Blackfly Season

50

RED BEAR DROVE THE BMW past the eagle sign and into the camp. Leon’s Trans Am was gone; he was in town looking for Terri Tait. Red Bear went over to his temple and listened for a few moments. No sounds from within. He took his parcels out of the trunk and went into his cabin.

He took a long hot shower and, afterwards, spent considerable time drying his hair.

Then, still naked, he surveyed his packages, all of which he’d ordered over the Internet to be delivered to a rented postbox. He opened a medium-sized parcel first. Inside was a wooden case, only pine but well carpentered, with neatly fitted brass hinges that worked smoothly. He lifted the lid to reveal a Northern Industrial butcher’s handsaw, set in a silk lining. The blade was highly carbonized steel and measured a full twelve inches; the rosewood handle fit his hand as if custom made.

From another package he pulled out a set of Brennan butcher knives, ergonomically designed, according to the accompanying literature, “to reduce fatigue and wrist strain in your meat department. The upright handle allows YOU to control the blade.”

Then there was the commercial-grade Forschner five-inch boning knife with the famous Forschner blade—high carbon, stainless steel, hand-finished in Switzerland. The rosewood handle was a plus.

There was a five-inch lamb skinner with a cheap-looking nylon handle that didn’t please him at all. And a six-inch Microban skinning blade, which did. He took out a ten-inch semi-flexible slicer, a seven-inch fillet knife with one of those disgusting Fibrox handles, and a Swibo sticking knife with a stiff blade. Several functions for that one presented themselves to him in a dreamy way.

In a separate box, he found the Henckels International Classic Meat Cleaver. Heavy, the way a meat cleaver should be, “so IT does the work.” The steel alloy was lesser quality than a top-of-the-line item, but the handle had been specially moulded for small hands like Red Bear’s.

He set out his new blades beside his Chef’s Choice 3-Stage Diamond Hone Professional Sharpener. It made a pleasant hum when empty, and a soothing grinding sound with a knife in place. He loved the way the grooves held the blades just so, setting exactly the right edge whether straight, curved or serrated.

Afterwards, he switched off the lights. In the upper left quadrant of his window, the last of the old moon formed a dull, orange crescent. Wisps of cloud drifted from its lower horn. Tomorrow night, it would be a new moon. There would be nights and nights to feed the nganga. He would call forth the most powerful spirit of his magical career.

The moonlight glistened on his naked arms and legs. He took up the sticking knife, with its thin, needlelike blade, and hefted it in his left hand. In his right, he took hold of the Forschner. He struck poses before the full-length mirror. He began to dance. The blades flashed in the moonlight, his muscles rippled. Colours flowed in his vision, scarlet and crimson and, richest of all—the colour of blood in the moonlight—deep black.