The Marsh King's Daughter(70)

“Frogs aren’t—”

Calypso put a finger to her lips.

“The full moon had already risen,” Cousteau continued, “and was shining in all her radiant splendor over the Earth, when from the thicket, in the form of a frog, crept poor Helga. She stood still by the corpse of the Christian priest and the carcass of the dead horse. She looked at them with eyes that seemed to weep, and from the frog’s head came forth a croaking sound, as when a child bursts into tears.”

“So you see, her evil nature is strong,” Calypso said, “but her good nature is stronger. This is what the story teaches. Will you let your good nature win? Will you take your mother away?”

I nodded. My legs were stiff from sitting. We stood up and stretched and went into the kitchen to collect my mother’s coat from the hook by the door, along with her boots, hat, and mittens.

“Are we leaving?” my mother asked as we laid out her winter gear on her bed.

“We are,” I told her. Calypso put her arm behind my mother’s shoulders and helped her sit up. Cousteau swung her legs over the side of the bed. I knelt on the floor and put her boots on her feet, then worked her good arm into her coat sleeve and zipped the coat shut over the sling.

“Can you stand up?”

“I’ll try.” She put her right hand on the bed and pushed. Nothing happened. I wrapped her arm around my neck and put my other arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled, but stayed standing.

“We need to hurry,” I said.

My father wouldn’t be back for several hours if he didn’t shoot a deer today. He would come back much sooner if he did.

I helped my mother to the kitchen. She was so weak, I didn’t know how we were going to get her on the snowmobile, though I didn’t tell her that.

“I’m sorry, Helena,” she said between gasps. Her face was white. “I have to sit down. Just for a minute.”

I wanted to tell her that she could rest after she got on the snowmobile, that my father could be on his way home even now, that every minute we delayed might make all the difference, but I didn’t want to scare her. I pulled out a chair. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” As if she was going anywhere without us.

Cousteau, Calypso, and I stood on the porch and looked out over the yard. There was no sign of my father.

“Do you understand?” Cousteau asked as we descended the porch steps and crossed the yard to the woodshed. “Do you know what you have to do? The priest sacrificed himself so that Helga could be saved.”

“You have to save yourself and your mother,” Calypso said. “This is what The Hunter would tell you if he could.”

We stopped in the doorway. The woodshed smelled as bad as a wendigo’s breath. Urine and feces; death and decay. The Hunter’s broken arm was swollen and black. His shirt was ripped and his chest was so caked with blood and pus, I could no longer read the words my father had written. His head hung to the side. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow and ragged.

I went inside. I wanted to thank The Hunter for what he did for my mother and me. For bringing us the snowmobile so we could leave the marsh, for giving me the opportunity to return my mother to her parents, for telling me the truth about my mother and father.

I said his name. Not the name my father called him, but his real name.

He didn’t answer.

I looked back toward the doorway. Cousteau and Calypso nodded. Calypso was crying.

I thought again about all of the things my father would do to The Hunter when he came back and discovered that my mother and I were gone. I took my knife from its sheath.

I remembered to stand to the side.





25





The rain has stopped. I’m trying to figure out if I can use this to my advantage. I realize that sounds desperate. That’s because I am. My father killed four men in twenty-four hours. Unless I figure out a way to stop him, my husband is going to be the fifth.

We’re less than a mile from my house. Just ahead is the beaver pond. Beyond that, the wetland, the grassy meadow that borders our property, and the chain-link fence surrounding our backyard that was supposed to keep my family safe and predators out.

I am in the lead. My father covers me with my Magnum from behind. The handguns he took from the dead prison guards are tucked in the waistband of his jeans. I’m walking as slowly as I can. It’s not nearly slow enough. I’ve run through my options a dozen times, which didn’t take long, because there aren’t many. I can’t use misdirection and lead my father away from my house, because my father knows exactly where to go. I can’t overpower him and grab one of the three handguns, because I’ve been cuffed and shot.

There’s only one option that could conceivably work. The deer trail we’re following hugs the edge of a high cliff. At the bottom is the creek that drains the beaver pond. As soon as we come to a place that’s relatively clear of trees, I’m going to throw myself off. It has to be a place with a steep slope where I will tumble all the way down so that when my father sees me lying motionless in the creek at the bottom, he’ll conclude I’m too injured to climb up or dead and go on without me.

Diving headfirst off a cliff and rolling down a hill with a wounded shoulder is going to hurt. A lot. But if I’m going to fool my father, the fall has to look real. Something big and dramatic. Something that involves genuine risk. Something where I might actually die. My father will never suspect a trick because he can’t imagine that anyone would be willing to sacrifice herself for her family.