that was visible was the wide-brimmed hat as the river ran away with it like a child.

Jenny hissed and cursed and ran along the length of the bank, skin shivering and twitching with the terror of it, trying to find a way in to grab Lula. But there was no way in without the river taking them both.

Fool girl’s a fool, but she saved your life. Try, Jenny-girl! Try!

“Lula!” she heard herself say, first time saying the fool girl’s name aloud. “Lula!”

It was no use. The river was fast, and Lula was slight.

Jenny ran and ran, trying to keep up, but the river was too fast and the girl couldn’t hear her. And would it have mattered? “Lula!” she shouted again and again, hoping the river would get tired of it and spit the girl out.

Nisqually, what have you done?!

But then a shape sped past Jenny, and the sound of hoofbeats rose over the roar of the water.

Ellen raced forward, passing Jenny easily and keeping pace with the river’s flow, then surpassing it. She kept on, past the place where Lula’s desperate hands and face could be seen reaching above the water, until the ghostly horse reached a spot that she deemed right in her equine wisdom.

She veered into the water. The river flowed straight through her, unfettered. She waded in until she was parallel with Lula’s flailing path, her heavy head reaching forward on a long, strong neck. Reaching out as far as she could go.

Before she could pass by entirely, Lula flailed a desperate hand and caught the horse’s halter, the only part of the ghostly creature that wasn’t immaterial.

Miraculously, though the girl’s arms and legs passed easy through Ellen as the river ripped and tore at her, the halter kept her steady. Anchored in one place.

Jenny doubled her speed and picked up a sturdy branch from the side of bank. Then she waded into the shallows and stretched out as far as she could go, holding out the branch as Lula held tight to the halter.

“Grab it!” Jenny shouted. “Grab it, quick!”

Lula reached out to grab the branch, then let go of the ghost-horse’s halter. Slowly, slowly, Jenny backed up, drawing Lula into the safety of the shore where she lay on her side and coughed and sputtered into the grass.

Jenny paced and paced.

Your fault, Jenny. Your fault.

Jenny-Dog hated that thought. While Lula coughed and sputtered and wasn’t watching, Jenny turned her back and shook and shook and shook her head.

Your fault, Jenny. You almost lost her. Claimed you knew the river, golly-gawd!

“My hat,” Lula said from the ground, her voice raspy from coughing up the blood of Nisqually. “Dammit, my hat…”

Jenny cast about, grateful for something to do to drown out her guilt, and sure enough: the wide-brimmed hat had somehow floated itself into a calm little inlet not too far down where it rested against some reeds and watermint, waiting patiently.

A lucky hat, Jenny thought. Not sure I’ve ever seen the like of that.

She retrieved it, shook as much of the water off of it as she could, and brought it back to Lula, who held it tight against her chest as she shook and shivered like a wet cat.

Ellen stood over her, breathing softly against her hair, and Lula lifted a hand to stroke the horse’s nose even though her fingers passed right through.

“Thank you,” she said, first to Ellen and then to Jenny. “Thank you to you both. But should I find any more rivers on my journey south, I’ll be seeking out an honest-to-God bridge from now on, and I’ll thank you kindly not to forget that.”

*******

Jenny-girl always finds a safe place.

It was gathering dark. Jenny sniffed the air, still feeling stung by the betrayal of the river. Thought she could trust it, but no. Not even rivers stay trusty all along their length. Even rivers get greedy. Of course. Everything lies, at least once.

That’s why you’re better off alone, you ghoul!

Jenny-Dog sniffed the air again. There was a faint scent on the breeze, something both familiar and strange. She led Lula—shivering under her sodden patchwork coat—up the hillock on the other side of the river, up and up until they found a tree-lined highway in surprisingly good shape. And while normally Jenny would avoid the roads at all costs, she needed to find a safe and warm place for Lula to dry off and sleep comfortable. The road was a sure bet to find something.

Keeping to the shoulder, they followed the highway south a bit. The smell grew stronger and stronger, and it was soon followed by sound.

The sound of voices and music.

They rounded the bend and froze, stunned by the sight.

The road ahead wound through a small collection of buildings, and it was fully lit with electric streetlights. On the left side of the road—right up close to it—was an old yellow-painted two-storey building with a red plastic Coca-Cola sign blazing over its door like a beacon, incandescent lamplight spilling out of its windows with a golden glow. In the distance, through the trees, Jenny could see more lights coming from other homes and small outbuildings. And most shocking of all, no hum of generators.

This place was fully electrified.

It had been so long since Jenny had seen electric light without a generator that the effect was visceral. She felt exposed, like a prey animal, every nerve in her skin singing as if the electricity was hovering in the very air.

A small sign on the peeled-paint siding of the old yellow building said U.S. POST OFFICE, LA GRANDE, WASH.

“La Grande,” Jenny murmured. She’d never been here before, but she had heard the name. There was something about this place. Something she had known and forgotten. Something about the river.

She looked over at Lula. The fool girl was trembling, but her face was hopeful.

“Do you suppose there are people in there?” Lula asked.

Jenny grunted. It was obvious that there were people in there; that was the problem.

“I won’t go in,” she said, quick and automatic. I can’t go in. I can’t.

“I need to get warm, Jenny,” Lula said. “I have to go in.”

Jenny grunted again. It was true. Lula couldn’t sleep outside, not tonight.

She let the younger woman take the lead and walk up to the front door of the old post office building, which clearly wasn’t being used as a post office anymore. Through the wide windows they could see people moving around, sitting on upturned crates and old sofas, eating and laughing. There was a table in the corner where men were playing cards. Unlabeled beer bottles in worn, weathered hands. Somewhere in the back, a kitchen. Somewhere up the stairs, more chatter.

Lula knocked on the door. A woman broke off from the rest and approached the door, opening it with a wide smile. She was short and wiry with gray hair and a kind face.

“Please,” Lula said, “I’m traveling south, and I fell into the river. Could I—”

“Oh, you poor thing! You’re freezing!”

The woman drew Lula inside into the waiting arms of other women lingering by the door.

Jenny paused, looked over her shoulder at the tempting quiet of the outdoors, then held her breath and followed Lula into the building. She jumped like a rabbit when the door closed behind her.

Inside, it was hell. It was too loud. Too many bodies, all moving around. The old building had been turned into some kind of home or a meeting-place; Jenny wasn’t sure. Despite the open windows and screen door the air was thick and smelled like cooking and body odor. The electric lights seemed to buzz. Jenny held her flat palms over her eyes to shield against the glare of the too-bright lights.

“You’re lucky you came to us,” the woman was chattering to Lula, helping her out of her coat, taking her hat. “Real lucky.”

“The lights—” Lula started, but another woman cut her off.

“From the dam, dear. The river. We’ve had electricity all this time! So lucky!”

Jenny gritted her teeth. Their voices pierced her ears. She wanted to bite off her ring finger. It was the smell of tobacco that did it. Someone was smoking a cigarette.

That was the smell. That was the one she knew. It was a cigarette.

Panic began to close Jenny’s throat. The smell of it was a blade in an unwieldy hand.

No No No No

Wolf said!

“Poor thing,” clucked the women. “Poor thing!” They were all hands and doe-eyes and big skirts. They surrounded Lula and began to take care of her, ushering her away into a back room to help her with her clothes.

The men were playing cards, smoke pooling over their heads. They were smoking. Someone was smoking.

No no no no no

“You hear about it?” The men wheezed to each other like engines turning over, swigging from their unlabeled bottles, the sourdough smell of homemade beer. “You hear about Joinbass? Your hear how Louis Mickor? They’re workin’ their way south, through Yelm. They’re trying their best, angels be damned. Hope they stay away, the sumbitches. Leave us be.”

Jenny didn’t understand what they were talking about. It was nonsense. The men looked at her and she froze under their eyes like a doe. The air was all military green and smoky pink and that bastard electric gold. Her eyes ached.

“Stop it,” she said, and covered her eyes, and the men looked at her and they were all confused and a little afraid of her and that was good. She was happy about that. She laughed behind her hand—smash! And startled everyone in the room.

One of the men dipped his cigarette in the ashtray like he was an artist dabbing brush into paint. “You okay, ma’am?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, throwing her hands over her ears. “Bastard bastard bastard…”

The smell of the cigarette smoke was two fingers down her throat and a knife in a thick-calloused hand. Everyone was staring at her, now. Where was Lula?

Bastard!

She couldn’t do it. Jenny turned and shoved out of the door into the cold night air, retched up nothing into the dirt by the side of the road while Ellen the horse watched with a flicking tail.

*******

Not too long later, Lula came out to find her. It wasn’t much of a search; Ellen was nearby, standing like a pale flag beside Jenny’s sleeping-place.

She was curled tight under a spreading hemlock tree, reading her book without really reading it. She glanced up at Lula’s approach, then back down again, shame pooling in her cheeks. The girl’s dark hair was tied up in a ponytail and she was dressed in different clothes, too-big, borrowed. She had something in her hand.

“You coming back in?” Lula asked.

Jenny shook her head.

“It’s safe,” Lula said. “Good folks and generous, too. You could sleep inside.”

But Jenny just shook her head again. She couldn’t explain. How could she explain?

Lula sighed. She held out the thing in her hand. It was a plate covered in tinfoil with a fork resting on top of it.

“Tuna casserole,” she said. “It’s good. You should eat it.”

She set it on the ground near Jenny’s elbow. “Goodnight, then.”

Lula turned to leave. But before she did, she said, “You know it ain’t your fault. The river, and everything. It was my own fool fault for falling in, and you’re a good friend for fishing me out.”

If she hadn’t been so shamefaced, Jenny might have laughed behind her hand. How long had it been since someone called Jenny-Dog a good friend? Or a friend of any kind, for that matter?

“Sleep well, Jenny.”

Lula went back inside.

Jenny lay under the hemlock with her book on her chest and listened to the flow of the conversation rising and falling through the open window of the old post office, the cadence of laughter, bits and pieces of news and music. She tried to pick out Lula’s voice, but it was impossible in the chorus of everyone talking, the clanking of dishes, the shouts of consternation from the card game. It was like one animal with many parts.

She wondered if that was what a small town boiled down to, really. Or a city. Or a family. She wouldn’t know. Or at least she didn’t remember.

She glanced up at Ellen, but the horse was just looking at the stars, pale mane glistening in the secondhand glow of the electric lights.

Jenny-Dog ate the tuna casserole in hollow, wolfish bites, and tasted only loneliness.

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