The Captive, page 10
"That's why Mother carries those beads with the amulet on the string around her neck. She never takes it off." Vaire is whispering now. "She says it keeps the thing from changing."
Renee is staring at me now. And from inside I can feel Barry agonizing at being so close to his loved Renee, and even the ghost of Little Robert somewhere out of existence is crying for Vaire. It is most uncomfortable, for I cannot split my attention so many ways, and something awkward can happen at any moment. I use all my force to keep hold on my form. The love-crazed Barry would shift right before this crowd of people. He threatens me with torture, but I am able to keep him back by putting all my will behind it. The situation is distinctly uncomfortable. I feel Barry trying to reach out to Renee, and before I can organize defenses, he has pulled her and the little girl beyond the rope barrier so that they are standing very close to the cage, standing at the back of the truck within five feet of me. I find it hard to resist Barry who is turning my face toward her. Her eyes are somewhat glazed from the applied force, and the little girl is hopping up and down, saying, "Pick me up, Mommy, I can't see."
"Hey there, lady," I hear from the far side of the yard. The young man is walking fast in our direction, carrying his digging bar. "That there's a dangerous animal. Get back from his cage now."
She seems to be looking into Barry's eyes through my own. I feel merely an intermediary between these two humans, as if I have become no more than a transparent scrim which no longer hides the scene behind it as the stage lights go up. Her face becomes radiantas she sees something behind my eyes, and Barry projects into her mind, "Renee!"
"Here, lady,", the young man says, putting his dirt caked hands on Renee's shoulders. "You and the kid get back now. We can't take chances on somebody gettin' hurt. You know that bear killed my uncle."
He is taking them back to the rope barrier where he holds up the rope so they can duck under. Barry is watching through my eyes, so that again I feel almost as if I have shifted, quiescent and transparent to his will. For the moment it is agreeable to me, and I feel nothing dangerous can happen as long as I retain hold on my form. Renee, Mina, and Vaire are walking slowly around the end of the barn along the rope that guides people back to the parking lot in the pasture. I hear a few words before they get out of range.
"I believe you now."
"It's too fantastic. I'm going to think I'm crazy in a minute."
"Mommy, can we have a big pussy cat like that?"
"I keep thinking of someone I know, or knew."
"You mean that one you told me about?"
"Mommy! Can't we have a big pussy cat?"
And now theyhave moved beyond my hearing, past the end of the barn. I lie back in the roasting hot cage, letting the crowd sounds wash over me again. My eyes are slitted so that I am still watching the end of the barn where the two slender, beautiful women and the child have disappeared, watching that area as if over the sight of a rifle, the point of the front sight sticking up in the circle of my narrowed vision, my whole being aimed along the path they took in departing. And what strange vision is projected down that tunnel, a wish for acceptance, acknowledgement of self, some wild, half-crazy wish for the Family to include - me? I close my eyes.
Only some hours later in the cooling air of evening I realize that the point of the sight was real. It is the tip of the digging bar that the young man left leaning against the back of the truck when he came running to warn Renee away from my cage. And I believe that I can reach it.
Barry will not be restrained any longer, and perhaps it is best to be moving away from here. I am healed enough now to run at a good speed, and that is most important. We have been waiting for the family to go to sleep. I feel the old woman intermittently at her upper window and wonder if she never sleeps. She must relax her vigil sometime, and if she does not, I can block out her consciousness if I have to. The evening wears on. The last light in the house has gone out and the digging bar is still there, poking up like an iron lance, long and tough steel, something to work with. The guard is wandering around at the edge of the garden looking for a place to urinate. I cannot wait any longer. The old woman is gone from the window, and the chorus of tree frogs and crickets is building up a dense background of sound beneath the trees of the yard and out in the fence rows. Now the guard is back inside the door of the tool shed sitting on the old chair they have put there for him. He will go to sleep very fast now. I apply pressure of my will to his senses, and he blanks out, the rifle lying across his lap, his head hanging on his chest.
I reach out carefully by lying full length on the floor of the cage and stretching my best arm out through the slot they push the food pan through. Very carefully I wrap my claws around the top of the bar, raise it far enough to get a grip with my other claws, tip it, take another hold and I have it, sliding it in through the slot. I place it quietly along the side of the cage and begin examining each welded place along the bottom edge of the cage, feeling at close range with my spatial sense for the thickness, the hardness, the ridges of metal, the tiny openings where the weld has not quite bridged between the two pieces of iron. Here is one. The one next to it might break, might not. The next one is very weak, the metal building up in a ridge around the end of the bar but not fused to the floor. I must bend two of the bars up to get out, bend them outward if I can. I listen, extend my spatial sense. No one but the sleeping guard and the dogs beneath the truck snoring and having dreams of rabbits. I take the bar and angle it between the stronger bar and the weakest one, move my claws to the far end of the bar and get ready. I want a clean snap, not a lot of noise. I concentrate all my force on the movement I am about to make, take a breath, concentrate on my claws and snap the bar hard. The digging bar bends like lead, but the cage bar has already snapped free from the bottom of the cage with a loud ping. Easy! The next one won't be so easy because the digging bar is bent and the cage bar is stronger. I fit the digging bar in so that I will be pulling against the bend. Awkward. If it turns in my hand, I am liable to pull a muscle. I get it wedged as tight as I can, pull slowly, this time so that the bar begins to straighten, keep the force applied so it won't slip, take a breath and snap it.
Another loud ping, and another cage bar has come loose, but it is the one I was using for leverage, not the tight one. Now I have two bars loose, but they are not next to each other. Inside me, Barry is fuming and ranting uselessly. I order him silent so we can concentrate all on the task. I examine the next bar along with my spatial sense. Possible. Wedge the digging bar in again, more awkward this time because the bar has a doublebend now, not bending back in the same place, but bending farther along so that it resembles a stylized S. Pull on it to test. Maybe. Repeat the act. Ping, and another bar is loose at the bottom, two of them next to each other, so that now I have only to bend them upward. I pull as far as the digging bar will go to give the bar a starting bend. The iron is soft, bends more easily than the digging bar. I have a start, and now it is easier. Now we will see how well the arms have healed. I grasp the one bar in both claws, wrap them around the iron and pull upward. It moves! I am bending it! There, one bent. Now the other, and I am exultant at the prospect of freedom. I grasp the other.
Oh no! Not again. But I sense her this time before she is even close. The tall woman with the shotgun. She is not driving up this time, but stalking along the line of trees beside the road. She is at the very limit of my perception, coming very quietly, carrying the shotgun at hunter's ready. I pull up on the other bar a bit too violently, wrenching a muscle in my sore arm, but it matters little. I lie on the iron floor for the last time and wriggle out through the opening. One of the dogs wakes, but before he can make a sound I silence him with a joyful burst of will that puts him hard asleep. I do the same for the other dog, keep the figure of the woman fixed in my spatial perception, leap down and creep around the end of the truck. I feel about for other life, but even the old woman upstairs must be asleep. The clouds hang heavy tonight, so the moon is hidden. I sprint across the hard packed dirt of the yard, wanting, just for the joy of it, to leap over the new fence they have put up, but holding off for fear my leg will not take it. Freedom and the ability to run again is like the bursting of alcohol in my system. I feel a great smile stretching my jaws, hear Barry exulting inside me, taste the cool night air with delight and feel my muscles responding again. I had not believed that the cage was so injuring me, but now I know that without Barry's urging I would have given up the idea of escape until it was too late, until I had succumbed to the kind of apathy that steals the will to live, makes the cage and its hideous, slothful, slow death the rationalized safe place, the accepted death in life. I slip behind the trees, waiting for the woman.
As her tall, angular figure approaches through the trees, I am surprised to hear her whispering. "This time, devil beast, this time you're dead. You're going to pay for Martin, the best man in the world, my man. You pay this time, this time down to hell, demon, monster."
I wait, feeling strangely frightened as she approaches. She is an aging woman carrying a shotgun. Surely nothing to fear. But she wears the amulet, one like Charles had that kept me from shifting. I wonder in something close to panic if she will be able to keep me from touching her, and if I will have no choice when close to her, no power, so that she will indeed get me this time. I had not considered the power of the amulet. For a brief moment I wonder what it can be to have such power, but this is not the time for such debilitating worries. She will pass within ten feet of me.
She is close, so close I can smell her body, the familiar smell that weakens me with the love Little Robert had for her, but there is something else. I cannot touch her, I know. And I flatten my body against the tree trunk, hoping she does not look toward me, for I know that I can only stand and be killed if she sees me. The power is very great. As she passes on her way toward the yard where the empty cage stands on its truck, I begin to be able to think again. Well, then someone else must take it from her. I reach out for the guard where he sleeps in the door of the tool shed, wake him. He comes awake, grabs his rifle, and I reach out to touch the dogs with my will, waking them with a stinging command. They both leap up and begin barking at the same moment, too soon! The woman is still at the edge of the trees. She is looking at the cage and not seeing the familiar shape in it, perhaps able to see the bent bars, but probably not in the cloudy darkness. I move silently in the trees behind her.
"I can take it from her," Barry's voice says.
I'm not sure you can move on your leg yet. I tell him, anxious to keep him back so that I can think.
"Let me try," he says.
And let you break it all over again?
"You can't get the amulet," he says. "I can."
And suddenly I catch his repressed thought. Barry, I say with a smile, I'm surprised at you, trying to trick your old buddy. For I have caught the flicker of Barry's plan. He would indeed take the amulet from Aunt Cat. Yes, and wear it around his own neck so that, like Charles, he can keep his form, keep me from shifting back. You must rest, Barry, I say, pushing him back firmly.
I concentrate on the guard, take his mind and lead him around the other side of the shed. I must operate him as if he were my own body. I have him drop the rifle in the weeds and dash along the back fence into the trees beyond the barn. Now he can circle around behind her. He is making good progress as she stands at the last tree peering at the truck, trying to make out if I am lying down or if I have been removed. I hear her whispering, "Come out, demon, come out, demon. I will send you home." The man is less than twenty yards from her now. If she sees him, she may kill him. I concentrate on his perceptions, aiding them with my own as he sneaks up behind her. In another part of my mind I sense people moving about in the house. The damn dog barkings have wakened someone. Aunt Cat has not moved. The guard, feeling where she is through my perceptions, is close. He runs to another tree so that now he can almost leap far enough. She turns. I have him wait until she starts back toward me, then as she passes his tree he leaps, trying to get the shotgun. He has the barrels in his hand, ducking under the end as he pulls on them, and both barrels go off over his head. Poor devil, I am thinking, your hearing won't be good for a while. She had her finger inside the trigger guard. Desperate woman! Now he has her on the ground, and she is wrestling with him. She is strong. He is fumbling about at her neck for the string of beads. She realizes what he is doing and gets her knee into his groin. He hollers and rears back, but he has his hand on the beads, and they come with him, spilling out across the ground, and as he doubles up in agony and Aunt Cat reaches out wildly trying to grab the amulet, I feel it is gone from her person, lost in the leaves somewhere.
I run forward, scoop the woman up and tuck her under my good arm. The guard is rolling on the ground with his back to us in the dark as I move away through the trees carrying the squirming, cursing woman under one arm, keeping her flailing hands in a tight grasp with my other hand while her feet kick against my leg. It is not hard to find her car, and when I am in the back seat and she in the driver's seat, I take some measure of control and have her drive us away into the night.
Barry is being impatient again.
"Where is she driving?"
To the farm, I answer, her farm.
"Goddammit," he screams. "We're out. Go north. I have to see Renee."
You must wait, Barry, I answer him, trying to mollify his intensity with good sense. This woman is dangerous, and she will continue so if we leave her like this. We must talk with her.
Barry curses and wants to come out, trying to force me out of my form. I speak harshly to him. Stop it, you fool! You want your woman. I want you to have her. It is my plan also, fool! I want to be safe to enjoy a life without watching every corner for a crazy woman with a shotgun.
He is silent. Then he agrees and I hear nothing more. The car bumps along over the dirt until it makes a final hard jolt up onto the paved highway and slews to the right. After perhaps half an hour, I perceive the farm, its outlines familiar as the face of a relative, a parent. In the night it might seem nothing had changed in the past year.
Chapter 5
I follow the tall woman toward the farm house. Dawn is graying the sky and in the chicken house the roosters are fumbling awake, separating themselves from their sleeping fat women, making ready the morning call that will bring the sun. The back porch, the steps, the kitchen-dining room with the old oak table that is still too big for two people. Aunt Cat lights a lamp and sets it on the small kitchen work table and we sit. For the first time she sees me fully in my natural form, and although I retain some control over her actions now to keep her from stabbing me with a kitchen knife or something equally inept, I release her mind. While she sits and looks at me in the lamplight, I muse on my childhood in this kitchen, the short childhood I had with Martin, that good man, and Aunt Cat, who now has tried earnestly to kill me. The round braided rug is still on the floor in front of the stove, and the kitchen still has that air of warmth and that loving, harmonious quality that first drew me to the farm, to this family. There is, even without Martin being alive, some force of his still present, as if this wife retains even after his death some of what their love has created between them as a third and encompassing entity, something, I suppose, that she will never entirely lose.
"Why did you come here?" Aunt Cat says quietly, her hands on the table top in a pose that reminds me of that day long ago when the strangers filled the kitchen with anger and then death. I know she doesn't mean this night, but why, at all.
I am of your family. You adopted me.
"You are a demon."
I am not evil. I choose not to be evil. I feel uncomfortable sitting in a chair. In my natural form, I am not constructed for sitting. I cannot prevent accidents.
"If you had not appeared, that man would not have shot Martin," she says, holding her head up in the light as if to keep tears from spilling.
I study her homely face, the eyes that are Renee's and Vaire's eyes, that make her face warm and intelligent, even in her despondency and madness. Her hair is more gray now, and she has cut it in a short style instead of piling it up on her head in a kerchief as she had done. It makes her look older.
I am sorry. I loved Martin, I say, easing myself by getting off the chair and crouching down next to the cold stove. I was young then, and I had imperfect control.
"You were young?"
Little Robert was young. I was young.
"What are you?" The woman does not desire to move. She is heavy with despondency and a sense of defeat. I release my control of her body. It makes me uncomfortable to hold her in that way.
I am a living being, like you.
"Not like a human," she says with repugnance. "You are a beast, and so you must be an evil demon that can change shape as you do. Nothing but an unholy creature could do that." She puts her hands in her lap and leans forward. "You are afraid of the Indian charm. You could not touch me when I wore it." Her eyes are gleaming with madness again.
That is true.
"Then you are a demon." She leans back, folds her arms, a smile playing about the corners of her wide mouth. "If I had another amulet, I would put a stake through your heart, destroy you with holy spells." Her face glows in the lamp light.
I'm sure the stake would be sufficient, I say amiably, but if you want to think like that, why not consider yourself the devil and me the poor holy creature who is destroyed by your evil?
"The devil may quote scripture to his town ends," she says, sneering.
I remember the preacher who spoke the morning Little Robert went to church with the Woodsons, I say, trying to recall his words as well as I recall the bad feeling he gave my stomach. He spoke of punishment instead of God, threats instead of goodness. He seemed more like a devil than I.
"You're just a poor innocent bear, or cat, whatever you are," she says. She holds her hands out to me as if offering me her sympathy. "You are an impossible thing!" She grits her teeth in rage, her mood shifting suddenly so that I almost expect her to shift into another form, so great is the transformation. "I don't believe you exist, and here I am sitting in my own kitchen talking to you as if you were a - a person."
