Raven Stole the Moon by Garth Stein
All was quiet outside. They stepped off the porch and onto the street. Jenna scanned the area with the beam of the flashlight. There was nothing. But Oscar wasn’t convinced there was nothing. He was still growling and pulling on the leash, trying to go toward the water.
On her second pass over the area with her flashlight, Jenna saw someone. It was a little boy standing on the edge of the seawall. He didn’t seem more than five or six, and he had a huge head of beautiful black curly hair. When she turned the flashlight on him, he shied away, putting his hand over his eyes and turning slightly toward the ocean. He looked as if he might jump off the seawall down to the beach, but he hesitated.
Jenna choked up on Oscar’s leash, pulling him toward her so he wouldn’t get any closer to the boy. Oscar was growling softly and had set his weight against Jenna’s so they were in equilibrium, Oscar straining toward the boy and Jenna leaning back toward Eddie’s house. Oscar barked. The boy, apparently afraid of the big dog, started to climb over the side of the seawall.
“Wait,” Jenna called to him. “Are you okay?”
The boy froze with one leg over the side of the wall and the other on the street. He looked at Jenna for a moment, then shifted his weight around, ready to swing his other leg over the wall and disappear forever down to the beach.
“Wait. Is it the dog? Are you afraid of the dog?”
The boy didn’t move.
“He’s not a mean dog; he just doesn’t know you so he’s afraid. Look, I’ll tie him up over here.”
It took all Jenna’s strength to drag Oscar over to the porch and tie his leash to the railing. Oscar started barking loudly as Jenna slowly walked back toward the boy.
“I’m Jenna. What’s your name?” she asked, taking very small steps toward the boy so as not to frighten him.
The boy didn’t answer; he continued to look at her strangely.
“Are you okay? It’s awfully late for you to be out tonight, isn’t it?”
The boy still didn’t respond. He perched on the seawall and waited to see what Jenna would do next. She crept a little closer. She didn’t want to be rude or scare him, so she aimed the flashlight at the boy’s feet and not at his face. The little light that did spill on his face, though, gave her enough of a view to see how beautiful he was—a dark complexion and oval face—kind of mysterious, almost timeless, in a way.
They stood that way for a few moments, locked into a trance. The waves were lapping gently on the beach and Oscar had quieted down. Then, without any warning, the kid disappeared over the seawall.
Oscar barked. Jenna ran to the edge and looked over, but she couldn’t see anything. She shined the flashlight across the beach and found him standing at the water line looking up at her.
Jenna felt drawn to the little boy. She felt the need to go to him. She thought he wanted her to follow him, even though he had made no gesture or sound that would back up her intuition. She knelt down and dangled her legs over the seawall. It was about eight feet down. She turned and lowered her legs down as far as she could, dropping the rest of the way to the beach.
The pain from her right ankle shot up her leg and into her stomach. She had forgotten about her sprain, but now she remembered all too well. She turned to the water and the boy was still there, though he had moved farther away so that the waves lapped over his feet. She limped a couple of steps toward him.
The beach was pretty narrow, maybe twenty feet from the seawall to the water. Jenna moved toward the boy until she was only a couple of yards from him.
“Isn’t the water cold?” she asked.
When she heard herself ask that question, she knew she was insane. What kind of a stupid question was that? How about, who are you, what are you doing here, why aren’t you home with your parents, or why are you going swimming in the middle of the night? But she didn’t ask any of those questions. No. She asked if the water was cold. But even though she heard her stupid question and noted to herself that it was stupid, it didn’t stop her. The little boy took a couple of steps backward into the surf and Jenna took a couple of steps toward him.
She could hear Oscar going crazy up on the street, but she didn’t care. He was barking very loudly, like the first time she had heard him in the woods. But she was fascinated by the beautiful little boy. He retreated into the water until it was up to his waist.
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be swimming right now,” she said. “It’s late and it might be dangerous to swim in the dark.”
The boy stopped.
“Let me take you to your house. Your parents must be worried about you.”
Jenna took two steps into the water and reached her hand out to the boy. A wave broke against her calves and unbalanced her slightly as her feet sank into the soft sand that was left behind. She reached out her hand and the boy reached out his, the first time he made any kind of gesture toward her. She took another step into the water, hoping to grab the boy and pull him in to shore, and finally their hands met.
The boy’s hand was cold and wet, and it felt small and hard in Jenna’s hand. They stood for a moment like this, hand in hand, helping each other keep their balance in the waves. The water felt warm to Jenna. Warmer than she would have expected of Alaskan waters, and she was glad that she hadn’t put on her shoes. There was a breeze coming from the north and the cloudless sky sparkled with stars. Across the inlet, over the boy’s shoulder, the dark outline of Elephant’s Nose could barely be seen. Toward town, Jenna could see yellow streetlights reflecting off the buildings. She looked down at the little boy, who was silent and patient. He nodded to her, and though Jenna didn’t know why, she felt comfortable with his gesture.
She wanted to sit down. Relax into the warm water and let the waves crash over her. To float in the water and gaze up at the stars. To lie back on the beach and sleep for a while with the cool breeze blowing the smells of the ocean across her face, relaxing into a half-sleep, eyes open but brain shut off, senses working but body not responding, not needing to respond, having no needs or cares in the world.
The voice started out very softly and distant. “Jenna!” Calling from so far away. “Jenna!” She held the boy’s hand, not wanting to let go of it, not wanting the boy to disappear. “Jenna!” It was more insistent, closer. Then growling. An animal running on the sand. She felt a tugging at her hand. She opened her eyes. The boy was pulling away from her. Trying to jerk his hand out of hers. Trying to go swimming. “You can’t go swimming now,” she said, gripping tighter on his hand. He pulled harder. Very strong for a little kid. Jenna looked behind her. There was a dog. Oscar. He was almost upon her. He was running at full speed, charging at her, growling, not barking, just making a deep growl and baring his teeth. The boy tugged, jerked. Oscar was there. He was going for the boy. He hated that boy for some reason. That’s why she tied him up, she remembered. She had to protect the boy. Oscar is a wild dog and he might go crazy. Eat the boy. Bite his face and neck.
Jenna looked down at the boy, still tugging at her hand, trying to break free, and he was different somehow. His face wasn’t soft anymore. It was dark. Hard. He was desperate to escape, flinging himself away from Jenna, jerking her arm until it hurt, but she held on. The dog was getting closer. Jenna held on because she was confused. She couldn’t see the boy’s face anymore. There was something wrong. She felt afraid, lost, unsure of what to do.
With one final jerk, the boy broke free from Jenna’s grasp. She turned toward Oscar as Oscar leapt toward her. He leapt toward the water, toward the boy, jumping to get past Jenna. But Jenna didn’t want the boy to be hurt. She grabbed Oscar, wrapped her arms around his midsection, took his force and momentum and tried to deflect it away from the boy. She wrapped Oscar up, twisted with his force, and fell into the water, splashing backward. A wave landed on her head. In her mouth the taste of salt. Oscar struggled to get free. Jenna let go. She couldn’t see. Foam and black water were in her eyes. Her lungs. She rolled over to her hands and knees as another w
There was someone there. Someone large. Lifting her from the water. Helping her to the dry beach. On her hands and knees, coughing and spitting the vile taste that was in her blood now. Gobs of snot hung from her nose. She pressed a finger to her nostril and blew. The water rushed upward, poisoning her brain. She fell over onto her side and breathed heavily. Oscar stood over her. Someone was splashing into the water, diving in and swimming. It was Eddie.
Jenna sat up. She could tell it was Eddie by the way he was swimming: only one arm. Oscar continued to bark at the water. Jenna stood and called for Eddie. He couldn’t hear her; he didn’t respond. He was swimming out, away from shore. Then he stopped, treading water for a moment before diving down. Diving down.
It was wrong. The whole thing. It was too similar, too eerie. The boy. The way he looked at her. The way he disappeared. She screamed for Eddie when he resurfaced. But he ignored her. Why was he doing it? What if there was nothing to find? The boy was gone. Eddie disappeared again. He had to come back before it was too late. He had to come to shore.
She ran into the water up to her waist, shrieking for Eddie. She was frantic, desperate that she would lose him. He would go down and not come back up. Finally he turned to her. She screamed, waved, and he acknowledged her. He started to swim back to shore.
When he got close enough that he could wade in, he called out to Jenna.
“Go back to the house and call the sheriff.” He was out of breath. His voice was rough. “Tell him we found the boy. He swam out into the strait and now he’s gone.” He bent over and panted. “I’m searching, but they’d better get some men out here. If I don’t find him soon, it’ll be too late.”
Jenna didn’t move. It wasn’t right. Something was going on. Eddie looked up at her wondering why she hadn’t left yet.
“Go. And take Oscar with you. Lock him up. That kid is scared shitless of him.”
“Eddie, don’t go back out there.”
He looked at her.
”I have to find him. He might still be alive.”
“I’m not sure . . .” Jenna’s voice trailed off. She was shivering, maybe because of the cold, maybe because she was afraid. Afraid of what she thought might be true. “I’m not sure,” she repeated.
Eddie straightened up. He glared at Jenna. She had never seen him angry. It was a quiet anger. His face was tight and she could feel his energy. He spoke softly and forcefully.
“Go up to the house. Call the sheriff. Lock up the dog. Come back here.” He paused. Jenna didn’t move. “Do it!”
She did it. She had to. She was wrong and he was right. There had been a boy. That she knew. Who or what he was, that was open to question. But it wasn’t for her to decide. She couldn’t trust her own judgment. So she would follow Eddie’s orders. She would go to the house. Eddie turned and waded back into the water, plunging in and stroking with one arm out into the strait. Christ. What if Eddie was right? What if the boy did drown? She had to call the sheriff. But what if Eddie was wrong? Jenna would call the sheriff, but she wouldn’t take Oscar. For some reason Oscar didn’t like that little boy. And if it was because of what Jenna suspected, Eddie might need Oscar around. Jenna didn’t want to return to find Eddie missing as well.
DAWN BREAKS EARLY in Wrangell in July. At about four in the morning the sky begins to lighten. The sun rises slowly over the horizon at four twenty. By a quarter to five, it is fully daylight and the sun begins its struggle to penetrate the thick branches of the forests.
And so, on this morning, as the sky paled from black to gray, the men on the water had mixed emotions. They were happy that the new day was chasing away the oppressive darkness. But they were saddened by the fact that they were on the water to witness the event. Since earlier in the morning, since about one o’clock, they had been grouped into foursomes and confined to their boats, one at the helm, one spotting from the bow, one on each side dragging a grappling hook along the bottom of the bay. The only possible reason these men could still be in their boats as the day arrived was that they had not yet discovered the body of the young boy who had drowned earlier.
Back on shore, in a warm house that smelled of mildew and stale coffee, Jenna sat on the brown couch wrapped in a crochet blanket. She was drunk with fatigue, her stomach full of acid from too much coffee and too little food. Her eyes were puffy from stifled tears. The television was on her favorite channel, E! Television, but the sound was down. She wasn’t watching, anyway. She was remembering something that happened two years earlier.
It was about two weeks after Jenna and Robert returned from Alaska after Bobby’s death. Robert had stayed late at the office and Jenna was home alone watching a Barbara Walters special, waiting for the part when Barbara would make the guest cry (as she invariably does), so Jenna could cry, too. It must have been ten thirty. The phone rang and Jenna answered it. The voice on the other end was deep and sounded a little drunk. The man identified himself as the manager of Thunder Bay.
Jenna listened as the man told her that the resort was closing, never to open to the public. The investors had backed out after “the incident.” The man wanted to offer Jenna his personal condolences, as he had been there for that fateful week and remembered Bobby, even remarking to his wife what a good kid Bobby seemed to be. Jenna remembered his name. It was John Ferguson. He told her that he was fiercely Irish, but a Scot had married into the family at some point and cursed the lineage forever with an inferior moniker.
It seemed, though, that John Ferguson wanted to talk more. He must have had a few drinks to work up his nerve to call. He told Jenna that it wasn’t only Bobby’s death that caused the investors to close down the project. There had been another death. A Tlingit woman who was working at the resort. She had disappeared into the woods one night, a few weeks before the guests had arrived, and was never seen again.
He went on to say that the investors were very superstitious, and he was quick to point out that they were Japanese. He told Jenna that the Japanese investors made him hire a shaman to cleanse the resort before any people visited it. He had an Indian fellow come who told him that the place was bad luck, a home for evil spirits, and that’s why all the towns and resorts that had tried to open there had failed. The shaman warned him against opening the resort.
And John Ferguson had a confession to make. He was so afraid he’d lose his job, and a well-paying job it was, if the place didn’t open that he lied to the investors. He told them that the shaman gave the place a clean bill of health.
It took Jenna a minute to sort out what the man was saying. She was watching Barbara Walters out of one corner of her eye and listening to this man go on about something she really didn’t care to know. And then she realized that he was confessing his sin. He blamed himself for Bobby’s death. If he had told the investors about the evil spirits, they wouldn’t have opened the place and the whole thing never would have happened. He broke down in tears at one point, saying that he didn’t know how he could live with himself. He had put his own personal gain over the life of another, and he hated himself. Jenna ended up consoling him, which she found ironic. She said that all of what he told her was nonsense. Bobby would have died one way or another. There’s no way to go back and change things. She repeated all the psychobabble that people had told her.
He thanked her for being so understanding. He apologized for calling her and losing control, but he felt he just had to tell her the truth. He told her that if she was ever in Wrangell to give him a call. His house was her house from then on, and he insisted that she take him up on his hospitality. He said he was easy to find. Ask for the Irishman named Ferguson.
Now, in the predawn light two years later, Jenna vowed to call John Ferguson first thing in the morning. She didn’t want his hospitality; she wanted his information. She wante
“You really ought to get some sleep.”
The voice startled Jenna, who was in a daze. She focused on the door and saw Field standing there looking at her.
“Gotta use the head,” he said and trudged off down the hall.
When Field reemerged from the hall, he took a seat next to Jenna on the couch without saying a word. Then there were three there, the television, Field, and she, sharing the room, none of them making a sound. Field took out a cigarette and offered one to Jenna, which she took. They smoked in silence and watched Talk Soup flash across the screen.
“How are you holding up?”
“I think I could use a drink.”
Field looked over at Jenna and nodded. “Good idea.”
He got up and went into the kitchen. When he returned, he was holding two small drinking glasses and a bottle of Wild Turkey. He poured two shots and handed one over to Jenna. They drank in silence.
It didn’t take more than a minute for the alcohol to take hold of Jenna’s tongue. No sooner had the burning of the whiskey gone away than she began to speak. Like some kind of confessional, plied by fatigue, whiskey, and cigarettes, Jenna spilled out her life for Field, who listened and nodded and supplied a constant flow of stimulants for her. She told of her husband, of running away, of her grandmother and the house next door. She spoke of her son in glowing terms. And when Field asked where Bobby was now, Jenna closed her eyes and opened the last remaining door for Field. She told of the drowning and of the search and of the similarities between then and now. Working through the night, dragging the bottom, the tide going out, men huddled together on the shore talking about her and wondering why and how it could have happened.