They sat on the floor and on the sofa in the upstairs living room, plates in their hands, listening to the radio and eating thick slices of meatloaf covered in a sauce of caramelized onions with a side of oven-baked sweet potatoes smothered in butter.
“Katelyn, I need to say…” Mickey said, chewing a mouthful. “Your cooking needs to get out there. This is delicious.” And that was when the radio told them what they needed to know.
Beeeep beep beep beeeeeep.
> DJ: Excuse the interruption, folks, but this is a weather alert. Conditions in Yellowstone County are emergency travel only. We have snow. We have a high wind advisory. We have black ice. We have a recipe for staying home and watching something on the tubes.
>
> Which makes me sound like a hypocrite for saying this, but I promised a producer that I would, because her kid begged her. In exactly thirty minutes, there’s going to be an impromptu concert, a house concert, is that right? But all it says here in front of me—nice poster, by the way—Builds A Fire Shakes the Earth. Number 38 on South 42nd Street. Again, that’s starting in thirty minutes. Now folks, I support indie music, believe me, but only, and I mean only, go to this thing if you are walking. Anyway, there you go. Some punk is giving a concert in a blizzard. I’ve seen it all.
>
> Now, for our next song—and let this be a lesson to you—run when it’s time to run, stand when it’s time to fight.
Katelyn rose and switched off the radio. Her face was ashen white. The silence of the room could have been broken by a pin fall.
All eyes save Francis’s, who stared at the guitar case, rested upon the small, intense woman.
Boosting herself on a footstool, she retrieved a tall, brown bottle of liquor from the cupboard above the oven, removed the cork stopper, and swallowed a burn. She wiped her thin lips on her sleeve and said, “Prepare yourselves.”
“Here?” said Gwen.
“Here,” said Katelyn.
“I’ll get the bags ready,” Nash said.
“Katelyn, pack some things. Come with us,” implored Gwen.
“I’m not leaving my house I have lived in for forty-seven years.”
She retrieved a large pot from the cupboard above the stove and filled it half with water from the faucet. Then, she pulled out a gallon of milk from the refrigerator and poured all of it into the pot. She placed it on the burner and turned the gas knob. The stove went tic tic tic, and a flame burst into life.
“Would you like some hot cocoa, boys?” she asked, hands on her hips. The worry and stress that had etched her face since their first meeting was gone, replaced by serenity. She looked younger, prettier, with a sparkle in her eyes.
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Ty, snuggled next to Bridger on the sofa, looked up at his father. The man nodded and tenderly kissed his child’s forehead. “Yes, please,” he said.
“Francis?” said Bridger.
The boy did not reply, his eyes still entranced by the instrument.
“There’ll be enough. I have a special recipe I like to make just for the Maji, but I haven’t tried for a long time. When LJ was little, I used to make it for him, and on cold nights such as this, we would sit around the heater sipping and telling scary stories to stay awake, for your sleep, Maji, is crawling with demons.”
She stooped to pour a little milk into the saucer for the cat that went at it with a greedy purr. “It warms the soul, I believe. I’ll make enough for everyone, and then have a little left over for our guests. Gwen, do you mind running to the kitchen downstairs and fetching my wooden spoons? There are two, one with a dash of red paint on the handle and one with a dash of white.”
Gwen went and returned bearing two large wooden spoons.
“Thank you. Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I use strictly organic ingredients in my cooking.” She used the stool again to reach the back of the cupboard, pulling down two silver tins, one slightly larger than the other.
They waited until the pot began to steam. Alan looked at his watch. Ten minutes had passed since the announcement of the concert.
Francis, his gaze unaltered, began to take quick, deep breaths.
“Francis?” he said.
The boy jerked to his feet. “I need some fucking air.” He stomped through the kitchen. The back door slammed behind him.
“Sure hope the talent ain’t gettin stage fright,” said Nash.
Foxy got up and started clearing the dishes.
“Just dump them in the sink, dear,” Katelyn said. “It wouldn’t make sense to wash them tonight. However, if you don’t mind, could you set out the fine Chinese cups? They’re right there in that cabinet. Just set them on the coffee table. Set all of them out now. More people should be coming.”
----------------------------------------
A sheet of heavy snow hit him in the face as he stepped outside. He could barely make out the garage light across the yard. He lifted his hand to block the snow from his eyes and trudged toward it.
The side of the garage blocked the bulk of the storm, providing an oasis surrounded by two steep drifts. Francis had his hands on the chain-link fence facing the alley.
“Hey, you okay, buddy?”
“I don’t want to do it,” Francis shouted. His words were swallowed in the wind’s howl.
“Don’t do it then. We can get out of here. Leave now. You’re free. You don’t have to be a slave to this thing.”
“I’m not free! That fucking guitar!”
Alan put his hands on his shoulders, and when Francis turned, he saw he was crying. “I’m getting you out of here.” He grabbed the boy’s arm.
“I can’t.” Francis shook his head and jerked away.
“Why not? There’s the van. We’re all packed. We go together. Protect each other.”
“Because if I don’t sing tonight, the final song won’t work later.”
“You can sing it when we’re safe. When we know we’re safe.”
“It doesn’t work like that. White Owl needs it, and the people who come tonight need it. If I don’t sing, they can’t get encrypted, and the hunters will always find them.”
Alan loathed the burden that had been placed on the young boy’s shoulders. This White Owl, these hunters.
“The final song, what’s that?”
“It’s the song that will finish her work. And it’s gonna help the Viking find the Dreamer.”
“The Viking? Dreamer? Francis… I don’t understand.”
The boy reached up and held his face. His hands were cold. Then he threw his arms around him and laid his head on his breast. “I don’t know. I only know my part, and if I don’t do it, a lot of Majis are going to die.”
He pulled away, and Alan felt the polar wind hit his chest.
“I gotta go,” he said, kicking through the drift and heading to the house. As he vanished into the snow, he shouted back triumphantly. “Don’t worry about the cold, Alan! There’s something beyond, something more!”