Two silhouettes ran down the pier. The planks clapped, breaking the heavy silence. Behind them, the sun had come down just enough to touch the feature-less horizon before it ascended again—the sunrise of a far-northern summer.
Roxy, Sacha said through tears.
We're taking her with us, I'm going to get her. Get the extra fuel from the boathouse, and also, get the stove, we'll need the stove, and the pry-bar.
The weathered boards clapped again as Bolt ran for the house. Roxy was resting against the mortar and timber wall next to the back door. Bolt looked at her as he pulled the sliding glass door. The air of the living room wasn't any warmer than the outside; Bolt had learned to stop expecting the warmth. Each step on the hardwood floors of the living room was silent. In the kitchen his footfalls came carefully across the Spanish tile until he reached the carpet which led him softly down the hall. He came across the opened door of his stepsister's room. The bookcase was open—Sacha never left the bookcase doors open. On top of it, glowing almost, was a little potted plant, a white snap-dragon. Bolt went to his room where he retrieved the oily-blue Colt, then he walked on down the hall. The wallpaper of the hallway was torn in places. There were no pictures to cover the opened pattern. The scars led to the stepfather's bedroom, to the door. Inside, the heavy canvas curtains filtered the sunlight leaving the room a dense color. The stepfather was awake—a deathly still form in his bed with eyes that had tracked Bolt through the walls. Bolt's voice was uncontained through the clinching of his throat.
Father, have you given up on me?
The stepfather, with even movements, drew the sheets.
Put that thing down and I'll tell you.
Did you give up on me!
Put that thing down. Put it down and I'll teach you—give you a beating to be proud about.
The stepfather kept his arms at his side after propping his body up. His fists were clenched, gorilla-like, indenting the sheets and mattress.
This time, if I catch you, you fucking faggot, I swear, said the stepfather. Well, come on with it, come on and pull it. Pull it or else.
Not this time, said Bolt.
Like a child, Bolt was too terrified to look behind him as he walked out of the room and down the hall—his ears, bent behind him, were sensitive enough to hear the unheard. The undead eyes of his stepfather were, no doubt, following him through the walls. Quickly, from the laundry room he pulled a towel from a stack. Outside, he draped it over Roxy and lifted her semi-ridged body from the patch of snow. The dusty crystals hadn't melted in her dog hair. He carried her down the rocky shore of the bay to the pier where Sacha reached up from the unsteady boat to take the wrapped dog in her arms. She stowed it in the cabin of the vessel. When she came up she started the engine. Bolt held on to the pilling at the end of the pier and pushed on the boat to send it out. Sacha over-throttled the boat and Bolt had to quickly jump in. They didn't bother to look back, at anything. If they had, they would have only seen the flash of light that filled the stepfather's room as if, for that moment, lightning had been contained behind the curtains. The flash had a sound, too, but they were too far away to hear it.
The water was a sheet, a grey wrinkled sheet that waited each day for the sun to slip underneath it. Floating on the sheet, the loons had waited for the night—waited to sing. The wrinkles of the bay rolled, in bars, over the smooth little stones of the island shore, lapping against the flat stern of the stepfather's boat.
We can bury her at sea, said Bolt.
Sacha sat, with her knees pulled to her chest, in front of the hypnotic blue flame of the stove. Bolt's hair, tousled by the cold breeze, parted on the side. Beneath the pot, the stove's flame hissed and sputtered.
OK, but we need something to put her in, said Sacha. Something we can fill with rocks.
I don't know. I can't think of anything. What if we tied her to a big rock?
No, she needs to be wrapped in something. We could use my sleeping bag, it's too short for me, anyway.
No, we might need it. We should keep it.
I don't want it. Dad gave it to me, remember.
Bolt moved around the stove squatting at times to handle the food. He sat on a piece of driftwood stirring the contents in the boiling pot. He was methodical, slowly whirling the water, catching the occasional warmth that radiated around. Sacha tucked her chin into her knees and watched the little waves roll along the hull of the boat. The centerline of the vessel was a blade that had come up onto the shore and divided the egg-like rocks.
Do you want me to do it alone? asked Bolt.
No. I want to go. After it's done, can we just anchor the boat somewhere in the bay before we go to bed? The hull grinding against the rocks kept me up.
The sack-like corpse slipped beneath the water easily. Through the clear water they watched her go down, disappearing like the anchor's rope. Sacha ducked into the cabin almost immediately after putting Roxy in the water. Bolt waited, estimating the time it took for Roxy to hit the bottom. In the cabin, Sacha had wedged a towel in the roundish hole of the window. She got into the sleeping bag and wormed around to one side.
Just get in, she said. It's big enough. We'll just sleep back to back.
Bolt carefully put a leg into the bag and inched into it, careful not touch her. The smooth nylon was cold on Bolt's skin. Slowly, the thing warmed up.
Are you scared? she asked after a long time.
Bolt thought about it, asking himself the question over and over until the phrase had lost its meaning. He listened to Sacha's breath, instead. It was a little deeper, she wasn't waiting for an answer. The heat from her body felt like a hand placed lightly over his back. It kept him up. Her breath changed again and she was asleep.
I don't have to be scared, he said.
On the verge of sleep, Bolt opened his eyes to the brownish light of the porthole. Sacha was turning over. She put her arms together and placed them comfortably against Bolt's back. Her breathing didn't change. It felt like a cat's breath on his shoulder blades. He knew she was still asleep.
In the morning, Bolt trespassed into the yard of a large house. The property was cut from a withering forest of birch trees. The place had no driveway, there were no roads, either. Bolt passed between the trees along the perimeter. Annexed to the house were several sheds, he looked for the one with a lock. The pry-bar worked silently, pulling the hinge with its slender nails neatly out of the wood. Inside, a large locked freezer waited. Bolt knew it would be loud to pry it. He sat next to the thing, listening and studying the hinge of the almost treasure chest. He forced the straight part of the bar into the corner of the freezer, breaking the rubber seal of the thing. He began to lift up on the bar, trying to bend the door enough to reach a hand inside. The freezer lifted off the ground and shifted as Bolt struggled with the door. Using the bar to probe around, he hit something. Bolt tried to fulcrum the bar against the contents. He pulled up hard this time, using the weight of the freezer to bend the door. The contents shifted and the bar released, slapping the inside of the freezer violently. Bolt looked out from the shed waiting for a light to turn on somewhere below the high pitched roof. The space between the door and freezer was barely big enough to fit his fingers. He tried pulling up on the door with his hands. Bolt looked back at the house, one of the windows looked different, he couldn't tell if a light had come on or not, though. Panicked, he swung the bar against the lock and tried to pry the hinge. The hinge broke off and somewhere on the house, a door had opened. Bolt looked in the chest and found a hundred chopped pieces of firewood that had probably been stacked neatly. The limbs of an animal protruded up from the disorder. He pulled on them but stopped when he noticed that the feet weren't hoved, they were the padded feet of a dog. Bolt passed again, through the birch-wood before the woman in the nightgown could find him. Sacha was picking cloudberries when Bolt emerged, distant, running down the narrow shore. They only had enough time to try one more house before morning.
The stepfather took Bolt out to shoot a gun, once. He was thirteen and the revolver was an intimidating piece of metal. When he aimed it at the empty can he was too afraid of the recoil to pull the trigger. The can danced around in the sites, the stepfather waited. Something about the stepfather's eyes made the gun feel heavier. Bolt's hand dropped to his side. The stepfather reached down to grab the gun. Fuckin' vagina-ass, he said. Wrapping his hand around the grip he dug his unclipped nails into Bolt's hand. The gun went off, raising the dust between their feet. Bolt felt the slug hit the ground. The stepfather pushed him back and fired the gun at the top of a tree. The raven that perched there lived at one moment and then, the next, as a burst of feathers. Now, something can eat, said the stepfather.
Bolt had slept, perhaps during the night, and was staring now at the faint lines of sunlight outlining the cabin door. It was raining—a light rain that ticked everywhere on the boat, filling the vessel by droplets. In the tinted cabin, Bolt was still, lying as if under a dream—part fear and part freedom. When, after the long moment, he rose to open the doors the rain stopped. The sun was somewhere hidden, muting the colors of the outside. Blanketing the water and shoreline was a dense mist, rising at times through the birch trees, hiding the land, floating everything within it. The boat swayed in a place neither bay nor sky. Sacha stood near the shore, reaching down into the cloud to cup the water, pouring it over her head where, in lines, it ran down her naked body. Her hair was separated into neat locks that barely curled, some fell over her breasts, some down the valley of her back. Her elfish little ears, young and translucent, revealed themselves. When she walked around the mist dragged about her legs. At times she seemed hidden, her pale skin made her that way. Every detail was there, every physical thing Bolt had ever wondered about. The notch of her throat, the blades of her back, the uniform hue of her skin brought out by the hidden light, the sameness in color of her breasts and nipples, the faded black nail polish of her fingers that wiped away the water from her stomach, driving it down the funnel of her pelvis to her most hidden flesh—a faintly dark place that passed in and out of Bolt's sight. Sacha tilted her head to the side and wrapped her hair tightly, squeezing the water down her ribs and thighs and into the bay. Bolt was standing in the boat, Sacha noticed him and stood there with her hair swept over the front of her. Slowly, her hands fell to her sides. The image was nothing Bolt could hold on to, it was already gone. Sacha was beauty, precariously slipping in and out of his sight.
Getting fuel was the most dangerous thing. They had to land the boat at least half a mile from the pumps and walk up to the station to see if their stepfather's boat had been reported stolen. If nothing was posted they had to talk to the clerks before bringing in the boat. Sacha and Bolt walked along the muddy road from the gas station with enough money for one last tank of gas. The terrain was changing, the foothills had emerged at the far curve of the horizon.
What are we gonna do when we get there? Sacha asked.
I don't know.
We're running out of money. There won't be any food to steal.
I know.
Aren't you scared, then?
A fog horn deeper than the bay sounded from the docks. They were at the last and most northern human outpost. The birch forests had thinned, leaving only the grass.
We're not going to be able to steal gas. We need money, Bolt.
We've got enough money to get us there. We'll be OK.
I don't like this. Stop Bolt, stop walking, you're not thinking this through. There's nothing out there. There's nothing left to run from. We can go back, we can tell people what happened to us, they'll understand why we stole the boat. We can go somewhere where he'll never find us.
He's not looking for us, Sacha.
Then why are we still running?
We just have to get there, please. You'll see, when we get there you'll understand.
Once, Bolt woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of broken glass. He found his stepfather sitting in the hallway with his ear pressed against a torn piece of wallpaper. A picture of his mother, the only one, was broken in the stepfather's hand. Blood was running onto it, burying the image. The stepfather began to talk to the gash in the wall, Yes. Yes. I will. I won't. I understand. I understand. When the stepfather turned his head Bolt could see the lines of blood like arrows down his cheeks. He got up and walked towards Bolt, there was a piece of glass in his hand. It was your mother. She told me not to give up on you. He slapped Bolt across the head, hard. So I'm not going to. That was the first time he hit Bolt but the only time he used his bare hand. When Sacha and Bolt opened the oven door one night to warm the living room the stepfather caught them and forced Bolt to strip in front of her. Neither one of you fucking move. He left them to go to the workroom. Sacha looked from behind the sofa and through tears said, Bolt, just run. The clanging of wrenches and other beating tools was terrifying. The stepfather returned with a braided cable that split the skin of Bolt's back, and genitals. He was 15.
The three distant volcanoes of the Trinity Islands broke through the tops of the clouds. The grasses had disappeared, lichens were the only living thing covering the land. Sacha walked to the top of an outcropping—curious to see if she could still find the outpost. The slope of one island overlapped the slope of some other landmass, endlessly, tucking the outpost away, hiding the sounds. Nothing familiar reached Sacha but the sun. It went down and sunk for a while, leaving the darkness. Overhead, a streak of green that waved like an eel followed the sun. Another appeared like electricity weaving the stars. Then, the darkness receded over the sky like an eyelid, another moment lost in an eye blink. Sacha hurried off the rocks and little stones, agile like a mountain goat, running for the boat.
Bolt! Bolt! Did you see it?
Grabbing a cleat and springing onto the bow she exclaimed,
It was just like when Karin took us out that time.
Bolt was sitting on the little mattress in the cabin, his right hand was tucked below his thigh.
Bolt, do you remember? Bolt, what are you doing?
Sacha hunched down through the cabin doors and faced him. Bolt was slowly running the nail of his finger across the little scar on his cheek.
Don't stare like that Bolt, don't do that with your eyes.
Do what?
You know what.
Why?
Because. It scares me.
Why?
Because. You're mom used to do it and, and I didn't know how to help her. And it tore me apart.
Sacha sat close against his side, taking his hand between her palms and holding it against her thigh. In increments, she moved her face—halfway, then a half of that, and a half—to silently kiss the redness below his eye. Her lips gently stuck when she pulled away. Bolt looked at her, his eyes had changed. He listened to her breathing as she put her head on his shoulders. He was self-conscious that his atrophied body would be uncomfortable. Sacha kept his hand when she stood up—stood up without backing away. Bolt listened to her breath, still. Without thinking he knew it had changed. He leaned forward to kiss her stomach, he knew he could, he knew she would let him. The cotton was warm and faintly aromatic. She let go of his hand and pulled the t-shirt off. When Bolt reached up she met his hand with hers and put them, together, at the top of her breast. She let go and Bolt traced the slope down to her nipple—a firm little button that swelled on her chest. Her breath came through her nose and then, changing, she breathed through her mouth. The sound was deep and open. Bolt leaned forward to kiss her stomach again. Her young abdomen contracted, bee-like, when his lips touched it. He pulled his sweater over his head and noticed his own smell. Embarrassed to stand up, he knelt down, wrapping his arms around her thighs. She slid down through them and held him around the waist. Eagerly, she kissed him. When she laid down for him he kissed her belly button, the only part of her body with a shadow, a little question marked navel. He watched her stomach as he reached for the button of her jeans. It rose from a deep breath and stayed there when she arched her back. Bolt pulled the waist down a little and slid the jeans off at her feet. Between his fingers he held the delicate straps of her panties. She sat up on her elbows and watched as he leaned back to take off his pants. He tried to breath, to help the nervous silence. Carefully, he reached forward and held her behind the knees as he moved into her. Between her legs, he put his hands over the little protruding bones of her pelvis. There were scars. Little circular scars. Even on the orchid, scars. He closed his eyes and kissed her deeply—driven like some insect. He couldn't feel the scars on his tongue. Everything was a salve. The miraculous wetness was a salve. Like rain on a petal, a warm rain that seeped deeply, releasing her completely. When he finally laid on top of her the warmth all but released his body. She possessed some mysterious set of hands that pulled his point into her, endlessly. He came, draining whatever he was into her. It was all tinged, faintly, with panic.
It was clear from the gauge that they would run out of gas before they reached the Trinity Islands. The motor droned on, driving the boat over the little swells. The bow rose and fell, jetting water away from the hull, spraying the windshield. Sacha could taste the spray. The volcanoes loomed, now. Fantastically high, reaching almost overhead, but miles and miles away. Churning behind the motor was the wake, a V-shaped streak spilling from the prop like a jet stream. The motor jerked, spilling little blue curls of smoke from the housing. Minutes passed before it jerked again. Finally it spasmed like the lungs of sickly child. Bolt put the motor in neutral and the boat lurched to rest. The wake came from behind, in bars, and pushed the boat forward one last time. Bolt turned the key as smoke passed around them.
What can we do, Bolt?
We're almost there. We're close enough, actually.
Sacha moved between Bolt and the stainless-steel wheel. She hugged him closely.
We'll be OK here, Sacha. You look really beautiful, today.
Bolt reached into his pocket and pulled a crumpled white flower out. The stem was noodle-like and bruised. He tucked the thing behind her ear.
Will you wait for me in the cabin? he said.
Sacha's hand slid down his chest as she turned towards the cabin door. From the mattress she watched as Bolt leaned over the stern of the boat. She listened to the ratcheting sound that resonated through the water, coming up from below. Bolt's arm was wet up to his shoulder when he came into the cabin, closing the doors behind him.
What did you do, Bolt?
You just have to trust me.
No Bolt! What did you do?
Bolt was stone faced. He reached over for her hand and she pulled away.
Bolt! What did you do!
She began to cry.
What did you do, what did you do, what did you do, what did you do, what did you do, what did you do.
Sacha jerked her bare feet away from the floor. Bolt looked down and watched as the color of the carpet changed, becoming blood dark. He moved over to her and laid down, spooning her body. When the water came up and touched their bodies she gasped.
Bolt, I don't cry Bolt. I don't cry.
They were lifted off the mattress together. Their bodies merged down to their legs which curled around like vines. The grey wrinkled sheet above was flat until, like the breeching of a whale, a jet rose into the air. They floated around the space, their clothes waved and rolled along their bodies. Sacha's hair wove like a thousand delicate tentacles, wiping Bolt's face, at times. The petals of the snap-dragon swayed like water lilies. They got there, together, after a weightless eternity—to the lake that floated them on the other side.