Jolted

by Arthur Slade

  This afternoon I consumed the following:

  •Wolf-willow fruit

  •Dandelion leaves

  •Cow-parsnip shoots

  •Wild onions

  • Two handfuls of chokecherries

  • A handful of dried Saskatoon berries

  Shelter was next on his list. He found a fallen young, slender poplar branch and tied it between two pine trees using bark strips. Then he tied the pine branches to the pole and created an A-frame lean-to. It took longer than he’d expected to finish. The whole time the phrase You’re only as sharp as your knife went through his head like a miniature train set. He was covered with sap, had several painful slivers and wished he’d brought work gloves.

  He sat inside his masterpiece and wrote a report on the whole experience. Joséphine nibbled on an acorn. When he was done, he smiled. He’d truly accomplished something today.

  Not a Silent Night

  * * *

  After spending the rest of the day making short, fruitless excursions from his base camp, hoping to stumble across the talisman, Newton watched the sun set and the night settle in. The park was big; he hadn’t seen or heard any of his classmates. It was clear and cold, and it wasn’t long before the coyotes began calling to each other, their eerie voices howling as if from another world.

  He knew Jacob was somewhere out there listening to the same sounds. At that moment he wished he could talk with him.

  Newton changed into his pants. It would take some time for his legs to warm up. He began to shiver and slid himself into his sleeping bag with one arm over Joséphine, who had made her own bed of grass. He gently laid a small towel over her.

  He hadn’t been outdoors alone for this long ever before in his life. He couldn’t help but review his situation, his mind getting stuck on two things.

  The first: his mother’s death. Fate had been cruel to her, to his family, snatching her away while she was still so young. Why did she have to be outside on that day, anyway?

  The second: When would he die? The lightning was always waiting to take him down.

  When sleep finally came, it was fitful.

  A Motherly Memory

  * * *

  “Mom!” In the night he awoke. His dreams swirled around and around, then were sucked down his mental drain.

  Crickets. The rustling of a few fall leaves. Joséphine was snoring lightly. Did I shout something? Was that me?

  His mother. She’d been in his dream. But it was more than that. It was a memory of his first awareness that he was a Starker and of all the fear the name carried with it.

  He was four years old, looking out the door at the falling rain. There were children playing just outside the dome. He could see them jumping in puddles through the screen door. It looked like fun.

  But his mother held him back. “You can’t go outside, Newton.”

  “Why, Mommy?”

  “Because the lightning lives in the sky, and it will strike you down and kill you, and you will die. The lightning is very dangerous for the Starker family. We must always be watchful, Newton. We have to know when the sky is right. Only then can we go outside.”

  Newton backed away from the door.

  His mother picked him up, then held him against her. He would forever remember the way she smelled, her beautiful gray and blue eyes. “Don’t worry, Newt,” she said. “I’ll always protect you. Always.”

  Wide-awake, under a star-studded sky, Newton felt a surge of anger that threatened to suffocate him. His mother had lied to him. She had lied.

  The Following Morning

  * * *

  Newton was still shivering. Judging by the frost that he scraped off his eyebrows, it had dropped to a few degrees above freezing. Okay. Time to take on the world. He steeled himself for the cold and jumped out of his sleeping bag, quickly pulling on his kilt over his pants. It was a look, anyway. He jogged in a circle, and Joséphine followed him, leaves crunching under their feet.

  He gathered a few branches and built a small fire. He warmed his hands, then made a sludgy tea in his Sierra cup from stinging-nettle leaves. It took six minutes of boiling to destroy the formic acid in the hairs on the leaves, but, according to Mr. MacBain, there were plenty of nutrients in the plant. The tea had tasted rather horrendous when they’d made it in culinary class. In the real outdoors, it was even worse.

  He had a sudden craving for eggs Benedict; then, feeling Joséphine rubbing her snout on his ankle, he felt a stab of guilt. When she met his eyes, he was compelled to say, “I wouldn’t have it with ham. Maybe I’ll switch to eggs Florentine. No bacon, just spinach.”

  She oinked twice.

  Newton wasn’t sure what that meant. Nor did he know what to do. Were they supposed to just wait around? And how was he to know what the talisman was? Maybe the whole expedition was intended as a vision quest, and the form and location of the talisman would appear in his head.

  After a minute or two of attempting to visualize the talisman, all he could see was a Philly cheesesteak sandwich.

  He and Joséphine started walking. By early afternoon he was feeling a little dizzy, and he found it hard to think straight. It’s because I haven’t had any meat. He recalled what he’d learned in culinary arts: “A snake is a steak.” Yes, snakes would be a good meal. But then he remembered that garter snakes were all they had around the Cypress Hills, and the odd rattler, neither of which provided much meat.

  An odd voice turned on in his head. Sometimes it seemed like his own, but more often it seemed higher in pitch and a little rangy.

  There’d be rabbits out here somewhere. What is the best way to catch one? Right, a snare. A snare! But a snare requires patience and time and, oh, the actual snare. I’m hungry now. In any case, rabbit meat doesn’t have enough nutrients. People starve to death if they just eat rabbits. One rabbit would be good, though. Maybe a Richardson’s ground squirrel would be better. I could make stew with the onions and a little truffle. A properly prepared truffle would be perfect right now. Or another meal at Nit’s—those chicken sticks, perhaps. Are there wild chickens in the Cypress Hills? I could steal the chickens from a farm. No, theft wouldn’t get me a good mark.

  Think small. I know it’s not natural for you, but think small.

  He lifted up several stones and caught two crickets, removed their wings, antennae and leg spurs, then tossed them in his mouth. They crunched, and their bug guts squished out. A bitter taste mixed with a smidgen of shrimp.

  Under another rock he found a large beetle. He dropped it in his mouth. He tried to distract his brain by counting pebbles, hoping to fool himself into thinking he wasn’t actually going to swallow the thing. After two quick, crushing bites, he tasted the oddest apple-like flavor, then swallowed the shattered, gunky remains. They have good food value; rich in fat, protein and carbohydrates. And are easy to catch.

  He spent a good portion of the afternoon leaning against a pine tree, sipping from his canteen with his arms across his stomach, wincing. Had the beetle been poisonous? Or had he not actually killed it, and it was charging around in his stomach?

  Joséphine slept at his feet, awakening occasionally to trot around in a circle or chase a moth. Somehow her skin was a warmer pink color. Being out in nature was kind of like watching TV—the colors were more vivid.

  By late afternoon the stomach pain subsided, and he grew hungry again. He started another fire, then found several earthworms, which he roasted on a green stick. They tasted a lot like charcoal.

  He chewed another green stick to a pulp in lieu of using a toothbrush (which he’d forgotten to bring). Then he went to bed. Lying there under his lean-to, once again he was troubled, but not so much by his doomed life as by the apparent uselessness of the expedition. He had the feeling he’d missed some important clue.

  Newton Goddard Starker’s Chocolate Crickets

  * * *

  Collect two dozen crickets. Wash them in a covered colander. Shake them dry. Place them in the freezer for 1
5 minutes to kill them (but don’t let them freeze). Remove the head, hind legs and wing cases (if you don’t want them to get stuck in your teeth). Bake at 250 degrees until they are deliciously crunchy. Dip the crickets in melted semisweet chocolate (you’ll need several squares), and let them cool on wax paper. Enjoy!

  A Sudden Announcement Well Past the Witching Hour

  * * *

  “Attention, students of Jerry Potts Academy. This is Mr. Dumont.” The voice shook Newton out of sleep. He opened his eyes to darkness and the hooting of owls. For a moment he believed the owls had spoken. When the message was repeated, he couldn’t make sense of it. Mr. Dumont was talking to them from the heavens.

  Then Newton remembered the walkie-talkie. He wiggled out of the sleeping bag and dug the radio from his backpack. “I will only tell you this once. The talisman is under the Plow, north of the Swan, and the place is hairless. You may now find the talisman using any means necessary.”

  Newton shook his sleepy head. Under the Plow? The Swan? Hairless? None of it made sense. He heard crickets chirping and wondered if the sound was coming from inside his head. Or his stomach.

  “The Plow.” What could that be? Did he pass a plow on the way here? What could “the Swan” mean? And “hairless”?

  Hairless?

  Violet probably already has it figured out. He thought his brain would explode from thinking so hard. She is closing in on the talisman at this very moment! He quickly buckled on his kilt and shoved his pants to the bottom of the backpack. Mr. Dumont might frown on pants.

  He’d think better if he got moving and sent some fresh blood to his brain. He packed up camp, threw on his backpack and started running in no particular direction. Joséphine followed, blinking away sleep.

  He spun the puzzle around and around in his head. He could be going farther away from the prize. Plow. Swan. Hairless. Any means necessary. It sounded very military.

  He’d already been trudging along through the night for at least twenty minutes when it occurred to him he could be going in a circle.

  Then he looked down at Joséphine.

  “Joséphine,” he said, very softly, “please find the talisman for me.”

  She raised one ear and looked at him as if to say, Are you sure? That was his chance to say no, to change his mind and figure it all out on his own. This is cheating. No, Dumont said “any means necessary.” No qualifiers. Maybe I’ll get extra marks for bringing a pig with a sixth sense and a compass for a brain.

  “Please,” he said. “Please, Joséphine.”

  She let out a soft oink and, sure enough, turned to walk in the opposite direction.

  Excerpt from The Survival Handbook of Jerry Potts Academy of Higher Learning and Survival

  * * *

  At night, everything becomes the unknown. Disorientation and a feeling of being lost can easily overcome your thoughts. Fight against this. Look at the edges of objects, not the dark mass in the middle. The edges catch the light. The edges will show you the way.

  Plowing Toward the Talisman

  * * *

  Newton followed Joséphine. The stars twinkled through the tree branches. He felt as though he were floating just above the ground. This was the right thing to do; he was on the right path.

  He entered a large clearing, and the stars shone brilliantly over them. He picked out the Big Dipper immediately, then the Southern Cross. Its position indicated that he was heading north. He was thrilled. The lessons from class had stuck to his brain like flies to flypaper.

  Then he recalled Mr. Dumont’s words: “The talisman is under the Plow, north of the Swan.”

  Somewhere in the recesses of his gray matter these words began to ring a bell. Yes—one of the first outdoor classes. Something the teacher had said in passing. Newton rubbed his temples. The Plow was another name for the Big Dipper! And the Swan was also the Northern Cross. So he was going in the right direction! Soon he’d come to a hairless place. That bit still confused him. He scratched his head. Hair. Hairless. Shaved. Did it have something to do with a monk? Monk’s Hill? Did that exist?

  Hairless. Bald! Hey, maybe it’s Bald Butte! He’d read about the lookout point at the top of the Cypress Hills. That was it! He didn’t need Joséphine after all.

  “Ha,” he said to himself. “Ha!” he yelled to the forest.

  Joséphine looked back at him but kept marching forward, and he followed. No sense letting her know.

  After climbing uphill through another long stretch of pine trees and then into the open, they were hit by a sharp blast of wind. They stopped, huffing and puffing. He recognized the place as Bald Butte only because they were so high, he could feel it in the coolness of the air in his lungs. The view was breathtaking, the sky aglitter with stars, the moon a sliver of a smile. The wind tousled his hair.

  Joséphine led him on, right to the top, and they looked around. There seemed to be nothing of significance. Then he saw something very small glowing up ahead.

  He made a run for it and, just as suddenly, fell.

  “Sorry, Newt,” Violet said. Newton looked up from the dirt as she charged on ahead of him. He pushed himself to his feet and was at her heels when she reached for the object—a cell phone, set on top of a large stone.

  Newton tackled her, and they rolled a few yards down the hill. Joséphine oinked after them. He’d never heard her go on like that. Whether she was cheering him on or scolding him, he couldn’t say.

  “You brought your pig?” Violet exclaimed.

  “‘Any means necessary,’” Newton growled as she kicked him and broke free. He wasn’t sure exactly what happened next. They both scrambled up the hill to the phone, but Violet lost her footing and tumbled into the darkness.

  Newton grabbed the cell phone, opened it. He pressed a blinking button, and it dialed automatically.

  “Congratulations,” Mr. Dumont said into his ear. “Return the cell phone to its perch for the next student to find, and proceed down the hill to the bus.”

  Newton swept up Joséphine, stuffed her in his backpack and started down the hill. The bus had been parked northeast of the butte. He guessed it to be about a twenty-minute jog.

  “Newton!” Violet screamed. “Newton! I think I’ve broken my leg.”

  “Ha!” Newton yelled. “I’m not falling for that.”

  “I’m not kidding, Newt. Oww. Ahh! I’m not kidding.”

  Right. Any means necessary, including trying to trick me.

  He carried on down the hill, toward the thickening brush.

  Into the Gathering Darkness

  * * *

  He ran, victorious, through the dark, dodging trees and lifting his feet high over the underbrush. His spirit soared, picturing the Hall of Heroes, but soon guilt, angst and fear began flapping around in his mind like buzzards. What if she really does have a broken leg? What if she’s bleeding? Violet was mean, but she hadn’t thrown the stone that made his kilt fall. Newton had started their conflagration by spilling porridge on her. Violet had tried to call a truce. He’d rejected it.

  But, most important, Violet didn’t seem like the type who would lie. She might take some pleasure in knocking him out in a fistfight, but lie? That wasn’t part of her modus operandi.

  Newton skidded to a stop, lost his balance and fell into wet leaves and roots poking up from the ground. He caught his breath. He thought of Jacob, of how he’d run away from him. Perhaps they would’ve found the talisman together and shared in the glory. And now he was leaving Violet behind, and, worse, she might be seriously injured.

  She had left him a rose when he’d been injured.

  He hung his head. That decided it. He would go back.

  The problem was—in the dark he had no idea which way he was facing. The forest blocked the stars; not one was visible. He squinted at the sky and shivered. The moon was a pale, half-blinking eye.

  Joséphine oinked.

  “Of course!” he said. “My friend, my friend, I hear you.”

  He let he
r out of his backpack, and she shook herself like a dog.

  “Find Violet.”

  She oinked repeatedly and rubbed at her nose. Her eyes were strangely glowing.

  “Please,” he added. Joséphine nodded and sped off to his right. He followed the gleam of light on her pink skin.

  Twice he nearly brained himself on pine branches. Joséphine was taking the most direct path—perfect for pigs, not so good for humans. He held his head and charged on after her, once again ascending toward Bald Butte. For a short while she completely disappeared. Panic in his heart, Newton stood as still as a statue, until he heard a rustling. He ran toward it—a branch scratching him just below the eye—finally catching a glimpse of Joséphine’s glowing pink skin. There was a squawking in his backpack. Mr. Dumont must have been using the walkie-talkie, but it was buried at the bottom. And Newton didn’t want to stop now. As they got closer to the top, Newton’s legs began to shake, and he was sweating. There was something about the air—it seemed suddenly warmer; maybe it was just his physical exertion. The hairs on his arms and along the back of his neck began to stand up. He knew that feeling only too well, and so it was no surprise when five seconds later lightning flashed in the distant sky, turning the world white. He immediately began to count.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six—”

  A roll of thunder boomed through the wood so loud, it cracked tree branches. He divided the number of seconds he’d counted by five. The lightning was just over a mile away.

  Death was swirling closer.

  Newton froze. His heart pounded. He listened and waited. Another bang and roll from the angry sky.