Primordial by David wood & Alan Baxter

Author:David wood & Alan Baxter
Language: ara
Format: epub
Publisher: Cohesion Press
Published: 2017-02-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Old Mo sat outside his shack, face turned up to the clouds. Bad weather was coming. Not for a couple of days, probably, but storms were on the way. He could smell it on the wind, a gift he had inherited from his grandfather. Or perhaps he’d learned it. It was long enough ago that he couldn’t remember. He smelled wood smoke on the air too, and pine scents from the forest. The lake mud was a constant and, for Mo, reassuring aroma. The water was a good three hundred yards from his home, but its presence made itself felt in all the senses. He looked down from the overcast sky with a frown.

Something else hung in the ether that he was less able to identify, but whatever it was, it made him nervous. Those two Americans had put him on edge, left him unsettled since their visit. No, she was American. The guy was from somewhere else, but Mo couldn’t place where exactly. Not British. Australia maybe, or New Zealand. It didn’t matter, the lake was sometimes subject to visitors, and they rarely did any good except bring a few tourist dollars into town. But those two were different and, if his instincts were correct, quite possibly would have a lasting effect on the place. Old Mo would prefer they didn’t. He liked things to stay the same. Change of any kind was not something he relished.

He returned to carving, the small but detailed wooden animals a small source of income from the few shops in town that took the items on consignment. He pressed the sharp edge of the knife against the firm bark, stripping off long, curling slivers and baring the white wood beneath. Soon a recognizable shape would emerge, and then his cuts would become smaller and more precise, until something special appeared. He liked to imagine he wasn’t so much shaping the figure as he was uncovering it, like an archaeologist unearthing an artifact… or opening a grave.

He worked with a deft hand, never cutting himself. He loved knife work, whether it was whittling or something more visceral, like cleaning a fish or field-dressing a deer. It was honest work, simple and effective, and something else for which he had a gift.

He heard someone coming, their footsteps heavy through the trees. It was the walk of someone angry. A shadow appeared, resolving into a familiar shape as it drew closer. Mo sighed as Superintendent Rinne strode up to the cabin.

“It’s happening again!” the policeman said, eyes dark.

Another sigh. “What is?”

“Don’t play coy with me, you know exactly what. They talked to you yet?”

Mo had never liked Rinne, and the man had yet to do anything to change that opinion. “Who?”

Rinne scowled and ground the toe of his boot into the soft dirt. The man was far too easy to annoy. “The nature documentary film crew. If you believe that’s what they really are.”

Mo put down his work and leaned back, the old chair creaking on the wooden porch.

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