Chapter 35
UNDER THE PROTECTION OF RED CLOUD
My recollections of that night on Irish Ridge so many summers ago often flash before me in the smallest of detail, as if it was all captured up in a documentary that my brain has stored in a vault all its own: the way the light of the fire gave color back to Pops’ face and softened his lines to years younger; the way my sense of hearing became catlike, able to discern even the faintest of night sounds; the way the clouds passed over us, making it seem as if the moon was moving; the way Pops’ eyes darted with fear I’d never seen.
It was the soft break of a twig behind us that made me whirl with spear ready. The big cat was sitting at the edge of firelight, only twenty feet away. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the spear and a smoldering stick. “Hya!” I yelled. “Get out of here!” I jabbed the spear at him. The animal didn’t move. I flung the stick at his head, missing by inches. He didn’t flinch—just continued staring at me with quiet malevolence, tail flicking back and forth as if he was contemplating the fate of a wounded house mouse.
I stood over Pops, spear engaged.
“Try not to show any fear whatsoever,” he hissed. “He can smell that I’m wounded.”
But my hands were shaking and my knees felt ready to buckle. The cat continued to sit, watching us impassively. The fire was at embers and I moved carefully to the courtesy pile and threw wood on the coals, keeping one eye on the big cat.
“What’s he doing now?” Pops asked.
“Same. Just watching us.”
I waved the spear over my head and screamed, but the cat stood its ground. It was as if Pops and I were the occupants of a turned-around zoo, with the cat as a curious keeper observing our every movement. Or maybe we were in some protective cordon that the animal couldn’t penetrate. Regardless, the cat stayed, watching and watching. Tail twitching.
After a half hour of locked eyes and tensed muscles, I realized Pops had fallen unconscious. My legs were on fire from the standing, from the journey, and my back and shoulders were aching for relief. I had to sit, had to ease the pain in my legs—but only for a moment; only for a moment. That was all—just to ease my legs; only for a second; a second or two… tops.
I slowly moved to the ground, sitting with my back to Pops’ head, facing the mountain lion. Only for half a minute—that was all. I braced up the walking stick spear as a bulwark against an attack. Just until my legs were rested. The lion watched intently but made no movement toward me.
Rest for maybe a minute, no more.
Two minutes, tops.
A blur muddled my vision, inviting the darkness from the edges of the camp to creep in closer, closer, until my mind merged with the night and the woods and the black of it all.
It happened in slow motion: the splaying of the mountain lion’s forelegs as it leapt at me; the cocking of its claws and the pink between its paw pads; the whiteness of its fangs and the four sharp teeth in between; the primordial hatred in its eyes and the vertical black slit of pupil at its core. I went for the spear, but it was somehow weighted down. I pulled up with all my strength, but it wouldn’t move. The cat came down on me hard, claws digging deep into each shoulder. I could hear Pops yelling in the background, or maybe I was the one yelling as the lion’s claws ripped at my flesh. I smelled the cat’s hot, dead breath as his fangs closed around my throat.
I bolted awake on another thunderclap and brought up my hands to pull the cat’s fangs from my neck, but they were gone. I jumped up easily and looked around for the spear. I grabbed it and turned back to where the lion had been. The ridgetop was totally empty except for Pops and me. I felt for claw marks and fang punctures, but my skin was clear. I blinked and whirled, but the cat was nowhere around. The fire had burned to coals and Pops was breathing quietly. I went to him and he stirred.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not good… Think the infection… is all through me… We better get to a hospital.”
“We’ll get going soon.”
“When did you eat last?”
“Dunno.”
“You need to eat. Gonna… need strength.”
I built up the fire and put the willow tea on to warm.
Pops was taking in quick, short gasps as if he had sprinted up a flight of steps.
“I’m worried about your breathing,” I said softly.
“Think I lost this lung… Just can’t… get breath.”
“Drink the willow tea. Buzzy said it will help your fever.”
He sipped it slowly and coughed. I ate a piece of the leftover rabbit meat. It was chewy and slightly bitter, but I could feel the sustenance run through me with every bite.
“It was the White Stag,” I said as much to myself as to Pops. “He was protecting me the way Red Cloud protected you.”
“Kevin… there is a way… in these mountains… a chain of things that I don’t fully understand… The White Stag chose you… Don’t know why… but he did.”
I thought about it as he drank tea, then drifted back to sleep. Just knowing I wasn’t alone—knowing that I was guarded by something inexplicable and ecumenical—gave me energy and courage I had never felt before. At once the pain in my thighs became a dull annoyance, my cut shoulders irrelevant, my aching back a badge of honor. I filled the almost empty canteens at the spring, reserving one for the willow tea; took the extra rope and tied Pops into the carrier; then extinguished the fire with kicks of dirt. I picked up the end of the travois and put my arms into the straps and started down the Irish Ridge Trail toward extrication, atonement, deliverance.