“That’s not true. I only gave her a place to stay after he hit her. Did you see her black eye?”
“Aye, but he’s worried about more than that. A girl of her age.”
Now Ray understood. “I need to make this perfectly clear: I swear to you that my relationship with Molly is … was … totally innocent. I never laid a hand on her. If Pitcairn doesn’t believe me there’s not a thing I can do about it, but that’s the truth.”
Farkas appeared relieved. “I am glad to hear that,” he said. “However, you of all people should appreciate the distinction between perception and reality. I’ll talk to him. Sometimes he listens to me, although most of the time he doesn’t.”
“What should I do?” Ray asked.
“If you decide to reload that shotgun of yours, please do mind the safety. Many thanks for the whisky. I should be getting back.”
“But you just got here. How about a refill?”
“I’d love to, Ray. Next time, next time.”
Something didn’t feel right. Farkas had come a long way just to stop in for a quick drink. He had something up his sleeve beyond lugging a case of whisky through the mud. Maybe it was an espionage mission. That was it. Farkas was serving as a spy for the rest of the island. He had infiltrated the foreign enemy’s compound in order to collect intelligence. The locals were no doubt sitting around at the hotel lounge waiting for him to report back. “Farkas, did you come all the way up here to find out if I fucked Molly?”
“Not precisely, no,” he said, but he looked guilty. “I’ve come to deliver your whisky and your mail. Some of it looked important.” He stood and handed over a large paper bag full of envelopes.
Maybe that was all there was to his visit after all — the mail. Farkas seemed like a good guy, even if he was delusional. “Thank you, I appreciate this a lot,” Ray said. “It’s difficult being so out of touch. I came here with all kinds of romantic notions of communing with nature or whatever, and for a while I felt like I was getting close, but it ultimately hasn’t really worked out.”
“Give it time, Ray. Give it time. Thanks again for the whisky. I suppose I’ll see you in Craighouse next Friday evening. You’ll be joining in the carnage, is that right?”
“The hunt — yes. I wouldn’t miss the chance to practice my aim.”
“I wouldn’t think so. I’ll come meet you at the end of the public road, save you a bit of a walk.”
“You’re obviously a very good sport about all of this, so let me ask you something. How do you know you’re a werewolf? You have to admit that it sounds a bit far-fetched. What evidence do you have?”
Farkas took a deep breath. “To tell you the honest truth, I don’t think in terms of evidence. I have memories of doing things — atrocious, horrible things beyond the ken of mankind. They’re more like visions or dreams than memories, but they’re as real as you or me. There comes a time every so often, usually around the time of the new moon, when I cannot control my actions, when my body operates at odds with my best rational thoughts. I hate it. I hate it more than I could possibly convey to you. I’m not an educated man, but I know what I know, and I know that I’m capable of terrible things.”
“Aren’t we all.”
“Aye, but until you’ve awoken with the taste of blood so strong on your lips, and tufts of some pelt beneath your nails, you cannot hope to understand the things I’ve done.”
“Have you considered the possibility — and I hope you’ll forgive me for this — have you ever wondered if you’re delusional?”
“Ray, I pray that I’m delusional because that would be preferable to the waking nightmares I’ve had all these years. And now I should be off. Good night.”
From the doorway, Ray watched Farkas’s progress into the utter darkness of Jura. A biblical swarm of insects sought the light of the sitting room, so he went in and poured another drink, and then another. Farkas didn’t sound crazy, except that he kind of did.
It was a good hour before Ray felt ready to read his mail. A black, imageless postcard read “Rio de Janeiro At Night” on one side. On the other:
Ray, I hope you still
feel as optimistic as
I do. With love — f.
He was overjoyed to learn that Flora was still thinking about him. He read her haiku again and again looking for clues about the true nature of their relationship. “With love,” it said. He then opened the three identical greeting cards:
Thinking of you
and wishing you all
the blessings of our
Lord and Savior.
Next he tore into the large envelope from Helen. She had used her personal stationery, not her lawyer’s, and had had it reprinted to redact his name from her own. He scanned the cover letter for the only news that really mattered … and … there it was. Molly would be ecstatic.
Helen had agreed to his final and somewhat awkward stipulation of the divorce settlement, perhaps in violation of her own precious ethical standards: upon the successful completion of the minimum requirements of admission, Molly Pitcairn was to receive a full, four-year scholarship to attend the university where Helen taught. The offer included a generous housing stipend and a work-study job in the college of fine arts to cover additional expenses. Ray had it in writing. He had secured Molly’s ticket off Jura and couldn’t wait to tell her. Her father would be furious, perhaps murderously so, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Ray had acted in Molly’s best interests and anyone who didn’t like it would be cordially invited to go fuck himself.
In exchange for the scholarship, Ray had surrendered all rights to his share of the condo and agreed not to pursue additional monies from Helen. He was now broke. It felt liberating.
HE FOUND A PEWTER flask under the sink and filled it with a young and lightly peated scotch, tucked the legs of his trousers into his socks, and without locking the door behind him trekked out to meet Farkas, who simultaneously was and was not a werewolf. The shotgun he left behind. Ray had nearly killed himself and, besides, a real weapon would never work against an imaginary beast.
Hiking to the public road would be some of his greatest physical exertion since Molly’s abduction. Jura’s terrain had all but destroyed his canvas sneakers. The blisters under his socks begged to come out for an encore; he would need to finally pick up a pair of wellingtons from Mrs. Bennett if she was still open. Whisky formed a warm kiddie pool in his belly. He drank half the flask before he got up the hill and past sight of Barnhill.
The evening grew colder and worked its way through his sweater, his feet ached, and although he wasn’t much closer to piecing together the bits of his fractured mind he felt something like happiness about the night ready to unfold, about participating in a werewolf hunt on the Isle of Jura on the night of the summer solstice.
Farkas stood waiting for him next to his compact car, an Eastern European model that had gone out of production shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “You can throw that shite on the seat into the back.”
“Good to see you, Farkas. What can I expect from this affair tonight?”
“I don’t fully participate, for reasons you can appreciate, so I can’t rightly say. But if these goings-on are at all consistent with every other aspect of life on Jura, it’s fair to warn you to keep your expectations to a minimum.”