cleaning his house, taking him to his chemo sessions, keeping him company, being there for him the way he had been there for her. Other relatives called once or twice a week, a few had even stopped by Cedar City for a quick weekend visit, but she was the only one with him day in and day out. It was emotionally draining, and she'd felt sad and angry, depressed and guilty, all of the usual emotions a person experienced sitting helplessly by, watching a loved one die. But now she was also afraid. Because now he was walking.
She didn't know what to make of this, didn't know what to do. He was fading fast. The color in his face was, if anything, even worse than it had been before: white and pale and dry. But he was now pacing around the perimeter of his room, when for the past six days he had been unable to get out of bed at all. He looked like death warmed over, and the juxtaposition of his cancer-ravaged body with this strong purposeful stride that seemed not to be his but appeared to have taken over him, forcing his body to go along with its aggressively inhuman rhythm, terrified her.
The hospital had support groups for relatives of cancer patients, doctors and psychologists who were willing to provide advice and assistance, but the thought of turning to one of those people about this was out of the question. At work, she thought about telling Donise, the only person at the store with whom she was at all close, but Donise had her own family problems, and the two of them were not yet intimate enough that she felt Comfortable imposing upon her friend.
She should really be talking to his doctors. This was not a feeling or an emotion. This was something physical, concrete, an action that could be seen and measured and documented. He needed to be examined by a professional, and it was her responsibility to call the hospital and tell someone.
But she didn't want to.
She was afraid.
He had started walking the day before yesterday, and she did not think he had stopped since. It could not be good for his condition, but she still did not want to alert the doctors. She had the sense that this was entirely unconnected to his cancer, that its cause was above and beyond anything with which she was familiar, and that no doctor on earth would be able to tell her what was happening.
She did not want to hear that.
And she did not want to know what was behind this unless it was simple, logical, and completely ordinary.
The truth was, she wanted her uncle to die.
It was a hard thing to admit, but at this point, she honestly felt that death would be better for him, for her and for the rest of the family.
He had nothing to look forward to other than increased pain and decreased quality of life.
She drove straight home after work. She could see from the street that there was a crowd of kids gathered around the duplex, and the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that it had something to do with her uncle. Sure enough, he came walking around the side of the house, wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. The kids started laughing and yelling, throwing dirt clods at him. One hit the side of his face, another clump of mud spattered against his bare chest, but he seemed oblivious and kept walking, never varying in his stride.
Janet slammed to a halt in front of the driveway and ran out of her car, furious. The kids scattered at her approach, and she yelled at them that she was going to tell their parents.
Her uncle had disappeared around the east side of the duplex, and she chased after him, catching up to him in the backyard.
'Uncle John!' she called, but he did not stop or slow down. He continued walking, moving past the stunted juniper tree and around the opposite side of the duplex. She ran and caught up with him.
'Let's go inside. Come on.' She reached out, grabbed his wrist, but then instantly recoiled. His skin-was cold and rubbery, lifeless, and the muscles beneath felt lax and totally without tension.
He was dead.
She knew it instinctively, and she was filled with horror and revulsion as she dropped his hand and backed away. He continued walking, ignoring her, his dead eyes stating at a fixed point in the sky, his mouth hanging slightly open, a hint of tongue poking between parted teeth.
She followed him to the front, ran up the porch steps into the house, closed and locked the door.
Only then did she start to scream.
Then
Outside, winter winds were howling through the canyon.
William lay awake in the darkness, next to the sleeping Isabella, feeling her comforting warmth beneath the quilt. Her skin was so smooth, she seemed so soft when she was asleep, but there was an inner core of iron within her, and whether this was hardness or strength he had never been able to tell. Her gifts were obviously powerful, very powerful greater perhaps than his own, but this he knew only through conversation and observation. She had told him of conjurings she'd performed, and he had seen her do magic that was beyond the capabilities of anyone else in Wolf Canyon. But he could sense nothing from her. He felt no power, could not read her or in any way gauge her abilities objectively. She was a cipher to him--to all of them, he suspected--and there were times that he wished he had never brought her back to Wolf Canyon.
But he loved her, loved her deeply, passionately, obsessively and that made up for all doubts and questions, over came all regrets.
He closed his eyes, tried to sleep. He was riding up the canyon tomorrow. According to Joseph, who had just re turned from a cattle-buying trip to Prescott, a family in a wagon had set up camp at the head of the canyon next to the river. Ordinarily, that would not be a problem, but Joseph said that it looked like this family was fixing to stay. The
man had all sorts of gold-mining equipment, sluice boxes and the like, and was planning to stake a claim on their land.
Isabella had wanted to go, but William had overruled her and said that he would take care of the problem. She'd known why he didn't want her to accompany him, and she'd only looked at him in that hard way she had and said, 'Make sure you do, take care of it.'
'I will,' he told her.
His greatest regret had always been that Isabella was not able to bear him children, that even their combined powers had not been enough to create life from their loins. But for the first time he thought that that might be for the best. He was not sure what kind of mother she would be and was not at all certain that he wanted to see the type of child she would produce.
The night wore on, the wind eventually dying down, but he could not seem to fall asleep naturally, so William wove a spell about himself, inducing sleep and guaranteeing that he would awaken just before dawn.
He set out immediately after a quick breakfast of steak and eggs.
Isabella warned him once again that he had better get rid of the interlopers, and he assured her once more that he would do so.
It was a half-day's journey to the head of the canyon, and he followed the path of the river, passing through narrow marshy stretches where ferns grew high above his head in the cracks of the rock wails, tiding over wide sections of sand and boulders as the canyon expanded outward, the trees and plants remaining close to the cliffs, the open middle area arid and dry save for the banks immediately flanking the flowing water.
It was nearly noon when he reached his destination. There was indeed a family camped at the head of the canyon. They were living out of their wagon, but foundation space for a cabin had been cleared next to a small stand
of cottonwoods, and it seemed obvious that they were planning to settle here.
A woman was kneading dough on a flattened board stretched between two rocks, while a young boy watched her from his perch atop another ock. A heavy, bearded man was standing shiftless and shoeless next to the river, attempting to push a large wood-and-metal contraption into the water.
'Hello!' William called, dismounting from his horse. All three looked up, and the bearded man scowled,
