He comes upon me by the riverbank, the man with the face like Jack Palance. He stands over me as I lie there and I look up, squinting against the sun glowing around him. His eclipse light makes it hard to see. And he has no business being here, I think.

My squinted impressions come vaguely, but I see that his dark suit is covered in dust. At least I think it's dust. A gold chain swings across his vest, from one side to the other, looped. The crumpled undertaker's hat atop his head sports a single feather. I tilt my face and the feather changes from silhouetted dark to deepest red. He shifts his gaze, looking down at me, and my heart becomes a drum.

I know without knowing that this man has come for us. I lean on my elbows in that chill moment and my thoughts scurry, scared, seeking out my brother. He sits small with his play rabbit, toys scattered around on the wooden floor of our house. The glass doors face the river. He is there for all to see, an offering. This man with the face like Jack Palance has come for all of us. I know he's after John and even after the toy. And I know he's after me.

Behind me lies the house, stilt-walking down the slope with its veranda stretched out toward the river. Beyond runs the rail line and beyond that lies the road. The train track circles the house, sweeping around. The house is wide and white. It stares out over the muddy river, its metal legs braced against the incline. The broad glass doors look out onto the encircling veranda. At times, we have sat there on summer evenings listening to the wind in the trees and the river sliding past.

My thoughts turn to black and white then colour. First comes Rod Steiger, then the two Roberts—first Mitchum, then de Niro.

But this one is Jack Palance—grinning.

He leans forward and, hands on his knees, peers at me. My drum beats louder and the wind stirs, rushing in the trees. My only knowledge is that there is no one to help us; we are alone now. Suddenly, as he peers at me side to side, decked in his undertaker's garb, he reminds me of a crow. I have no time. I have to get my brother away, away from this thing. I scramble backward up the slope. His laughter echoes after me, harsh, like the call of a blackbird, and I hear his footsteps behind me.

I race up the hill. I stagger onto the porch, fling wide the door, and charge inside. My brother looks up at me, not knowing. His face is open and smiling. I'm panting in the middle of the room, watching him there. Then I remember. I bolt the door. I lean backward, breathing deeply, my back pressed against solid wood, not knowing if it's enough. Looking round, I see a rope on a peg by the door, and there, in the small room to the side, the cans of petrol. There lies my answer.

John thinks it’s a game. He takes his fluffy rabbit, stained grey from constant use, one ear hanging loose, and clutches it to his chest as I loop the rope around him. He smiles. I lower him over the veranda and down to the river where he can escape. Just in time, because I can hear the blackbird at the door.

Jack Palance’s shadow draws together in the frosted glass. He's standing there, beyond the door, still. Perhaps he's listening. On tiptoe, I fetch the cans. I draw up the trailing rope and loop it through the handles. Gently, I lower them over the edge, one by one. Then I too climb down. Lifting the cans, I clamber up the slope and away from the house, away from John, away from the toy rabbit. The man is still there searching. I call out loudly to draw him to me.

I heft the gas can and I pour, splashing it this way and that. Leaves, green trees, and a wall of flame to protect the house so he can't get past. I toss the can to one side, empty.

At first, I see him sniffing, then I scramble away, ducking behind trees. He's scenting me now, but the smell of burning confuses his senses and keeps him away. I spot a hiding place and creep toward it. Lowering myself through the grass, I lie, looking up. Blades cover my eyes, and I'm peering through them. My breath is rushing noisily in my ears.

He walks above the hummock where I lie. I see him looking down, tall in his black clothes and flat-topped hat. He's looking down, sniffing the fire and fuel. He looms, then sniffs and looks away, not ten feet between us. I know then that it's ash upon his clothes, not dust.

His shadow stretches from above and the flames shoot into the air. I try to be still, to calm the pounding in my chest. I stay silent, waiting—waiting for him to pass, waiting for him to leave again. The fire sound rushes in my ears. The smell of fuel and smoke fills me. Then I see him. Somehow, he has moved beyond the flames and heat. He is facing away. He is swinging his head from side to side, questing like a hunting beast.

I rush down the slope to where the river narrows. I splash through the water, pushing past the current, then through the reeds that tangle against my legs. There's a lip there, a hollow in the bank, and I duck beneath. I sink down into the water and press myself back under the overhanging bank. Trailing roots, feathered and clumped with earth, form tangled crosses before my eyes. The thick smell of mud is all around me.

I can see him over there, crouched down on the roof of the house, and I wonder how he got up there. He's splayed there, waiting, resting on the slates—hunting like a spider. By now, John and the rabbit must be safe. My nostrils barely crest the water surface. The brush-stroke carmine at the side of his hat beckons across the space between us. His hands are pressed flat on the roof and his legs are spread wide. He's staring, staring down and I feel any moment he will notice me.

Another noise breaks through the quiet sounds. I hear the train coming toward us and he hears it too, because I see him tense. Just before the thunder breaks, he vanishes.

My heart is making radio sounds, beating the silt into little eddies, causing ripples that catch the light and shatter it. I feel as if the liquid sparkles call to him across the space between us. I cannot see him, but I can feel him, as I can always feel him.

I wait and dare to hope he has passed me by, that the train has taken him beyond us and away.

Crouched in the water, nostrils barely peeking above it and looking out, I squat there in the river damp, barely daring to move while the sky grows dark and light again. Then I drag myself out.

When I cross the water and wander up the slope, the house is empty.

I follow the path down through the waving grass. Stains of black criss-cross the slope where the fire has splashed. The river swirls past, torpid in the morning light. I look first downriver, then up. I see the sand spit stretching out, and there, one, two, three, four clear footsteps incised sharply in the sand. His footsteps—or are they his footsteps?—leading out from the bank. Then nothing. For a moment, but just a moment, I think the footsteps may be mine. There is nothing there in the river, merely the swirls of muddy water flowing past.

Behind me, farther up the slope, lies a small, huddled form, curled in on itself and blackened, but I refuse to look. Almost without thinking, my fingers flex, feeling the strength and pressure there. I know the power of those hands.

I cannot think about what I may have done.

I can never think about what I may have done.

Across the river, near the bank, a small, grey-furred shape bobs lazily in the water. A twig floats past me. Then a feather.

Though it's wet, I can see it's red.