17. || i wish i was.

Supper had come together effortlessly with both Finley and River prepping and cooking in unison. Fresh sweet rolls, roasted jerusalem artichokes, carrots, and kale covered the table along with two perfectly seared backstraps of venison in a whiskey glaze, and of course, Finley’s buttermilk apple pie. Homemade wine and moonshine filled their glasses as they toasted to Béla, and River shared their stories of working in the mine as a kid.

“How did you even end up working there?” Finley asked as she eyed up the last slice of venison.

“Well…” River reached across the table with their fork and stabbed it, but stretched farther to place it on her plate, then poured her another glass of wine. “Don’t even try to tell me you’re full.”

Finley gently shook her head as she picked up her knife, waiting for River to continue.

“When the miller’s wife brought me home, she promised her husband she’d put me to work around the farm and sometimes that meant just havin’ me run down to the store for supplies. Bein’ a company town, there was no exchange of money, I just picked up a sack of whatever she needed and they wrote it down. Well, I made the mistake of addin’ on a piece of candy one day ‘cause I didn’t know better and figured Mr. Stonebraker would never know neither, especially if I gobbled it down on the two miles back to the farm.

“But of course he did. And he started whoopin’ on me, grabbed up my waist-length hair and took the sheep shears to it. Told me I wasn’t worth my keep, that at least a real boy could go work. He hated that his wife let me run around in boy’s knickers and bibs. She said he hurt me just to get to her, but in spite of him, she cleaned up the choppy mess on my head and cut up some of her own skirts to make new trousers for me and sent me to the mine with the mule. Said he wasn't wrong and that the mountain had big plans for us.” River chuckled and took a long sip of moonshine. “Boy, was she ever right.”

Finley wanted to ask more about their family and what they meant by the wife bringing them home, but decided against it as she took another sip of the wildberry wine.

“My sweetheart’s the mule in the mine,” River sang out, thumping their fist with a beat. “I drive her without reins or lines. On the bumper, I sit, I chew and I spit, all over my sweetheart’s behind.”

Snorting, Finley choked on her drink. “That’s awful, River.”

“Well, it was awful work,” they laughed. “I think I made maybe fifty cents a day at the most. And it all went to the company store under the miller’s account. I never saw a damn dime. Although, he didn’t starve me too bad and the barn was warm most of the time so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”

The lynx who had eaten most of his meal under the table now hopped onto the chair between them, begging for more. <And sleepin’ with his wife wasn't so bad neither.>

Finley looked up from cutting him a piece of meat as River dumped him off the chair. “You slept with his wife?”

They nodded, swallowing another long swig of moonshine. “Young and dumb.”

Pawing at her thigh, the lynx looked up at her again with those big, round, silver eyes and she slipped him the last bite of venison. “Will he let me pet him?”

The smile returned to River's face as they peered down at him. “Oh, he’d love that.”

Love wasn’t quite the right word, but the lynx tolerated her and even purred a little as she scratched behind his ear. Through his thick, silky fur, the red garnet on her finger began to brighten, but she was focused elsewhere.

Lit only by candlelight and oil lamps, River’s face flickered in and out of the shadows; their eyes both warm and ever mysterious tonight. But there was something delicate in their voice with way they spoke of the miller’s wife, a sort of cautious devotion that Finley recognized all too well and far too late in her ownself.

The lynx headbutted her knee, stealing her attention. “Does he have a name?”

“Not for me to give, but gimme a sec.” River stood up and went over to the fireplace in the living room, returning with a mischievous glint in their dark eyes. “Open your hand.” Reluctantly, Finley obliged and River placed a hooked claw the size of a quarter in her palm. “Now, ask him.”

A growl rumbled in the lynx’s throat as she looked down at him. “Why do you have his claw? He doesn’t seem too happy about it.”

“Course he’s not. He got caught in a trap, but lucky for him, I found him before the infection spread and he lost his whole paw. Now, just ask him for his name.”

Finley looked over the claw, then down at him. With it in her possession, he’d have to give her his true name if she asked, just like Buckmouse. Or so the old story went. “Can I have your name?”

The lynx thumped his bobbed tail against the hardwood as his eyes narrowed. <Ignatius.>

“See?” River pointed at the wildcat who looked less than amused. “Told ya he speaks.”

Finley rubbed under his chin, getting a good loud purr out of him this time. Even the lynx seemed surprised by the sound that came from himself. “Well Iggy, if River says that’s you talking, I’m really in no place to deny it. After all, I had a full-on conversation with a bony, twenty-one point, Not-Deer named Buckmouse last night.”

River pinched the crooked bridge of their nose as Finley tried to hand the claw back to them. “Just keep it,” they mumbled. “You’ll likely need him more than me.”

Running her thumb over the claw, she looked down at the lynx once more before tucking it into her boot.

The sweet aroma of baked apples still lingered in the air as they began to clean up. Little was leftover, but River insisted Finley take home everything that was for any midnight hankerings, aside from a couple slices of pie. Those, River kept for themself.

“You actually like to cook, huh?” River asked as they fed the stove another piece of wood and set the kettle on.

“I’m a people pleaser to a fault. And food makes people happy. Plus, it helps me feel like I have some kinda control over my life. Something I don't normally have.” Lowering their plates into hot soapy water, Finley began to scrub. “I wish I could be more like you up here. Independent, self-sufficient… free."

River uncuffed their sleeves and rolled them up to their elbows as they walked up behind her. "I'm independent 'cause I hate watchin' my lovers die without me and I'm self-sufficient 'cause I don't got no other choice." They took the sponge from her hands and slid her out of the way. "I ain't free, Boots."

Through the foam of bubbles, River's scarred tattoo on their forearm caught Finley's eye again; the same design they had drawn on Béla, same design on their handkerchief, a triangle with nested semi-circles. The mountain, maybe. "I guess we have more in common than I thought."

Handing her a clean plate to dry, they smiled. "Guess so."

A million questions continued to race through her mind, but she kept them there as they finished cleaning up in silence, though not in complete silence because River always found a way to fill the quiet with either a soft whistle or hum. With the dishes clean and put away, Finley opened the hoosier, finding the clear moonshine in a small mason jar.

"Let's see that nasty scratch again," she said, holding up the jar.

As River dried their hands off, a smug grin spread across their face. "You still don't believe me, do ya?"

"About what?"

"The spring. And its healin’ power.” Button by button, River slowly unfastened their shirt as they walked closer. “Minerals. And stuff.” Beneath it, another thin wrap of fabric bound their chest. They slipped their arms out of the shirt and turned to the side so she could see, lifting their arm with a body flex that didn’t go unnoticed.

The wound had mostly healed as River suggested, but where they were cut the deepest, a pocket of dark red tissue had grown swollen around an oozing center, scabbed near all black along the edges.

"That one spot still looks pretty bad."

"Huh?" River twisted their torso to look down. "Damn. She musta sunk her claws in deep."

"Go sit down so I can take a closer look."

River didn't try to argue and flopped down onto the antique leather loveseat in the corner, propping their feet up over the arm. Finley grabbed a clean washrag from the cupboard and sat down alongside them. On the bearskin rug, the white lynx laid stretched out in front of the fireplace, belly full of venison. He barely lifted his head to look their way, but he sighed with a groan to let himself be heard.

“So this Buckmouse,” River said as they tucked their hands behind their head. Some kinda long, bony pendant on their rawhide necklace slid off to the side of their chest. “He came to ya last night?”

"A uh, not so subtle reminder that I owe the forest." She slid the maple slab coffee table over, moving the oil lamp closer to illuminate River's side. “You meant what you were saying to Jedidiah about the ancients, right?”

"You could hear me, huh?" A guilty smirk dipped into their cheek. “I may have taken some liberties on their behalf with my intimidations, but you saw them barrels. That salty wastewater came from layers of darkness we can’t even begin to fathom and those flatlanders keep churnin’ it up.” Their smirk hardened as their brows knotted. “So uh, how much of Jedidiah's yappin' did ya hear, then?”

"Enough," she answered, leaning closer to look at their wound.

"I didn't kill that girl. Blaire's sister."

Finley glanced up and nodded. "I didn't think you did." Whatever River was, she knew they were dark, but not like the Demon. And not like herself.

“Okay. Good.” They let out a heavy sigh and relaxed some. “I was worried ya thought I was some kinda de—land sakes!” River jolted upwards with a laugh, grabbing aholt Finley’s hand as she touched their skin. “Are your hands always so damn cold?” They took both into their own and began to rub her palms, bringing them up to their lips. Heat radiated from her fingertips and coursed through the rest of her body as their breath washed over her.

“The uh, area around your wound is hot and red, River,” she whispered. “I think it’s infected.”

“It'll heal, Boots.” Releasing her hands, they laid back down. “It always does.”

Finley lowered her eyes to their ribs again and further inspected the wound. What she had thought was scabbed looked far more shiny than old dried blood, more like the tumorous cluster of stones that grew from Buckmouse. A dark pus seeped from the weepy raw center, a sludge she had seen in Béla. River didn’t seem too concerned or even bothered, but it soured Finley’s stomach.

Opening the clear moonshine, she wet the rag. “This is gonna sting,” she warned. “Go ahead and squeeze me, if you need to.”

River tucked both arms behind their head and closed their eyes. “Do your worst.”

As Finley pressed the cloth to River’s inflamed skin, they winced and tightened their body, sucking in a sharp breath. Dabbing lightly, she cleaned the red center til it was free of any corruption, then carefully worked outwards around it. River’s breaths slowed and deepened as they peeked their eyes open again. Their body relaxed and a bead of moonshine rolled down over their stomach, catching in the dip of their muscles. As Finley wiped it away with her thumb, River tensed beneath her again.

“Sorry, my hands still cold?”

Propping themself up onto their elbows, they shook their head. A loose strand of hair fell in their eyes from where they had it half tied up neatly in a knot. They watched her closely, no longer flinching at the sting of the alcohol. “Ya know, I’m not sure I said thanks earlier. For savin’ my ass, I mean.”

Finley slowly looked up from their body to meet their gaze. She steeled herself, expecting to see that devilish smile again, but there was a sincerity in their eyes this time, a vulnerability that melted through her. Before she could utter some kinda response, something began to prod against her fingertips through the cloth. Lifting it away from River, she sprung up from the loveseat as two white worms writhed and wiggled inside the wound. Her knee knocked into the table, sending the jar of moonshine to shatter against the floor. River caught the oil lamp and shot up to follow her as she backed away.

“I’m sorry,” she gulped, clasping her sides. “I should—I should go.”

“What’s wrong, Boots? What happened?”

Her eyes fell to their ribs, but the wound now looked clean. Nearly healed. No garnet scabs, no corruption, no worms.

As River reached for her arm, she turned away. “I just—I need to get home.” She snatched the talisman jar from the center of the dining table and hurried towards the kitchen door. River’s footsteps followed as the screen slammed behind her.

The faint yellow light from the cabin only trickled out so far, but Finley jogged down the porch steps and found the stone path that led to the dirt road. Rows of dark trees loomed overhead, jutting into the night sky like the sawtooth maw of a beast that just swallowed her whole. No whisper of wind rustled their branches, no hum came from the crick. Just the sound of her boots crunching against the road could be heard. She shivered as she tightened her grip on the mason jar, clutching it to her chest.

She knew the worms weren’t real. They couldn’t be real. But neither could a hundred-and-some year old hillbilly who heals themself with a magic spring. She could smell their spiced pine on her skin, the cinnamon of their breath still on her fingertips. The heat of their body felt near. She turned around, but no lanky shadow followed behind as the light of their cabin dimmed with distance. It wasn’t too late to go back. She could apologize for being such a mess. Maybe even tell them why.

“You’re gonna pass your cabin.”

Finley spun on her heels, seeing the head of a coyote atop two long legs between the hemlocks about twenty feet away. “How’d you get ahead of me?”

“I cut through the woods.” They nodded behind her. “I’m tryin’ to respect your space, but I just wanted to make sure you made it back okay. I’m real sorry if I said or did—”    

“It’s not you, River. I promise.” Finley turned to her right, squinting through the dark to find the outline of her cabin through the trees. “I was really about to pass it, huh?”

“Easy to do after a couple drinks in this darkness." They remained in the shadows, lit only by the beams of moonlight behind them. "You gonna be all right tonight?"

"I'll live."

As she stepped off the road onto a bed of pine needles, River matched her step, walking in parallel, but never coming closer. They weaved through the thin pines and stopped at the row of hemlocks that lined the patio as she reached the porch steps.

“Thank you, River. For everything,” she murmured over her shoulder. “I think when I prayed to the hemlocks, they sent me to you.” When she was sure she could fight off the urge to invite them in, she turned around to say goodnight, but the hollow between the trees was empty.

She stepped down from the porch and slipped through the sweeping evergreen branches to where they had stood. Just beyond, the meadow spread a silver bed of grass over the mountainside, a moonlit oasis in the dark forest, sloping to the grove of apple trees behind her cabin. Looking back up through the woods, she could see the black hemlock silhouetted against the night sky.

Movement caught in the corner of her eye towards the apple trees and she could smell his presence before her eyes focused. Beneath the fruit-heavy branches stood Buckmouse on his bare-boned hind legs, watching her. His stark white head, blighted with garnet tumors, turned in profile; his crown of antlers all still wet with velvet and blood. He bobbed his head a couple times in her direction before turning back to the apples.

Finley glanced over her shoulder up the mountain, maybe hoping River would still be there in the shadows, but just the nip of the breeze met her skin, carrying a strange citrus scent along with it. She turned and waded through the knee-high silver grass towards the apple trees with the mason jar tucked closely to her chest.

“I found one of the talismans,” she called out to him, but he kept his nose in the tree. “Buckmouse?”

<You did good, Finley.> With difficulty, he struggled to bite onto an apple and it fell from his mouth to the ground where he could not bend to reach it.

Finley set the mason jar down and approached him, picking an apple from the tree. Using the meaty ball of her thumbs, she split it in two, then those pieces to four, and held them up to his mouth. The whole right side of his jaw was missing, covered in the scabby garnets. He softly nibbled the apple from her hand, tossing his head back to swallow. Bit by bit, the pieces fell through his ribcage and hit the ground.

“That can’t be satisfying.”

<Not as I had hoped, no.> As Buckmouse stepped out from under the tree, Finley counted his points again. Twenty-one. His antlers nearly made a complete circle above his head, a halo of velvet gore, missing its uppermost point. He tilted his head to look at her better. <Something on your mind, Finley?>

Holding up the jar, she studied the broken antler inside. “It’s yours, isn’t it?” She began twisting off the lid.

<Oh, I wouldn’t—>

Finley retched at the fetid stench of urine and god knows what else, emptying her stomach of whatever hadn’t digested from dinner.

<Guess you’ve never heard of a witch’s jar.>

Wiping her mouth with her arm, she tucked her nose into the crook of her elbow as she lifted the lid. Dozens of thorns lined the underside of its top like a bed of nails.

“Is it for protection? Like a ward?”

<Not this one.>

Holding her breath, Finley dipped her hand, red garnet ring aglow, into the jar and tugged the talisman free from the soil. Which wasn’t quite soil, it was finer, softer, some kinda silty ash. Dark hair bound the broken antler to a sprig of hemlock, trussed with a weave down to its roots which squirmed like the very white worms she kept finding.

Finley pushed to her tiptoes as Buckmouse lowered his head and the antler affixed itself to his pointed crown. The roots of the hemlock slithered and veined across each of his points and down his rack, shedding him of the bloody velvet. The lock of dark hair fell free to the ground at Finley’s feet and she knelt down to pick it up. 

<I knew they underestimated you.> Buckmouse stood tall before her as his antlers gleamed in the moonlight. <You may just earn your soul back.>

“What? My—”

<To answer your question, no, that which you call Demon didn’t survive. But neither did you.>