Valknut: The Binding Read online

  Valknut: The Binding

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Valknut: The Binding

  Marie M. Loughin

  Smashwords Edition

  Valknut: The Binding is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  places, and incidents are the product of the author’s

  imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living

  or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011 by Marie M. Loughin.

  Cover art and design copyright 2011 by Vanessa Chan

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Ottertail Publishing

  This ebook may not be reproduced in whole or in

  part without the author’s permission.

  Please support the author by purchasing your own copy.

  For more information, please contact the author at

  [email protected] or visit

  http://marieloughin.com

  This book is dedicated to

  Leonard Bishop

  1922 – 2002

  Chapter 1

  The diesel engine rumbled. Lennie Cook felt it through the ground under her feet and convinced herself that she shook from vibrations rather than fear. The roar escalated as the train drew near.

  Too fast. She glanced nervously at the shabby old man beside her. “It’s coming too fast.”

  The man squinted into the westerly sun and waited, dragging on a hand-rolled cigarette. A warm breeze lifted his shaggy hair. Fine lines creased his cheeks, forehead, chin, even his lips, as though the sun had baked away the inessentials beneath. One eye was a sunken lid of puckered flesh. The other glowed crystal blue in the sunlight. He waited a moment more, two clouds streaming from his nose. Then he pinched the burning end of his smoke and dropped the stub into his pocket.

  “Run.”

  So Lennie ran, racing along the tracks, chasing the old man in a spray of cinders. The train gained speed as it left the yard, and her feet flew and her heart filled with the reckless joy of the child she had been. Then a branch caught her leg and she stumbled. The train loomed closer. The old man ran on, swift as a young athlete. Doubt jittered through Lennie’s mind.

  I must be insane to follow this guy.

  But he knew something about her father, maybe even knew where he’d gone. She might not get a better lead. She followed.

  The train caught them and pulled ahead. Two engines on this one. Hot air whipped her face as they went by. Then came the cars—grainers, refrigeration cars, boxcars—avalanching past.

  “This one,” the one-eyed man yelled. He dropped back and drew even with the front of an open boxcar. In one fluid motion, he leaped, caught the door latch, and swung inside.

  Air burned down Lennie’s throat. Her aching legs churned. She thought of her father and mustered a final burst of speed. You sure as hell better be out there, you son of a bitch!

  Then she caught the door latch, felt it jerk her shoulder, and her feet lost the ground. She grabbed hold with the other hand and swung toward the opening. She missed. Her legs banged against the doorframe and fell back into open air. Wheels thundered a few feet away. Sweat slicked her palms and she pictured her body tumbling, rolling under the train, cut in half.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Her legs careened over a pile of rubble. One hand broke loose. The wheels loomed—giant, crushing circular saws. Her other hand somehow stayed hooked on the door latch. Pain screeched through her arm as her body swung and twisted. Her feet clipped the ground and her hold slipped. Before she could fall, a hand shot from the doorway and caught her wrist. She was dragged aboard with agonizing slowness, the hard lip of the doorframe grinding across her ribs and hip bone.

  She huddled on the floor, sides heaving. Shudders ran through her body. Gasping sobs tore her raw lungs. Unable to shake the image of those wheels, spinning and shooting sparks, she curled tightly and wrapped her arms around her head.

  “Easy, there,” someone said. She felt a reassuring pat on her shoulder. The thunder faded to a muted rumble under the metal floor. She was safe inside the boxcar, warm in a patch of sunlight. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths. Pain lanced her strained arm as she pushed herself upright. How had that old man boarded so easily when she, once a star sprinter for her track club, had nearly ended up under its wheels?

  Grimacing, she squinted into the boxcar’s shadowed corners, looking for the one-eyed hobo. “There are easier ways to kill me,” she rasped, rubbing her shoulder. Her bruised legs ached and blood seeped through a new hole in the knee of her jeans. “I might even cooperate, as long as I don’t have to go through that again.”

  “Actually,” came the mild reply, “I think I saved your life.”

  The voice was clearer, younger than the voice of the hobo she had followed. A stranger sat in shadow near the door. She glanced around the boxcar and didn’t see the one-eyed man at all.

  Great. She curled shaking fingers around the canister of pepper spray she carried on a belt loop. Just great. Virtually unarmed and trapped with strange men on a moving boxcar. She hadn’t been this stupid since she tried to follow her father the morning after he had disappeared. An idiot kid with nothing but a book bag stuffed with clothes, chewy granola bars, seven dollars, and her favorite CD.

  She eyed the man, hoping he wasn’t unfriendly. Or too friendly. Maybe she should use the pepper spray now, before things could get ugly. But the wind gusting through the doorway might carry the spray into her own face. She flexed her numb hand and found she could make a fist, though the torn skin on her palm would hurt when feeling returned.

  “Who are you?” she asked. The tremor in her voice made her wince.

  In answer, the stranger slid into the sunlight. He was a little older than she. Or maybe younger—the rails had a way of aging people. He met her eyes, then looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. “Name’s Junkyard Doug. Most call me Junkyard.”

  Lennie relaxed a little. Just a hobo. She had met several while searching train yards and hobo jungles for her father. At worst, they were caustic and reclusive. Some were helpful, even friendly. This one looked better than most, though dust had collected in the creases around his mouth. His face was smooth shaven with a pair of long sideburns. An orange bandana covered brown hair worn in a short ponytail. Metal buttons covered his faded jean jacket, including a smiley face pinned to the breast pocket and a rusted button on the sleeve that said, “Gore in 2000.” Only a little behind the times, Lennie thought wryly.

  The guy seemed shy, probably harmless, and he had saved her life. Nevertheless, she kept her fingers around the pepper spray. “I guess I should thank you. You might have gotten killed right along with me.”

  “No problem.”

  He said nothing more. Just sat quietly, arms draped over crossed legs. She was about to ask where the one-eyed hobo had gone when Junkyard thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and leaned toward her. His face loomed too close, a collection of hard angles that seemed harsh, even sinister. She gasped and pulled away. Her hand convulsed around the pepper spray.

  Junkyard froze, his gaze fixed on the canister. Slowly, he sat back and drew his hand from his pocket. In it were two Twinkies. He held them out to her. “Have one. Sorry I don’t have more to offer you.”

  Lennie stared at the packages and tried to remember how to breathe. Her face burned with embarrassment. She looked up and saw friendly amusement in his eyes. Still, she hesitated before taking one. These Twinkies might be his whole dinner. But then, he might be insulted if she didn’t accept it.

  “Thanks.” Her fingers closed on a package. She flinched at the touch of his calloused palm. “My name is Lennie.”

  The dust that covered the floor of the boxcar now coated her hands as well, so she peeled the wrapper back and ate the Twinkie like a banana. Junkyard ate his cake in three large bites before she could even swallow her first. Then he stuffed the crumpled wrapper in his jacket pocket and resumed his relaxed, cross-legged pose, eyes fixed out the open door.

  The train, which had been paralleling a line of trees, broke into an open field of buckwheat. Millions of tiny flowers blurred past, creating the illusion of a solid white blanket spreading into the distance. It made Lennie think of bees and beehives as she licked the filling out of her Twinkie.

  When the last bite was gone, Junkyard took her wrapper and put it with the other in his jacket pocket. In a noncommittal voice, he said, “Crazy thing you did, trying to catch onto a moving boxcar.”

  “You’re telling me! It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Yes, she wanted to find her father. But she had only intended to flash his photo around to hobos and yardmen, not throw herself onto a speeding train. “I never would have tried it, except that one-eyed man seemed to know what he was doing.”

  The man—what was his name? Rollin
’ Red? Something like that. He’d made it sound so reasonable, like hitching a ride with no idea when or where the train would stop was completely sensible and logical. She struggled to recall what he had said that was so convincing, but her memory of him was hazy, as though she’d met him years ago instead of less than an hour. She couldn’t even remember what he looked like, just an impression of fading red hair and a single eye, as clear as sapphire. It seemed the sum of all human wisdom could be swallowed in its depths.

  He had been in the train yard, sitting on the steps of a locomotive as if waiting for her. She remembered trying to show him her father’s photograph. He hadn’t even glanced at it. “I know who you’re lookin’ for—and I’m thinkin’ it’s about time you found ’im.”

  He’d lifted a closed hand in front of her face and dropped something metallic, round, and heavy that bounced at the end of a silver chain. Tarnished almost black, the object spun slowly for a moment before she recognized it.

  It was her father’s pocket watch.

  With a painful flash of memory, she saw her father in navy blue dress pants and a pinstriped oxford shirt, pressed and neat, smelling of dryer sheets as he kissed her goodbye for the last time. The watch was tucked as always in his front pants pocket, leashed by its silver fob.

  And years later, the same watch dangled from the hand of a red-haired, one-eyed hobo. She reached out tentatively and cupped it, felt its solid weight, the cool metal against her skin.

  “Where did you get this?” she whispered, rubbing the tarnished engravings. But the hobo jerked the watch from her hands. Her fingers knotted around the sudden void. “Hey—give it back!”

  She grabbed for it, but he calmly gathered the chain and shoved the watch into the front pocket of his jeans. A short silver loop stuck out, taunting her. She had never wanted to hit someone so much in her life.

  “It’s your father you’re lookin’ for, ain’t it?” he said. “Well, you jus’ follow me if you wanna find ’im.”

  “Follow you. Right. How dumb do you think I am?”

  But her hands ached where the watch had rested. She wanted it back. Now. She glared into his one shining blue eye.

  Something had happened, then. Something she couldn’t quite remember, and suddenly it had seemed reasonable that she should follow the one-eyed man. In fact, she had no choice. She had to find her father, before it was too late...too late...for what?

  The next thing she knew, she was hanging from the side of a speeding train.

  Junkyard’s voice pulled her out of the memory. She blinked and found him looking at her expectantly. “Uh, sorry,” she said. “I guess I zoned out. Did you say something?”

  “No problem. I was just asking about this one-eyed man. Where did he go?”

  “Didn’t you see him? He climbed on board ahead of me.”

  Junkyard frowned. “Didn’t see anyone else. I was taking a nap. Thought I heard a bird squawking, but it was you yelling.”

  “Well, he must be here somewhere.”

  Lennie leaned into the shadows and let her eyes adjust. Cardboard and scraps of packing material littered the floor. A hand-truck lay on its side against one wall. Nearby sat a thick, six-foot roll of packing paper, crooked and lumpy, as though it had been rolled by a drunk. There was nothing else in the car. Yet she remembered watching the old man swing on board as easily as stepping into a parked truck. Deceptively easy.

  “Where the hell did he go?”

  Junkyard glanced around the boxcar. “Like I said, never saw anyone, one eyed or otherwise. You sure there was someone else?” He eyed her suspiciously. “You don’t look the type to be drinking Sterno.”

  “No, no—there was this old fellow with one eye and wild pink hair. Well, not pink. It was faded red, almost white. Anyway, this guy was going to help me find my dad—” She hesitated. Babbling wouldn’t convince him of her sobriety. “Well, it’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got time. This train doesn’t stop again ’til Minneapolis.”

  “Minneapolis!” She gaped at him. “But my classes start tomorrow! I’ll never make it back on time.”

  She leaned her head out the door. Maybe she could still jump off. She would only have a few miles to walk back.

  “Whoa, there.” Junkyard snagged a belt loop and hauled her back. “Don’t even think about jumping. Try it and you’ll lose more than a little skin. Train’s going near sixty by now.”

  Lennie watched corn blur by. He was right. After postponing college for years to support her mother, she was going to screw up her first semester. She groaned. “How the hell am I going to get back? I left my purse locked in the car. I don’t even have my cell phone.”

  Not that there was anyone she could call for help. Not anymore. She thought of her mother and swallowed hard against the sudden ache in her throat.

  Junkyard shrugged. “I suppose you’ll get back the same way you’re getting there.”

  “Not quite the same. I’ll never try to catch a moving train again.” She slumped against the doorframe. What a mess. And all for nothing—the one-eyed man had vanished as if he never existed.

  Dejected, she stared out the door, watching the miles pile up behind her. The cornfield had ended, and a half-mile of fence strobed by. Then a farmstead swung into view. She smiled at the triangular pig shelters that so delighted her as a child. “Look, Daddy!” she used to squeal from the back seat of the old Ford station wagon. “That farmer is so nice, he’s given each pig his own house!”

  Her father would do a lousy imitation of Porky Pig thanking the kindly farmer, and then bellow his huge belly laugh. Her mother would smile indulgently at the well-worn joke, knitting needles clicking at an afghan that never seemed to get any longer.

  That was before he had deserted them. Before her mother had begun to drink herself to death.

  That ache in her throat wasn’t going away. She blinked back tears and glanced at Junkyard. He had resumed staring out the door as if she weren’t there. What sort of man would leave his family to follow such a dirty, uncomfortable life?

  She dug into her back pocket and pulled out a sealed plastic bag containing a faded photograph of her father, taken during their last family fishing trip. He stood at a lakeshore, extending a small walleye toward the camera. His face looked plumply middle-class and happy. He had taught her to bait her own hook during that trip. She had felt so proud. And he had taken her swimming, throwing her high into the air, a fountain of giggling girl rising in the bright sun to plunge, bubbling, to the sandy lake bottom.

  She couldn’t reconcile that image with the man she had grown to hate.

  Junkyard was studying her when she looked up. She flushed, wondering what he saw. Probably nothing complimentary. She pushed back the tangle of caramel brown hair that was always falling in her face and met his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  He raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Oh?”

  She plunged ahead. “You’re thinking, what’s this scrawny, defenseless, fool of a woman doing riding the rails? Does she think she’s some kind of rail kid?”

  “Well, something like that. You don’t exactly look the part.”

  She bristled at first, but decided to take it as a compliment. “Thanks. And I have no intention of taking up the hobo lifestyle. This was all a big mistake. I was only going to...I just wanted to...uh.”

  There was no sensible explanation for jumping onto a moving train. She wished she had never brought it up. To her relief, Junkyard didn’t comment. Instead, he eyed the photograph in her hand. “That your father?”

  She nodded and handed it to him. “His name’s Jarvis Cook.”

  He smoothed the plastic bag to get a better look. After a moment, he shook his head and handed it back. “Picture’s pretty old. A man could change a lot in that time.”

  “It’s the most recent picture I could find. It was in my mother’s things, along with a letter he wrote the day he left.” She looked at the photograph again and wondered what sorts of lines life had put on her father’s face, whether his transience had made him thin, whether his laugh was still the same. “The letter said he was taking the iron road, like his father before him. My mom never showed it to me. I think she was afraid I’d follow him. He’s been gone ten years.”