smokeSCREEN: book5IVE

"Wruff."

I quickly toss the envelope and book, pocketing the ring.

I had been quiet – he's usually a heaver sleeper. Shit.

"Yarf," I bark back.

And turning to the doorway, he's not there.

"Cypress?"

"Wruff." Behind me. And I spin to see a black wolf with gold eyes, grinning at me.

Breathing smoke in the frigid moonlight.

I can only stare. And stare. And stare. And finger the ring in my pocket. And stare. And scream as he trots forward. I slam the door and spin, crashing into Cypress's chest.

"Oh, God!" I shriek, but he calms me. He wants to know what's the matter. And why am I up? And I tell him. And he pulls the door open so the wolf can trot inside. "Cypress, what are you-"

"It's okay, she's just a puppy."

Funny, it seemed huge outside.

"Looks like someone got lost or something, huh?" He's petting it. He's petting the fucking wolf. If I had just smacked it around, maybe it would have gone away. Watching him there on the kitchen floor, petting this black wolf, I'm terrified again. But he just grins up at me. "What should we call her?"

* * *

A winter can pass quickly, chopping wood and playing chess. Reading a library of novels and making love.

I used to loathe the cold. Since the day on the beach, I've developed a tolerance and strange affection for it. I love the snow on my face now. On my back. Mmm.

The chess games have become our evening routine, along with a half-hour of reading each. Otherwise, he's been studying horticulture in the hopes of developing some truly grand smoke. When he's not playing with the wolf.

Her name is Douglas, for some reason. I've never voiced my obvious concerns to him about the innate symbolism, but he himself brought it up, and assured me they're entirely separate. Drac was all in his head, and Douglas is a real wolf, who's taken a shine to both of us. In my moments of weakness, I've even returned the cused beast's affection, only to plot its untimely demise later.

Am I a terrible person? For wanting to kill a dog?

I can't be the first woman who's disliked her boyfriend's pet.

I haven't thought about killing Douglas for a while, now. But somehow that wolf knows I hated her from the beginning. Now when we walk through the woods, we're pretty much just following Douglas as she investigates new and exciting smells here and there. She scampers ahead of us on her long wolf-legs, and Cypress and I follow casually behind, wrapped in our winter's best.

Cypress has given me no reason to think he'll have a relapse. Quite the contrary, he seems perfect. He is sharp. Aware. Ever-energized, yet calm.

"She's looking better," he says. I nod.

"Getting fat."

"We found her mother's body the other night," he says.

"What did she do?"

"Nothing. Passed right by her."

"How could you tell?"

"I knew."

"What do you mean, you 'knew'?"

"She told me. Sort of."

"What?"

He sighs.

"We need to have a talk."

My stomach sinks. Nothing good starts that way. But, of course, I'm required by law to say;

"O-okay."

"Well… it kinda' starts with the ring," he says, lighting a smoke as my sunken stomach begins to twist in upon itself, ravaged by jagged butter-moths that shred you on the inside.

"Okay."

"I used to meditate with it, remember?"

"Yeah."

"And this was when I was with my Dad. Wicked, wicked strong meditation. And when I put it on back at the Forks, I could still do it. Like that." He snaps his fingers.

"…do what?"

"Astral projection. Deep meditation, instantly."

"Oh, gimmie a break…"

"Listen, now," he says, stopping in his tracks and waiting for me to nod. "I was taught this by my Father, but I could only ever do it with that ring on my finger. But I've been able to meditate a lot lately. And I find I'm able to do it instantaneously. Without the ring."

"So, what? You're enlightened?"

"I don't think so. I can only go two miles or so. I've just been training my mind to obey me. I won't let it break loose on me again." But I'm shaking my head. "You don't believe that the mind is something separate from the body? Not just a series of cells and vessels, but simply a unique energy?" he asks.

"Well, I guess I do, but-"

"Douglas is fine – she's just barking at a goose that came back early," he says.

"I didn't say anything about Douglas."

"But you were thinking about her."

"What am I thinking now?"

"You want this," he says, handing me the cigarette.

A Canada goose honks on its way overhead, and I burn the cigarette down. He's completely right.

"You're reading my mind?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of?"

"It's not like I go in and look around. It's more just… I understand you sort of. I see it all coming."

"What?"

"Think of a number."

"How big of a number?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Okay."

"One, two, eight, nineteen, two hundred and twelve, four hundred and six, nine. And I didn't say a series of numbers, I just said one," he says.

I had been having trouble settling on a number to think of. He'd just been naming off evey number I'd considered.

"…stop it."

"Okay," he nods, trotting west.

"Douglas is that way," I tell him. He stops and turns to me, flashing those amazing blue eyes.

"…are you sure?" he says.

But Douglas is right where he says she'll be.

He tells me he finds himself aware. He is speaking to me. And meditating. And projecting himself. And smoking. And keeping an eye on anything that catches his interest. He is strangely and constantly aware, he tells me, of everything for about fifty yards. If he concentrates, he can go ten miles.

I ask if he always knows what I'm thinking.

He tells me no. Today's the first time he looked. But only to show me.

"But you know what I'm feeling?"

"Well… you can read my body language, right?"

"Yeah."

"It's like that – but instead of seeing your feelings, I feel them. Or I just know them.

"Is this how you always know when I'm hungry?"

"No – your stomache growls."

We stop trudging through the snow and turn to face each other, and he smiles gently, leaning in to kiss me.

"Can anyone do it?"

"Do you want me to teach you?"

I have to think about it – I really do.

But I nod, as Douglas comes bounding through the snow at us.

"Why do you think she was so friendly?" I ask, kneeling to scratch her ears. "They're usually so aggressive."

"She knew her mother was dead – she thought we might help her."

Douglas snaps at me now. I shriek, jumping back. Cypress cuffs her once and yells at her. She goes dashing into the woods.

"Still think she likes me?" I ask.

"I dunno – that was weird."

"Let's go back."

* * *

* * *

light up a cigarette, she said and / calm the fuck down / you got a serious side to you that could / give the whole world a frown // now nothing really matters to me // you see i've got these holes in my gown / let your eyes lose their focus a little / let your guard come down.

* * *

* * *

Cypress walks alone through a large house. He is not afraid, or calm, but in a state of savage alertness. He is loaded down with weapons, but wolf-trots quickly from nook to nook, slaughtering as he does. It's a spinning orchestra of bullets and flashing steel as he moves – he doesn't even seem to look at them as they fall beside, behind, around him. He kills indescriminately. Nothing will ever stop him.

Not this time.

He slips into an elevator and presses for the first floor. Pulling up two shotguns, he hits the button for the second floor as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open.

Boom. Boomboom. Boom. Five fall. There are eight more. As the doors close he screams; "I'll be back!" Whispering to himself; "With a bigger gun…" As the shotguns hit the floor, he heaves a massive assault rifle from his back – twelve-millimetre rounds. He hits the button for the first floor again, and the doors swing open. They're ready for him, but not for the gun, and most of them freeze up at the sight of it as the rounds tear through them. He fires until it's empty, then drops the huge device on top of the shotguns and stalks into the lobby, drawing his sword-

//

My eyes pop open. I'd rather not see any more. Sitting up, the heavy covers fall off me as I reach for my journal and pen.

It's not a real journal – but I've been using it to write down dreams, when I remember them. Otherwise, I always forget them. This wasn't a dream. This was different. The pen scratches on the old rough paper, but Cypress doesn't stir beside me. It wasn't a dream. I wasn't sleeping. I had been meditating. But I was lying down.

I write everything I can remember, and by the time I'm done, Cypress is waking up.

"I had a dream," he says, grinning. "But not just a dream – it was… where's my pen?" He scribbles for a few minutes before handing the pad to me. An insistent scratching sounds at the door, and he gets up to let Douglas in as I read.

Cypress's elegant, energetic, chicken-scratch penmanship comes alive in my head;

He's walking down the docks, a crew of friends tending to a ship behind him. His daughter sits on a post at the edge of the docks, rapping to herself;

"in confrontation ain't no conversation if you feel / you're in violation, any hesitation'll get you killed / if you feel it kill it if you conceal it, reveal it / being reasonable will leave you full of bullets pull it / squeeze it till its empty tempt me push me pussies i need a good reason to give this trigger a good squeeze…" she fumbles, and he says;

"'Cause i'm a solider-" They finish together.

"these shoulders holds up so much they won't budge / i'll never fall or fold up i'm a solider / i'm a soldier / even if my collar bones crush or crumble i will never slip or stumble / i'm a soldier" she grins as they walk into the town.

A town on the beach. But not Grand Beach. It's the ocean.

"Where'd you hear that?" he says.

"Poetry class," she tells him. She has red hair – like Michelle. She looks a lot like Michelle, actually. Same eyes. Same hair. Different jawline – more delicate. "They said it's what you listened to at Grand Forks."

"The Massacre of Grand Forks – remember that," Cypress reminds her, but she grins.

"Can you still do it?" she asks. He shrugs.

"Do you really want to know?"

"C'mon, Daddy…"

He kneels beside her and opens his eyes wide, staring hard at her.

"I'll tell you when you're older," he says, standing and taking her hand. "What else did you learn?"

"Mom says rap isn't art."

"Is poetry art?"

"Yes."

"What is poetry?"

"A story or something that rhymes."

"Always?"

"No," she shakes her red hair.

"If you add swears, is it less art?"

"No. But it's pretty raunchy stuff."

"The purpose of art is to present ideas, Sophie. And to challenge people's thinking."

"So rap is art?" she asks. He shrugs, and snatches away a cigarette before she can light it.

"Sure. A pattern on a cave wall is art. Where did you get this?"

"Tommy Beaudry."

"How long have you known this Tommy?"

"He's in my class."

"Remember when I said that the day is like a cake? There's only so many slices – what you can do with your time, your thoughts?"

"Yes," she nods as they turn down a sidestreet – it's cobblestone.

"If you smoke a cigarette, soon cigarettes will take up part of that pie. It takes up your thoughts. It becomes a priority, and it becomes a stressor." He kneels down again and smiles at her, holding up the cigarette. "You're twelve," he says. "Do you really want this back?" She just narrows her eyes at him.

"You can have it," she sneers. He sticks it between his lips and lights it.

"Thanks, I was dyin' for one."

"Don't let Mom see," she tells him.

"You got a mint?"

I set the journal on the bed and look up to see him brushing his teeth.

"You always remember so much," I tell him.

"But isn't that amazing?" he says.

"Why?"

"I've never heard that song."

"You think it's a vision?"

"Feels like one." He spits in the sink and turns on the water, rinsing his mouth twice.

"So what does that mean? Michelle will have your kid? Perfect."

"Crow," he grins, leaning on the doorframe. And I'm relaxed. God, he's cut. Chiseled, I mean. What a body. "That just means… maybe everyone will be satisfied, one day. Not just us."

I'm grinning back.

"You're satisfied right now?" I ask. He nods. He thinks about it – his brow furrows – but he still nods. "…not really?" I say. "Doug, get off the bed."

The wolf scrambles across the hardwood on her way down the hall. He stares after her.

"Maybe Douglas is a little creepy," he says. "…did you get that vibe?"

"That she hates me?"

"She really hates you," he nods.

"Good – I hate her too."

"Yeah, she knows."

"Is she gonna' attack me?"

"No – she knows if she does, I'll kill her."

"You will?"

"Yup," he picks me up, spinning me once. "Are you satisfied?"

"Well, not yet, but the night is young…" I can't help laughing. As he lets me down, my lips brush his face. He's kissing me, and we fall onto the bed.

And as we kiss, I feel… something. Someone watching me. Looking up, Douglas's gold eyes are staring me in the face, and I shriek. Douglas barks, and Cypress stands to speak sternly to her. She scampers away, and he follows her all the way to the kitchen door, shooing her out into the night. She barks like mad the whole time.

As he appears in the doorway, she's howling outside. And we're not in the mood any more. Instead, we talk about the books we're reading. We have a chess game, and then we retire to bed again. Douglas hasn't made a sound in a while.

Soon he's kissing my throat and I'm pushing him down – holding him down as I run my lips down his torso. Over his chest, across his stomach, looking up and smiling. Then screaming and falling off the bed. Cypress spins to see Douglas staring – staring down at us from a window. Now she begins to howl again.

"Goddamnit," Cypress throws the covers away and gives me a quick peck on the cheek before pulling on his pants and leaving the cottage. I can hear him shouting at her. Now silence.

Silence.

Nothing.

"Cypress?" I say, with a smile in my voice.

Nothing.

"Cypress!"

I pull on my slippers and pad down the hall into the kitchen – out the open door into the falling snow. There he is – fifty yards away, standing over Douglas. The wolf stares up at him, and they are both still as the snow falls on them.

"Cypress?" I call again. He doesn't turn.

I push through the snow towards them – they both seem entranced. They're just staring at each other.

"Cypress, what is it?"

"Douglas wants to leave," he says. "She wants to head south."

"Why?"

"I told her that's where the Old Ones probably are."

"Tell her that's why we're human and she's a dog – we're smarter than that."

I start back towards the house, but he doesn't follow. I trudge back.

"Cypress, it's a dog – that's all – just a dog. Having its little doggie thoughts."

"She says I should dig in front of the big oak over there. Says there's something in there that will make me see things different."

My heart stops. If I wasn't already white from the cold, I am now.

"Will I find something?"

"Dig if you want to. If I did bury something, it would have been in everyone's best interests. Or do you trust fuckin' Cujo over me?"

"So there is something." His eyes dart up to me, now. They're sharp. But there is love. And fear. "…but I shouldn't see it." My mouth is dry. "I trust you."

Douglas explodes to life, barking at me. Sharp wolf-fanges bared and silver in the moonlight.

"Shut up!" Cypress calls at her, looking back to me. "I trust you."

"Go inside," I tell him, "keep the dog with you. I'll be back in a bit."

Douglas starts barking again, but he nods, kisses me, and starts off towards the house. She doesn't stop barking, but still follows him obediently.

I'm shivvering – quaking. But I hear him call over his shoulder;

"The shovel's in the shed."

* * *

* * *

ya'all c'mon now / let's get on down / let's do-si-do now / we gon' have a good ol' time / don't be scared cus there's there ain't nu'n t'worry 'bout / let yer hair down / an' square dance with me

* * *

* * *

Something told me when I was getting my robe on, 'wear your heavy jacket', but I didn't listen. I tied my robe extra-tight and walked out into the snow.

And now, shaking and shivvering, I dig in the frozen sand for the ring a dog told Cypress about. I suppose life can be funny.

The sand begins to break apart more easily after a foot or so, and I dig with bone-white fingers on my knees until I feel something small, hard and cold.

I stare at the ring for a long, long, long time. I want to be sure. Turning around, the lights in the house are on. Cypress can't see what's outside.

I nod and start off over the snowcovered dunes, to hide it better than the first time.

I quickly find myself in the forest, and it's snowing harder than before. Getting windy too.

For a second, I suppose I might die trying to get rid of this damned ring. I decide this random place is as good as any to stop, and hold the ring in my teeth as I place the shovel. I'm shaking too much, and my teeth hurt against the ring. I pull it out and think.

It might fit on my thumb.

When I move to put it on, I stop. For some reason, I have to think about it, but it fits alright and I turn to digging. I don't remember how long I dig for, or the exact moment I threw the ring in. But at some point I must have dug down far into the frozen earth. Clumps of it are everywhere, and a mocha-fudge concoction of snow and earth fills the hole.

As I start back I notice the storm has stopped.

My hand is cold.

But I keep walking.

I still can't see the house in the early-morning light, but it's not so bad any more. I'm not so cold. The wind feels almost warm. I trudge on and on – not really thinking. Just walking. Cypress is there. Stepping into the house, I take a deep breath of the warm air and pass out.

* * *

I wake up wrapped in Cypress. He strokes my forehead, smiles at me, tells me to get some rest. Everything is fine. In the morning, we need to have a talk.

* * *

I wander out of the bedroom the next morning in a fuzzy skirt and a tank top. The floor is cool on my bare feet, and I can hear Cypress cooking. He always sings to himself while he cooks. Today, he's chosen an eclectic rap;

"'Oh Mr Kirk, I'm as upset as you to learn of Dexter's truancy, but surely, expulsion is not the answer!'

'I'm afraid expulsion is the only answer, it's the opinion of the entire staff that Dexter is criminally insane-sane-sane…'"

As he stirs what smells like eggs, he mimics the sounds of a band;

"Bah..ba-bahhhnah… Bah..ba-bahhhnah…That boy needs therapy, pyschosomatic. That boy needs therapy, purely pyschosomatic / that boy needs therapy / lie down on the couch / what does that mean? / you're a nut! / you're crazy in the coconut! / what does that mean? / that boy needs therapy / i'm gonna kill you / that boy needs therapy / grab a kazoo / let's have a duel / when i count three…"

"Morning," I say.

"Afternoon," he grins, turning to me with a pair of plates. I love watching him smile. "Hungry?"