Chapter 34
THE WALKING-STICK SPEAR
He regarded me for a moment more, then turned and walked slowly to the middle trailhead. I stayed in front of Pops, squatting with hands on knees, blinking in disbelief. He took three steps down the trail, stopped again, and looked back at me, waiting. His coat shimmered in the afternoon sun, seemed almost transparent in the heat of it—antlers that looked to have grown and multiplied in the days since.
I stood and quickly shouldered the travois, shoving my arms into the straps. I secured the belt and followed. He stayed a few hundred feet ahead of me, never looking back, slowing down when I faltered, speeding up as I quickened my pace. His hooves seemed to be walking on a cushion of air. After fifteen minutes the White Stag stopped in the trail, shimmering still, and turned around to face me. I took another step, he took a step back. I stopped. He regarded me with old, sentient eyes that gave me a remarkable certainty about the trail choice. I took a step forward and he turned and dashed into the trees.
I dragged Pops as quickly as I could to the spot where the Stag had broken trail. I wanted to see him one last time, wanted to look in those wise old eyes to know that everything would turn out okay. The woods were clear of underbrush, but the deer had disappeared—no white tail retreating in the gloam; no hooves on last year’s leaves. The trees were quiet; the only sound was the calling of a random bird. I stood staring at the place in the forest where the buck should have been, unsure of what I had just seen. Was I hallucinating from exhaustion, hunger, stress? Did I fall asleep on the trail and dream the animal? Or was he part of some unexplainable ordinance sent to shape an outcome? Regardless, I put my shoulder to the trail, plodding methodically step by arduous step.
At the crook of the first big incline, the four flat, stacked boulders of the Pancakes came into view. I laughed loudly. “They’re here, Pops. You can’t see them, but they’re here!” A slash of excitement and energy cut through me as I hurried my pace and pushed on past the rocks. After two hours, the path began to level out as I neared the top of Irish Ridge.
The trail was narrow but just wide enough so we could pass unhindered by the rocks and boulders that were strewn on either side of the course. Giant cotton-brained thunderclouds stretched across the horizon and seemed to be creeping closer at each break in the trees. A thick understory of redbud, dogwood, and silver bell created a canopy on the crest of the ridge and narrowed my focus so that the two trail edges became tracks and me a singular, purposeful, lumbering train pulling my cargo forward, relentlessly forward, in a deliberate, unstoppable rhythm until the night drove the evening west and the thunderheads pushed the thick air east. The boulders from the campsite loomed ahead as night and storm collided on the ridge.
I brought the carrier to the cold fire ring and laid Pops next to it. I freed myself from the travois and immediately was taken by the weightlessness one feels on a falling roller coaster. It was as if the power of the White Stag could even conjure a breach of gravity.
I grabbed a handful of pinecones for tinder and created a kindling tent from courtesy-pile wood. In a minute the camp was bright with fire glow.
Pops was unconscious by the fire, each inhale a fray with his battered lung, each exhale a triumph of volition. I took the cooking pot and flashlight and plunged over the side of the ridge to the spring. As I approached the pool, a large animal growled and moved away into the woods. Around the water, in the rim of mud, were two huge paw prints. I knelt to examine them. They were the tracks of a large cat, each the size of my palm, water from the saturated ground just starting to seep into them. Too tired and too worried about Pops, I filled the pot and hurried back up the slope to the fire. Pops was stirring, pushing against the ropes of the travois. I untied him.
“Annie?”
“It’s me. Kevin.”
“Kevin?”
“Your grandson.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“Where are we?”
“Up on Irish Ridge.”
His eyes darted to the unfamiliar. “Where’s Annie?”
“She’s home. We’ll see her soon.”
He laid his head back down and closed his eyes on the puzzlement of it all.
The water began to boil and I put a thumb-size portion of the poultice in the water and took it off the fire to cool. I put on a smaller pot with canteen water to make the willow tea. It came to a boil and I added a fistful of the bark and let it steep.
“I’m going to wash out the wound now. It’s probably going to hurt.”
He had fallen back to unconsciousness and didn’t answer. I opened his shirt. Even in the weak firelight I could see the spreading flower of infection on his chest. I poured the hot liquid into the wound. He didn’t flinch. I washed out the river scum, spread the exit wound with poultice, retaped the plastic on the chest wound, then dressed both holes in gauze.
By the time I was finished, the fire had burned low and a storm was filling the trees with bursting light. I fed the fire and wrapped Pops back up in the bedroll and sat looking into the flames. I thought about Buzzy and the certainty of that single rifle shot.
My mind pushed forward memories of my time with him: the first meeting under the tree house; the malevolence of Tilroy Budget; the easy friendship unburdened by the expectations of others; the Telling Cave and the horror of the burning hair and the beating and the burden Buzzy carried; our hike up to Glaston Lake and our too few days there, which gave me a first sweep of light for the future.
I jolted awake on a close shot of thunder. The fire had gone to embers, but the lightning storm was still sparking up the ridge.
“Are you back?” I called to the woods from wishful thinking. “Buzzy, is that you?” An intense bolt streaked the low sky, illuminating the camp and the ridgetop.
I saw him for only a second, then another second in after-image, a huge mountain lion crouched between two boulders on springed haunches ready to leap at me. I took up a smoldering stick and flung it. “Get out of here!” He stayed for a moment, then turned and went down the side of the ridge.
In panic, I threw two arms of wood onto the coals and almost extinguished the fire. I pulled the bowie from the side pack pocket and unsheathed it. It was a full foot long; the bright blade reflected the moon and the storm clouds passing in front of it. It was razor sharp but too short for anything but close defense.
I took up the walking stick, felt its heft in my hand, tested its strength with my foot. I lashed the knife to the end of it, fashioning a formidable spear. I stood and jabbed at the air, slashed at an imaginary foe.
The fire finally began to catch the wood; I stacked on more to light up the camp. As the flame built, I sat next to it and Pops, spear ready, facing the steep side of the ridge, where the big cougar had retreated. The light of the fire made it impossible to see into the woods, so I just crouched, staring at the wall of dark, whirling with the spear on every night sound.
Pops stirred, then opened his eyes. “Kevin?”
“Yeah, Pops,” I answered, not taking my guard off the darkness.
“I’d like my jug… please.”
“I don’t think it’s a good time for mash.”
“I got a hole… in my chest… size of a baseball. If I’m gonna die… want to die… with the taste of good mash… on my lips.”
I heard an owl hoot on my left and spun to it. “I’ve got a better idea: don’t die.”
“That’s my plan… but it’s good to have… a backup. What are you doing… with the spear?”
“There’s a big mountain lion out there. It was ready to strike when I threw a stick at it.”
“Why didn’t… you wake me?”
“Didn’t want to worry you. Besides, you’re shot and infected. You’re not in great shape for lion slaying.”
“I’ve got eyes and ears… another set… will be helpful.”
“Not as helpful as that crossbow pistol.”