North Woods by Daniel Mason

Author:Daniel Mason [Mason, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2023-09-19T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

“Catamount, Madame Rossi, Puma concolor, known also as the cougar, the mountain lion, the panther. Extraordinarily rare these days. She has been stuffed as I apprehended her, in the moment of the attack.”

They were in his study, a grand room in the new house, crowded with animals. By the window: the panther. On the dresser: a large, four-tusked creature that she had first thought to be the whim of a taxidermist, but which Mr. Farnsworth had explained was a warthog, and one that had also attacked him. He would show her the scar, but it was a bit high on the leg. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, smoking a pipe, dressed in an olive hunter’s jacket of worsted wool. She below him, on the couch; a zebra carpet with a raised head lay between them. On the desk: a tray, a decanter of whiskey, two glasses, a knife, a pheasant, a ruffed grouse.

For the past two hours, he had given her a tour of the premises, during which they had discussed the history of venery (“such an odd word, that means both the hunt and conjugal pleasure”), differences in hunting rules and regulations in the states of New York and Massachusetts, the grouse (it really had been lovely, followed him like a puppy), how long a man could live only on rabbit (not long) versus opossum (fattier, thus longer), and the Indian practice of polygamy, a topic on which he’d made some study (he had a manuscript in progress, should she like to see).

She listened patiently, mostly seeking anything that might be useful for the séance. But the tour of the home had yielded little by way of archaeology, for he’d kept but some dressers from the prior owner, a grandfather clock of Revolutionary vintage, a kitchen table, a bed.

“Ah?” For a bed, at least, was germane to the troubles.

“But the ghosts, Madame Rossi, hardly confine themselves to the bed.”

And he had shown her the new ceilings of printed metal, the William Morris wallpaper, the Turkish rugs. The chimney needed mortaring, and there was still a draft in places—they would need to reframe the windows. He hoped that this had not disturbed her sleep.

The only thing that had disturbed her sleep was the porcupine.

“No celestial couplings?” he asked.

She recognized the lidded gaze that had passed over her figure at the pitch of last night’s feast.

“No couplings, Mr. Farnsworth. It was a very deep sleep.”

She wondered how early he had started on the whiskey. Drinking was not unreasonable, given the situation. His wife had taken ill after last night’s conversation and, despite her bromides, passed much of the small hours assaulted by another ghostly performance.

One of the dogs stirred by the fireplace, rose, and trotted over. Mr. Farnsworth bent to feed it something from his pocket, then resumed his regal posture. “It is all in her imagination, isn’t it?”

Anastasia was unprepared for the directness of the question.

“Sorry?”

“This bacchanal. The voices.”

“Oh, I do not know yet, Mr.

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