04. || as it was.

River would never admit that the lynx had clawed his way under their skin, but they buttoned and unbuttoned four flannels before finally settling on one that was hunter green. They tucked the front shirttails into a pair of umber trousers with worn out knees, then buckled a leather belt around their hips; its design hand-beaded by an Onödowága woman from the Rez just north a piece, and the leather tooled by River themself. For safety's sake, they left their hunting belt and hatchet hanging in the bedroom corner with the rifle. The bone-handle knife in the pocket of their jacket would do just fine in a pinch.

There was no specific plan for tonight, but River preferred it that way. As always, the only goal was to uphold their end of the bargain. And being that the moon was full, the demon was hankering for something far tastier than the occasional pine squirrel that scampered across her branches.

But the Ghost Cat's warning about the gas company weighed heavy on River's mind, along with, yes, the comment about not remembering how to talk to a woman 'cause sure, it'd been awhile. So River swept their hair back as neatly as they could and tied half into a bun. If luck would have it, they'd be able to kill both them birds with one stone tonight.

As River drove down the dirt road, they slowed when the strange woman's cabin came into view. In the daylight, you'd only know it was there if you already knew it was there with the way it blended in with the pines. And at night, it just seemed like empty black space, a hole through the trees. But for the first time in a good many years, amber light glowed through the windows and River could see right inside.

They knew they should keep their foot to the pedal and not rubberneck, but they did anyway 'cause there was something about that woman that rubbed them some kinda way. It wasn't a particularly bad feeling, though not quite good, just... familiar. Which is why River insisted on continuing to refer to her as the strange woman to quash any of those kinda thoughts from their head.

There was a stir of movement inside the cabin as the woman dragged an old tin wash tub over to the wood burning stove. Huddling close, she reached back to unbutton her dress and River knew then it was past time to go. Their foot hit the gas a little too hard, kicking up mud and gravel and surely the woman heard it, but River didn't take their eyes off the dirt road 'til they were twenty minutes down the mountain, turning onto Triple 6 and into town.

The Deer Jaw was the kind of mountain-town tavern where no one looks up when you walk in, but everyone notices you all the same. Local folks filled most of the seats at the bar while the crystalline voice of Emmylou Harris crooned through the speakers, singing how the bottle let her down, offset by the crack of billiards along the back.

River shrugged out of their dark suede jacket and draped it over their usual stool in the corner. But before they could take a seat, an Old Fashioned slid across the maple bar-top in front of them; its ice clinked softly against the glass.

River glanced up, but Blaire had already moved down to the other end of the bar, tending to some jack-offs in popped collar shirts. Taking the orange peel from the drink, River ran it along the lip of the glass and took a sip, studying the outsiders as the whiskey ran smooth down their throat. It wasn't unusual for backpackers or campers to stumble their way into the Deer Jaw, it was the only bar from here to the dam, but the pressed crisp edges of their shirts suggested them boys hadn't been roughing it all day—or ever.

Blaire leaned forward, wiping at nothing in particular along the bar while she laughed at whatever nonsense they were telling her. Locks of strawberry blonde hair rolled down her back in waves, curled just hours before with a half rack of Yuengling—a backwoods blowout, she called it. She subscribed to a modern notion of the bigger the hair, the closer to God, but how she managed to pile twelve cans atop her head to get them big Christian curls never ceased to amaze River. Neither did her ability to angle herself just so, using what she was born with to work a fat tip from any fool who thought he had a chance.

A heavy hand clapped River on the shoulder and they didn't need to look up to know whose it belonged to.

"Buy you a drink, Sheriff?"

"Not tonight," Sheriff Holden sidled next to River as he surveyed the bar. "I'm here for business. Got a brand new Mercedes down over Devil's Elbow, registered to some Kennedy outta state."

"No body?" River asked curiously, eyes fixed back to Blaire.

"Not a-one, but a whole mess of blood."

River chuckled as they mindlessly rubbed the orange peel around the glass. "Well, forgive me, Sheriff, but I highly doubt they crawled their way up Ol' Kinzua and down Triple 6 for a libation."

"You're an ass, River, you know that?" Sheriff Holden gave a gentle elbow to River's side. "I figured I'd check in with our newest visitors and see if the car belonged to anyone in their crew." The sheriff nodded towards the clowns in polos. "Their family owns the fracking company that's in town."

River plunked the orange peel back into the amber liquid. "You don't say."

"You oughta talk to 'em. I'm sure they'd offer you a pretty penny for access to that ol' holler. Who knows what's still lying below." Sheriff Holden watched as River downed the rest of the whiskey, then followed their eyes to the strawberry blonde focal point. "Maybe get you enough cash for a nice place closer to town."

Blaire began to head their way with another Old Fashioned in hand, but remained steadfast in her decision not to make eye contact with River as she set it down in front of them. "Evening, Sheriff." She smiled, angling herself away from River with a true cold shoulder to reach below the bar. "The usual?"

Sheriff Holden took a beat to glance between Blaire and River before finding his voice. "Oh, no ma'am. But if you don't mind me asking, have you heard anyone talking about a white Mercedes? Found one dumped over the cliff near the dam."

"We talkin' a car or that nice girl from Busty's you boys pretend not to know when your wives are around?"

River disguised a laugh with a cough as the sheriff flushed three shades of pink. "A car, ma'am."

Blaire shook her head. "I'll keep an ear out. But you know most folks can't even afford to rent a Benz, let alone dump one." She turned to look over her shoulder. "Not folks around here, at least."

The sheriff tipped his hat and excused himself to go talk to the new patrons, leaving no buffer between River and Blaire. At this point, River expected her to dart away to polish some glasses that needn't be cleaned, but she lingered instead, dipping her head like she might say something.

And that something was starting to look like it may be an apology, and that wasn't what River wanted 'cause it wasn't Blaire's fault. Their love, if you'd dare call it that, was nothing more than collateral damage from the curse unbeknownst to Blaire. So River downed the second drink without tasting it, knowing that would piss her off right-quick and she wouldn't spare another moment feeling guilty for saying what she needed to say all those months ago.

But in that same moment, the sheriff waved goodnight and a woman slipped past him in the doorway, taking the barstool next to River. A dress that might've been a dog's hair longer than Blaire's shorts exposed her bare thigh which grazed River's knee, though she didn't spin away. She was neither local nor a stranger to the bar, but her name didn't come to mind.

"Can I get you somethin'?" Blaire asked a little harsher than surely what she intended, but again, that wasn't all her fault.

"Whatever he's having." The woman nodded to River. "Make it two."

And two became maybe six after a while, but River wasn't counting; they were just busy listening to the woman talk about her upcoming trophy hunt this weekend up at the lodge 'cause what the Ghost Cat didn't know about women, and people in general, is that some just need listened to instead. Then her hand slipped to River's thigh and head tipped to the restrooms.

As much as River had enjoyed the distraction, they needed to talk to Blaire. Time was moving quick tonight and there were dues yet to pay. With a sigh, they cupped her hand. "Maybe some other time."

She didn't seem the kind to get rejected often so it showed on her face pretty well. She removed her hand and finished her drink before getting up to relocate to the other end of the bar, but as she leaned over the counter to say something to Blaire, a flash of light beneath her dress caught River's attention. The taller of the two jack-offs drew back his phone, shielding the screen to show the other.

River threw back the last of their drink, then loosened the top buttons of their shirt, uncuffed the wrists, and stood up from the bar. That's of course when Blaire decided she'd finally make eye contact.

"River."

River smacked the phone from the boy's hand and shoved him against the wall. Another inch to the left and a little mounted six-point rack of antlers would've crowned his head. Instead, he knocked down a stupid photo of the dam construction. He laughed something ugly, dropping his eyes the length of River as the other boy tried to yank them back.

"Delete it," River warned, leaning back into him.

"River Hawthorne, if you raise a fist in my bar..." But this wasn't the first time and Blaire didn't bother to finish her empty threat as she slid over the bar. She pushed her way in between all three of them, apologizing to the boys. "Your Jägerbombs are on the house tonight, Brad," Blaire said over her shoulder as she corralled River back towards their stool. "You tryin' to get my attention or hers?"

River should've just told her what he did, but another anger boiled over in its place. "Jedidiah's leasin' that old scald to them fracking fiends you're getting mighty close to."

"I know, I signed off on it." Her tongue was sharp, but after a moment her eyes softened. "I need the money, Riv. You know I—"

"You sell your soul with that deal too?" River stormed towards the door, not bothering to grab their jacket.

"Keys," Blaire called out as she chased them down.

"I'm just goin' for a walk."

"Keys, River. Now."

River turned back around, digging into their pocket. The only people foolish enough to be looking their way were them jack-offs in the back. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Tossing the car keys to Blaire, River pushed open the door into the night.

Fog had already settled thick in the belly of the valley surrounding the Deer Jaw and high overhead the Hunter's Moon lit up the oiled road. Walking along the shoulder of Triple 6, River kept their back to the bar, kicking stone chips farther away from town. With just seven buildings and a couple houses on the main stretch, you could hardly call it a town, but that's what the sign said when River passed it.

As they were nearing an old logging road that turned up towards the woods, bright white headlights washed around them. They stepped farther off the shoulder towards the ditch to let the car pass, but its wheels crunched against the loose chips and asphalt as it slowed behind. Had it been Blaire chasing after them in her truck or even in River's jeep, she'd have called out. Either vehicle would be much louder too. As it was, the car purred quietly behind like a cat toying with its prey and River knew then it'd do no good to turn around.

Instead, they picked up their pace and hooked a right onto the logging road. And a road it was barely, all rutted and pitted, inches thick with mud. Only the loggers used it these days and you'd have to be an idiot to try to take a front-wheel drive up it after the wet autumn they've had, but the headlights beamed over River again as the car turned sharply onto the road.

River sprinted straight up the middle to avoid slogging through the mud and maybe they should've taken a chance to hightail it through the woods at a zig zag, but the mountain's boundary was near. Not far behind them, the car's engine revved as it fought the mud to go uphill 'til finally the wheels spun out with a splat, going nowhere and sinking to a stop. River glimpsed over their shoulder to laugh as the jack-offs tried to gun it again, knowing they were only sinking deeper. The smell of burnt rubber caught the breeze, making the trees cringe, and River turned back to continue up the hill, but two car doors slammed against the night.

While them boys might not have been hikers, they were closing the gap fast, fueled by a darkness not born in these woods; some kinda hate River had never come to understand. Taking turns to hurl slurs up the mountain, they argued between howling dyke and fag before finally compromising on just, "C'mere, queer."

As they reached a bend in the road, the earth shuddered with a quake, knocking River down. They dug their fingertips into the mud, scrambling forward to get their feet back under, but a heavy boot caught the side of their ribs. Struggling to catch their breath, River's hand shot to their pocket, but the bone-handle knife was back at the bar with their jacket. As they raised their head from the ground, knuckles cracked against their nose; another heel to the ribs stole their next couple breaths. Blood pooled hot around their tongue.

"Check him for a gun," the taller boy said as he rested his boot atop River's hip. "Mountain trash love their second amendment."

"What do ya know," the other muttered, patting down River's chest. "So you are a girl."

River spat a lipful of blood in his face, making him reel away, but the boot that'd been pinning River down soon met the side of their head with a swift kick.

Everything went white hot for a second and River's bloodied mind went way back to when they were just knee high to a toad trying to play mousey with the barn cat down the road. They were whipping a stick so fast in the tall grass that the cat couldn't keep up, and instead, it wandered farther away. River belly-crawled closer, trying again, when the miller's wife happened to walk by.

"You have to let the cat get it every once in a while or he loses interest, River."

She gathered her dress and knelt next to River, taking their hand to slow them down and catch the cat's attention once again. Together, they slithered the stick through the weeds as the cat lowered itself in the grass, wiggled its haunches, then pounced.

The miller's wife laughed and pinched River's cheek with a playful squeeze. "Good girl."

As River opened their eyes again, the Hunter's Moon shined bright in the sky through a familiar tree clearing and the spring trickled steady in their ear. A pair of sweaty hands tugged to unbuckle their belt, but River only laughed as the rumble of roots beneath the ground tickled their back. The muddied logging road they'd fallen on just moments ago was now a bed of pine needles. River could never make sense of it, whether the trees lifted their roots to walk or the boundary bounced them back to the cursed hollow, but the mountain had shifted and them boys hadn't a damn clue.

"She's laughing, Brad. She's fucking into this kinda shit."

"I told you she's a freak," Brad replied from some distance away. In that same direction, the little thornberry tree groaned in the breeze. "Did you hear that?"

The other boy loosened his grip and turned his head towards Brad. "It's just the trees. Branches rubbing together or something."

Or something was mostly right. River curled their fingers around the strange woman's walking stick that shouldn't have still been there in the leaves, but was there no less. As the boy turned back, River struck his skull, cracking it open like a soft-boiled dippy egg and he collapsed against them in a heap. Warm, yolky bits of his brain started to run over River's belly, down to the ground, and that really got the roots below all riled up. Wriggling out from under him, River watched as the light left his eyes.

Brad backed away as River stood up with the stick in hand. The end of it glistened wet with blood and brain yolk in the moonlight.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," River warned, but no one ever listened.

Brad continued to back away 'til his spine hit the trunk of the little thornberry. As he tried to turn, she wrapped her branches around him, pinning him in place. Red seeped through his stark white polo as hundreds of thorns pierced his chest, his neck, his cheeks, and it was probably best that he kept his eyes closed 'cause her woody needles were mighty close. He yelped and hollered, struggling to break free, but he may as well been wrestling with barbed wire. She was the most stubborn of the three thornberries in the grove and there wasn't much that could change her mind.

"Help." His voice scratched raw like he'd swallowed some of them thorns.

"Now, Brian—or everwhat the hell your name is, did you delete that picture like I asked?" River tossed the walking stick down and stepped over the other boy's body to approach, but Brad was quiet. "Aye, didn't think so."

"My phone," he choked out, "it's in my pocket. Just take it. Keep it."

As River carefully reached between the thorned branches that roped him in place, he began to squirm again, tearing himself open to bleed like a stuck pig, but River retrieved the phone without a scratch. Pushing the side button, they swiped up, needing a fingerprint to open.

"If you don't mind..." River reached down for Brad's hand, but he clenched it to a fist.

With an irritated sigh, River looked to the branch above. Borrowing a two inch thorn from the little tree, they sunk its woody needle in between his taut wrist tendons and his hand sprung open like a damn jack-in-the-box as he let out a blood-curdling scream that probably just sounded like a ghost cat to anyone who might've heard. Wiping Brad's pointer finger clean against his polo, River pressed it to the phone, though it took a few tries 'cause he was trembling something awful, but it finally buzzed open.

"Thank you," River murmured as they tapped the photo roll. "Brian, you have an entire folder dedicated to upskirts and what—" Some other non-consensual photos popped up and River had seen enough. They shook their head as they purged the phone and pocketed it.

"What do you want? Money?" Brad's tears ran into a mess of blood and snot down his pale white face. "We're rich. I'll never tell a soul."

"Well, I wasn't gonna rob you, but now that you mention it, I do believe you owe my dear friend Blaire a generous tip." River removed his wallet and took out five crisp hundreds. They folded them nicely and slipped them into the pocket of their flannel, tucking the wallet back into his pocket.

Brad started bucking and arching then like a pissed off bull, spattering and spraying blood this way and that, and for a second it looked like he may rip free from that little thornberry so River got right to it.

Wiping the fresh blood from under their own nose, River drew over Brad's shirt the inverted triangle with its three nesting crescents atop. The little thornberry gave out what you'd call a sigh if a tree could do such a thing and she released the boy to collapse at her trunk. Brad tried to lunge forward, but River sidestepped and toed it back a foot.

Exposed roots slithered across the pine needles, finding their intended target with no trouble. A bulge rippled beneath his shirt, then a burst of root erupted through his chest. Constricting his neck, it split off like arteries to find every orifice, forcing its way inside to tug his body back to its gnarled, mangled trunk.

River then walked over to the other boy and marked him the same.

With their end of the bargain fulfilled for the month, River turned to head home, but a woman's voice coming from the split in the hemlock trunk sent ice down their spine.

"Mmm... Good girl."