“You were right, young man,” he said, returning his attention to JB. Max gave the smaller kid a little fist bump as the tour guide continued.
“Members of the Pequawket community still live here. And indeed, the name is often pronounced Pigwacket.” Gideon cast his walking stick across the slow-moving water. “The Saco River was always home to the Pequawket, all the way up here into the mountains. See the boathouse over there?”
He pointed the stick toward a rickety wooden building that sat on the bank, supported by stilts as it stretched out into the river. Max imagined a flood could wash the run-down shack away.
“We have a historic Pequawket canoe in there. I’ll show you later. Please nobody touch it, though; it’s antique. Like my jokes. Bone Creek was especially important to the Pequawket, a key spiritual site. Upriver you’ll find other ancient sites of great cultural significance. That’s if you know where to look.”
“Hey,” said Syd, pointing ahead. “Aren’t those the guys from the general store?”
A lush, grassy outcropping jutted into the river bend, with a twisted old cherry tree perched on the bank, its exposed roots trailing into the creek. The white tent Max had spotted earlier sat beneath its boughs, and sure enough, the two twentysomethings from the Midwest, Frank and Sissy, were seated on camping stools in front of it. A little gas stove roared away, a coffeepot balanced atop it. They waved when they recognized Max and Syd among the group as the school party drew nearer.
“Howdy, folks!” said Frank as the children filed by. Syd and Max stopped to chat.
“Looks like we’re neighbors,” said Syd. “We’re staying in those cabins just downstream of here.”
“Neat!” said Sissy, fingering a dainty gold crucifix on a chain around her throat. Max suspected many things in life were neat for Sissy.
“That’s a pretty necklace,” said Syd.
“Frank gave it to me,” simpered Sissy, squeezing her partner on the bicep. “After he proposed when we got here!”
“You’ll get your ring when we get home, honey,” said Frank. “Just need to pry it out of Grammy Jean’s hands first.”
She gave him a playful punch as the kids all walked past.
“You lovebirds got your permit for camping?” asked a smiling Gideon, stopping beside them.
“Yes, sir,” said Frank, about to reach back into the tent to fetch it.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” said Gideon with a wave of the hand. “I’ll be back this way later; can check it then.”
“Sure thing, mister,” said Frank. “Say, Sissy and I heard all about the bigfoot. You don’t believe in them, do you?”
“Well, what do you think?” said Gideon, keeping his voice low. “My livelihood depends on out-of-towners visiting this little piece o’ wonderful, so I’m not about to start telling you bigfoot ain’t real. I reckon nonbelievers will see nothing in these woods.”
He was whispering now, and Sissy leaned close to catch every word.
“But those folk who still have a bit of imagination, and can believe in something magical or unexplained? Who knows? They may see things moving, out there in the wilderness, creeping through the trees and wading across the creek. Stalking ever nearer until . . . BOO!”
Sissy jumped, and she wasn’t alone. Frank and Syd were both startled, and even Max’s heart got a jolt. Gideon burst out laughing.
“Gracious me, you should see your faces,” he said, clapping his bare thigh as they all breathed a sigh of relief. “I do love frightening the tourists. Get yourselves down to the campfire tonight, and we’ll see if we can rustle up some more creepy tales. Whaddaya say?”
Frank looked to Sissy, who nodded eagerly. “Okeydokey,” said Gideon as he set off again. “Bring your coffeepot!”
Max and Syd fell back in line, following their classmates upstream and leaving the two campers behind them.
“I can’t believe he did that,” said Syd, as the tour guide made his way back to the front of the procession. “I nearly had a heart attack. What an ass!”
Max grinned. “I like him. Maybe we can swap him for Whedon. Pull the old switcheroo and leave walrus face behind when we head home.”
They walked on, the forest canopy hanging over them as they flanked the river to their left. Max felt something ping off the right side of his head. He turned in time to see a pinecone bounce to the ground nearby. He looked up, searching the low-hanging branches overhead, but they were bare of cones.
“What’s the matter?” asked Syd.
“I just got hit by a pinecone,” said Max, ruffling his hair where he’d been struck.
“Probably Boyle.”
“Nope, he’s up ahead. This came from the forest.”
“A squirrel, then.”
“Must’ve been a really angry squirrel, and with deadeye aim, too.”
Max kept his eyes on the forest from that moment on, the trail growing steeper as they followed the gorge and river. The slow-moving waters were replaced by rushing white rapids as the roar of Bone Creek grew. Rock faces rose all around them, leaving half the ravine in shade. The cliffs on their side of the river remained bathed in a warm glow, the rocks varying shades of white, gray, and beige.
“Can you hear that, boys and girls?” called Gideon as he led the way. “That’s Battle Falls, up ahead. Over a hundred-foot plunge down into the Dead Pool, so called because it’s a portal to hell.”
“Really?” asked Boyle.
Gideon turned to Whedon and the other teachers before loudly saying, “What do you teach these kids at school?” That got big laughs. “It’s actually called that because when it’s in shadow, like now, the surface looks as black as oil. Lifeless. Not terribly welcoming. Still, doesn’t stop the occasional brave, or suicidal, soul from diving into it from the top of the falls.”
“For real?” asked Syd.
“Oh yes. Wouldn’t catch me making that dive, though.”
“Me neither,” muttered Max to Syd.
“Chicken,” said Syd, who’d dived for the school swim team.
“Until we grow gills and flippers, I’m staying out of the water wherever possible.” Max spied something glittering along one of the sunlit cliffs. He pointed the sparkling rock face out to Syd. “See that? Quicksilver ore. I bet you this is gnome country.”
“Do you see monsters everywhere?”
“I don’t imagine them, if that’s what you mean?”
“So there are gnomes up here and that’s some magical vein of precious metal?”
Max grinned. “On second thought, looks more like pigeon poop catching the sunlight.” When she punched his shoulder, he knew he deserved it. “Nah, I don’t think there are any monsters up here. Apart from bigfoot, of course.”
“You think there is a bigfoot up here?”
Max thought about it for a moment, looking back the way they’d come. The river was swallowed by the forest below, which spread out as far as the eye could see around them. The view took his breath away, and he could see how such things could bring a soul closer to something divine.
“Are there bigfoot out here? Probably. Are we going to meet any? Highly unlikely.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Put it this way. The last thing you’d want to do if you were a Sasquatch is go anywhere near a bunch of humans.”
“Why’s that?” asked Syd as they continued their ascent along the cliff path.
“Think about it, Syd. Industry, pollution, and deforestation. Guns.” When Max looked back to his friend, his smile was gone. “Humans are monsters.”
FIVE
HERE BE (TINY) DRAGONS
After a half-hour rappelling tutorial from Gideon, the guide was convinced the students were ready for the real deal. He fitted them into their harnesses and handed out colorful, shiny helmets that were secured onto their heads. Those who weren’t
confident enough remained at the base of Little Crag with Whedon, Mr. Mayhew, and Ms. Golden, while Gideon led the more adventurous souls to the summit. This band of adventurers included Max and Syd, as well as Boyle and his sidekicks. Max was pleased to see JB come along.
The first two over the top were Syd and JB. Max heard his friend talking to JB all the way down, matching his speed as they rappelled their way to the bottom. This cliff was perhaps sixty feet high, but was still considered a beginner’s descent by Gideon. The taller rock face for more advanced climbers was farther away, and once Boyle caught wind of this fact, he insisted that this be his route down.
“Better let me go solo,” Boyle told Gideon. “I’m sure none of these chickens can handle the advanced cliff.” The guide frowned.
Max’s hand shot up before he could think better of it. “I’ll take a crack at it.”
Once the remaining kids had made their way to the base of the beginner’s cliff, Gideon leaned over the edge.
“Mr. Whedon!” the tour guide called down. “I’m taking these last two students to High Crag, a little farther along that lower path. If you’d like to make your way around the cliff base a few hundred feet, you’ll find the landing site.”
“Very good,” the principal called back, before adding an afterthought. “Be careful up there, Boyle!”
Boyle chuckled as he followed Gideon up the track, Max falling in behind the bully. They passed Battle Falls, seeing it spilling from the cliff tops and showering the Dead Pool far below. A great expanse of water gathered at the cliff’s plateau, where many tributary streams met before surging from the cliff top. A pinecone bounced off the rocks at Max’s feet, causing him to look up suddenly, scouring the forest where it hung over the rock face. To get hit by one cone was bad luck; two was mischief, without a doubt.
“Hey, Helsing,” said Boyle, as they left the falls behind them. “I can think of a way you can get down the mountain real quick.”
“Does it involve you pushing me off by any chance, Kenny?”
If the view from Little Crag was spectacular, then High Crag was nothing short of breathtaking. Even Boyle fell silent. With the sky clear and blue overhead, they could see for miles. Far below, Max spotted Bone Creek winding its way through the pine canopy, the water shining silver as it snaked toward the east. He could even see the lodges at the campsite, and the bright white smudge of the Midwesterners’ tent on the riverbank.
At his back, the mountains rose ever higher, the trees at their summits replaced by cold, barren slopes. Even the air felt different, clear and pure. It was as close to heaven as Max had ever been, apart from his numerous run-ins with monstrous miscreants. He sensed something else, too: a spark of electricity, not dissimilar from what he felt when he encountered fairy folk. For a moment, he thought he could hear music playing, as the wind rushed through the pines.
“Now listen,” said Gideon, content that the ropes were secure and the boys’ harnesses and descending mechanisms were both functioning. “I don’t need any tomfoolery on this descent, boys. This cliff is just shy of a hundred and fifty feet, from foot to summit. It hasn’t been used for a while, as the kids I bring here tend to be gentler souls. You two appear to be made of sterner stuff, though.”
Boyle’s chest puffed out at this while Max shook his head.
“The route down is perfectly safe, but as it hasn’t been used in a while, you may find a bit of moss here or there that could prove slippery underfoot. So be careful on your way down. Your harnesses are in tip-top condition—just remember to use your descenders like I showed you. Apply pressure to the descender and this applies friction to the rope and—bingo—you stop your descent.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Boyle impatiently. “I’ve done rappelling before. I go climbing in Montana every fall with my uncle Wilbur. He’s climbed all over Europe.”
“Okeydokey,” said the tour guide, stepping back from the edge. “The mountain’s all yours.”
Max didn’t have an uncle Wilbur who had climbed all over Europe, and Jed had never been able to afford to take him on vacations when he was growing up. He had, however, visited the Undercity, where he’d leaped across yawning, bottomless chasms, scurried up walls of splintered obsidian, and crawled through claustrophobic tunnels while being chased by flesh-hungry kobolds. How difficult could rappelling be?
He was first over the edge, easing up on the descender lever to allow the rope to run smoothly through it. But the rope raced through the mechanism, sending Max plummeting the first twenty feet in a free fall. His feet bounced off the rock face, the granite scuffing his knees before dropping away beneath him. Max yanked hard on the descender, his progress halting instantly as he twirled like a puppet on a string. With his heart in his mouth, he tried to right himself, wincing as he bounced off the wall of rock. Max took a moment to gather his wits before leaning out against the cliff once more. He maneuvered his body into a horizontal position at a right angle to the rock face. Tentatively, he eased up on the descender. Then he was moving again, the rope running steadily through his tackle and harness as he rappelled down the mountainside. He heard the shouts of his classmates and, looking down, spied their colorful helmets as they all waved at the sight of him. He couldn’t make out Syd among them, but he’d recognize her whooping cheer anywhere.
Glancing up he saw Boyle above him, making easier work of the descent. The eighth grader’s route was five feet to the right of Max’s passage down the rock face. This was to ensure the rappellers stayed apart and didn’t collide with each other. Max was doing a good enough job of colliding with himself, untangling the rope from around one leg. Boyle was clearly an experienced climber, and was catching up with him. The only way Max was going to win this contest would be by releasing his descender and falling the entire distance. It looked like Boyle was going to win this one.
Max was halfway down High Crag when he heard a chirruping sound close by. Anybody else might have dismissed it as a wild bird, perhaps a finch or warbler. But Max’s ears were as well trained as his eyes when it came to spotting something supernatural. He looked to his right, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.
Lying on a narrow ledge, basking in the late afternoon light, was what appeared to be a lizard, perhaps a foot long from head to tip of tail. Its scales shimmered, glaring golden in the sun’s rays. The chirruping noise came with each exhalation of breath, a sound of contentment not dissimilar to the purr of a slumbering cat. Most interesting to Max, though, was the gossamer-thin pair of wings that arched up from its back, wide apart and resting against the warm cliff face.
“Rock drake,” Max whispered, unable to resist a grin.
Most of Max’s life was spent either hunting down or rehoming monsters of varying shape, size, and flesh-eating persuasion, but the fanboy in him got a real kick whenever he encountered something new. Finding a creature as beautiful and rare as a rock drake in such an incredible setting was a big win. Max knew all there was to know about rock drakes via the Monstrosi Bestiarum, the “Who’s Who” or “What’s What” of all things monstrous. It was an ancient tome he took everywhere with him (it was in his bag back at the lodge presently), and had been handed down from one generation of Van Helsings to the next over many centuries.
“What are you doing here, little fella?” he whispered.
The rock drake didn’t respond, its eyes still closed, its wings soaking up the sun’s rays as a butterfly’s might. Perhaps it hadn’t heard him and was unaware of his approach. Max had always been fascinated by the more marvelous creatures that shared the world he lived in. Sure, there were ghoulish supernatural horrors like vampires, zombies, ghosts, and demons, but there were also the mythical beings of ancient folklore—dragons, sea serpents, mothmen, and thunderbirds. They weren’t undead. Nor were they essentially magical, although they were often connected to the fey world. They were their own subspecies of creatures that already existed in M
ax’s world—cryptids—split away from a shared genus. No doubt rock drakes were distant cousins of alligators, but he’d hate to do the science and connect those dots. Likewise, the bigfoot of local Bone Creek legend would no doubt be a much removed ancestor to Max. Well, Boyle, perhaps.
Boyle.
Max looked up and saw the older boy approaching, maybe a dozen feet above.
“Yo, Drogon,” Max said to the tiny dragon. “Shift your booty!”
Still it slumbered, oblivious. If Boyle were to stumble upon the beast, a number of things could happen, none of which would be pleasant for anyone involved. The drake, startled, might attack Boyle. Teeth and a breath weapon could prove very bad for the police chief’s son. Alternatively, Boyle’s foot might find the creature. It was a delicate thing, and he doubted how well it might fare in a fight with the bully’s heavy hiking boot. An encounter where boy wakes dragon and dragon flies away would be harmless for the dragon, but a world of trouble for Max. If Boyle were privy to the existence of monsters, that could prove disastrous for Max, his work, and the monsters he considered his friends.
Max inched to his left along the rock face before allowing momentum to swing him back the other way. Instantly, both lengths of ropes were in a tangle.
“Helsing!” shouted Boyle from a few feet above. “What are you doing, you freak?”
“Sorry, Kenny! Lost my footing!”
The ruckus was more than enough to wake the dragon.
Max was already mouthing the words to his cantrip, a simple calming spell he’d learned from Jed in his earliest studies. It was ineffective against any monster with a higher-than-animal intelligence, so Max was left praying it would work on the winged lizard. Ignoring the cussing bully overhead, Max hurried the ancient words out as the tiny dragon recoiled, ready to belch acid at him. Suddenly it stopped, calmed, and with a blink of its black eyes, it dropped off the ledge. Max watched it glide away, probably mistaken for a soaring hawk or some such bird by the gang below.
Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 4
