I got the message. I turned and ran back from the cliff. There had to be a trail Mitch had followed to get to the top. From the lay of the land I was sure I could find it quickly, even without looking for Mitch’s tracks in the snow. I was right. There was a rough old deer track snaking its way up through the rocks. I fell once as I scrambled up, and the right knee of my pants tore open. I felt the warm blood from a deep cut flowing down my leg and into my boot, but I paid no attention to it.
By the time I reached the top, the sun was showing itself over the mountain in front of me. The light struck the side of the cliff below me, a sight that I would have appreciated for its beauty another time.
Mitch had driven a pair of pitons into the rock between the roots of the two tallest of the dead pines on top of the cliff. The trees were thinly rooted and the largest one rocked a little as I touched it. I grabbed hold of the line, which thrummed from the tension of the weight on it, and leaned over to look. Mitch was still sixty feet below me.
The great worm was right below him. I could see its head. It was more mouth than head, open and round and gaping, almost like one of those sand worms from Dune. Slime was dripping from its round jaws. I remembered what Mitch had told me about how some worms cover their food with slime like that, a caustic juice that starts digesting the food before they even get it into their bodies.
Normally when you are on a climbing line in a harness you can just pull down on the line and it will draw you up, even with one hand. You can do that unless something has a hold of what should be the loose end of the line below you. And that was what was happening now. The great worm had crawled onto, practically glued itself to, the loose end of Mitch’s line. He’d now unbuckled himself from the harness and was trying to make his way up the rope using his left leg and his right arm.
It seemed hopeless. I couldn’t pull him up because the line was held so tightly below him by the creature. The rope I’d brought was too short to reach him. Even though I didn’t like it, I saw what I had to do.
I didn’t hesitate. I swung my feet over the edge and let myself down. I’m good at rope climbing. In gym I’m always the first to reach the top. When I reached Mitch I had to crawl over the top of him. I tried to avoid grabbing his bad arm. It didn’t look broken, but it seemed paralyzed. His eyes made contact with mine for a brief moment; then he shook his head.
“Shoulda known it,” he said in a voice weaker than I expected it to be. “Wannisucka.”
I didn’t say anything back. It’s hard to talk when you have a buck knife held between your teeth. I wrapped one leg around the taut rope and held on with my left hand while I reached down with the knife. The creature’s head was no more than ten feet below me and its throat pulsed as it opened its mouth wider.
“Watch out,” Mitch yelled from above me. “She’s gonna spit at you.”
I jerked my head to the side as something came flying out of the mouth of the giant worm. It struck the stones by my face and bounced off. I could see that it was hard and white and shiny and shaped like a two-foot-long lance that was yellow at its tip. I knew now what had paralyzed Mitch’s arm. The great worm closed its mouth and seemed to suck in.
Getting ready to shoot off another dart, I thought. Great.
I stuck the knife back between my teeth and fumbled my backpack around to my chest. I reached inside, trying to keep calm.
It’ll be okay if I can do this before the count of ten.
Don’t ask me why I thought that. You don’t always make sense when you’re in a tight spot.
One, I counted under my breath, two…I found what I was looking for in the pack. Three, four…The worm was starting to open its mouth again. Five, six…I tore the top off and struck the cap. Seven, eight…The great worm’s mouth was pulsing. Nine…And then the flare sparked into red fizzing life and I dropped it into the monster’s open maw.
I don’t know how a worm can scream, whether it has vocal cords or whatever. Maybe, like bumblebees, which absolutely are not supposed to be able to fly according to a study once done by an aeronautical engineer, there’s no explanation. But whether it was possible or not, that giant worm screamed. It was so shrill and loud that I thought I would lose my grip and fall. It lifted its head and pounded it against the stones below me so hard that the whole cliff shook and stones broke free.
I had the buck knife out of my teeth now and I was sawing at the rope. The weight at the lower end made it easier to cut through. When it gave way, the great worm started to slide back down the cliffside. I scrambled up hand over hand, crawled over the top of Mitch, and dragged myself to the top of the cliff. Then I grabbed the rope and began to pull.
Mitch helped as much as he could, holding on tight with that one good arm. He was getting some feeling back in the other arm, and that helped. Whatever was in that mammoth worm’s darts wasn’t deadly; it just immobilized. As I pulled Mitch over the lip of the cliff, I looked back down and I wasn’t happy about what I saw. The creature had slid back a ways but it hadn’t given up. While I had been pulling, it had started crawling up with new determination.
Mitch tried to stand up, but his feet wouldn’t hold him. We didn’t have the rifle. I could drop another flare. But then another idea came to me. It was a crazy thought and I had no idea if it would work, but I had to try it. I paused for a moment and closed my eyes. I concentrated all my energy on thinking of wings, dark, flapping wings, filling the sky. My mind filled with that image of hundreds of wings and I started to feel dizzy. Not sure if my plan had worked, I opened my eyes. My gaze fell immediately on the dead pine tree that was leaning over the cliff edge. I began to push on it and Mitch crawled over to add his weight to mine. The tree began to rock back and forth, a little farther each time. The brittle roots creaked and complained in the stone and thin soil, just this side of breaking.
The worm, though, was almost lifting its head over the cliff edge. We might not have made it if not for the crows. They answered my call—it had worked. A whole flock of them came whipping out of the forest and over the top of the cliff. Cawing like crazy, they dove down past us. They circled the great worm, sharp beaks tearing at its back and sides. The air filled with the sound of crow war cries. The great worm stopped trying to climb, and the top quarter of its body reared back, rippling and lengthening. Its head swung back and forth, ducking from its tormenters.
The tall dead pine we’d been pushing, the old tree with dead branches like spikes, broke free and toppled over. I almost went with it, but Mitch grabbed my belt. I leaned over the edge of the cliff and saw the tree strike the monster right in the center of its body. Long, sharp branches stabbed deep into the pale, pulsing skin. The creature convulsed and wrapped its body around the tree, piercing itself again and again with the branches. The weight of the tree slowly forced it back, and then suddenly it tore free from the cliff and fell.
It didn’t reach the water. With a loud, echoing crash, the tree wedged itself at the base of the cliff, with the giant worm still impaled and wrapped about it. For a while the creature’s body rippled and throbbed. Then the only movement was the flapping of the crows’ wings and the bobbing of their heads as they tore pieces of flesh from its body. Other birds were flying in. Hundreds of them, it looked like. This was a feast that could last them for days. Some of them looked up at me and ca-awked in what sounded like gratitude—much better than those little boxes of raisins and bags of peanuts.
I looked over at Mitch.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said back. Hollywood movie dialogue it wasn’t, but it seemed right at the time.
Then Mitch looked back down to the foot of the cliff. “I don’t care if the thing is dead,” he said. “I’m still spraying that pond with vermicide.”
17
THE LETTER
IT WAS ONE of those rare balmy days that sometimes come in April to the north country. The snow had melted away from the southern slope of the hillside where the fox den had been dug deep into the sandy earth.
I sat there with my shirt open, leaning back on the hillside. Red-and-green lichen mottled the ancient gray-and-black stones on the cliff. Little infusions of quartz sparkled like diamonds. The tangle of blueberry bushes and small spruces that had rooted themselves on its steep sides patterned the cliff with shadow and texture. A pair of blue jays were hopping around in the branches of the cedar tree across from me. They refused to scram—even though I had given them the very last of the peanuts from my pocket. A hopeful-looking crow sat in the top of a nearby little birch tree, ca-awking at me as he swayed back and forth.
Darned birds never leave you alone. But it wasn’t worth my effort to tell the crow to get lost. Plus I had good reason to be grateful. I found one more box of raisins, spilled them into my palm, and held my hand so the crow could reach those raisins from its perch.
My friend, the mother fox, was sitting next to me. Mouth open, tongue hanging out, she looked with me out over the quiet valley. She seemed to be enjoying the view. Or maybe she was just enjoying a little vacation from the attentions of her four pain-in-the-neck cubs, who were now crawling all over me. The little pests had gotten it into their heads that I was some kind of relative, a large, strangely built uncle, perhaps. One of them had a mouthful of my hair and was growling as he tugged at it. Two others were chewing on my shoelaces. The fourth, who already had a small cross on his back like his mother, was sitting in my lap and staring at my face. I had the uncomfortable premonition that he was planning an assault on my nose. Of the four, he was the worst. Lord knows how his mother could put up with him.
I was keeping such a close watch on those cubs that I hardly heard the sound of the footsteps approaching. When they got too close, just as the top of a person’s head began to appear on the trail, the mother fox gave a short yip. Just like that, all four cubs quit their devilment and bolted for the entrance to the den, disappearing in a scuttle of leaf litter and sand—some of which got kicked right into my face. With one last quick look at me, their mother followed behind.
I got the message—not only was I supposed to keep bringing them food, I was deputized to defend them from whomever was coming. They had nothing to worry about. The face that appeared on top of a long lanky frame was that of one of the more harmless humans I know—my friend Devo. I was surprised. I’d told him about the fox den and where it was but I never expected him to be able to find it.
The crow stared at him, took the last raisin, and flapped off.
Devo’s mouth was open as he looked at me. “Were those fox cubs?” he said.
“Forget about it,” I growled.
Devo grinned at me. “Or what? Or you’ll flatten me.”
“Exactly.”
Devo nodded. “Well, at least I understand why the ladies in the mess hall have been giving you those packets of leftover chicken parts.”
I ignored him. The only sensible thing to do. But he was on a roll and not about to stop.
“Armie, my man, do you know what the other kids call you?”
I squinted my eyes at him. “I don’t know,” I growled. “Whatever it is, they don’t dare say it to my face.”
“Take a guess.” Devo smiled down at me. It was that darn smile of his that says he knows something you don’t know.
I should have flattened him. Instead I took a guess. “Killer?”
Devo shook his head. “Do you really believe that?”
“Mad Dog?”
Devo laughed out loud, sat down next to me, and actually punched me in the arm with his bony knuckles. “Armie,” he said, “they call you St. Francis.”
“What?” I was outraged.
“Well, what do you expect? Do you see anyone else with birds flapping around their heads and rabbits running up to them to have their heads scratched? Foxes acting like you’re their bloody father? It was either that or Dr. Dolittle.”
I glowered at him. What about the way people turn their faces away from me as I walk along? Could they be smiling as they did that? They couldn’t be. No way. And even though people usually said hi to me, they just did that because they’re scared to get on my bad side—right?
“No,” I said. “They’re all afraid of me.”
“Why?”
“Because of my tough attitude, because of the way I look. I scare people.”
“Who?”
I stared up at him. “Lots of people. Anytime there’s a fight, you know I’m right in the middle of it.”
“Breaking it up, you mean,” Devo said. “Or stopping some big guy from picking on some little guy.”
I started to protest, but Devo held up a long hand.
“Granted,” he said, “you are stronger than anybody else at the school. But you don’t use that strength to push anyone around. Everybody likes you, Armie—you just don’t realize it. They say the school is a way better place since you’ve been here. But everyone knows how shy you are, so they don’t push it with you. They give you space out of respect.”
“No way,” I said.
“Way,” Devo replied. “Name even one person you have beat up.”
I had him now. “You,” I said. “Remember how I flattened you when we first met?”
He laughed at me. Can you believe that?
“Oh yes,” he said, “you flattened me all right. But you didn’t mean to do it. You just spun around so fast when I started messing with you that your elbow hit me in the face and knocked me down. But you pulled me up and started falling all over yourself apologizing to me. Face it, Armie, as a bully you are a complete and total failure.”
I stared at him with my mouth open. If he wasn’t my friend, I would have flattened him.
“You are an idiot,” I said.
“Exactly,” he replied.
Knowing it was unwise to push his luck any further, he kept his mouth shut for a while. But only for a while. After all, he was Devo.
“It’s too bad,” he said, “you never got together with that other Indian, the one on the grounds crew, the one I told you about who was feeding the birds. I noticed yesterday he wasn’t around. When I asked the head groundskeeper, he said the man just quit after being on the job only a few weeks. So I presume you’ll never get to know him. More’s the pity. You two likely would have had a bit in common.”
More than you know, I thought. A letter from Mitch was in my coat pocket. It had been addressed to Armin Katchatorian, but the name he called me by in the letter wasn’t Armie.
“Quoshtoki,” it read, “I’m almost done with my thesis. You and I are the only ones who know just how much I have to leave out of it!”
At the end he said he was planning on taking me up on that offer to come and meet my family in July.
If they are home, I thought.
I hadn’t heard from Mom and Dad for two weeks. I was beginning to feel like an orphan. Maybe they’d decided to stay in Switzerland for good and farm me out to boarding schools for the rest of my life. Or maybe they would be back by the summer and then Mitch could visit us. After all, Mitch wrote, he had family in the area anyhow, including that sixteen-year-old female cousin he was certain I’d like to meet.
Yeah, sure, I thought, if she likes guys who are built like a badger and have the personality of a ground sloth.
But I’d read that part of the letter three times and probably would have gone for a fourth if those blasted fox cubs hadn’t gotten so rambunctious that I had to put it away to keep the little good-for-nothings from eating it.
Devo looked back down the hill at the pond. It no longer looked dark. In fact, it glittered with light in the April sun. I’d seen a deer drinking from it early that morning.
“Think that pond would be a good one to swim in?” Devo said.
“Could be.” I leaned back and closed my eyes. Even with Devo bugging me, this was a good place to be.
“So,” Devo said, “you planning on spending your whole Saturday here?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Devo stood up with one of those smug looks
on his face. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll just have to tell your mom and dad that Pits and Hester and me will be the only ones joining them for dinner at the Mirror Lake Inn tonight.”
I sat up and grabbed at Devo, but he jumped out of the way.
“What?” I said. “My mom and dad aren’t here.”
“If it is not them, then it is two very talented impostors who say they just got back from Geneva and drove all the way up here to surprise their son, take him and his friends out to dinner, and then spend the weekend with him.”
Devo delivered that message over his shoulder as he ran down the trail. He knew it was wise to do so if he wanted to preserve his worthless life.
“Idiot,” I yelled. “You’re done for.”
Then I went pounding after him. Even though he thinks he’s faster than me because his legs are so much longer, I passed him half a mile farther down the trail.
Quoshtoki. No one can outrun a waterfall.
About the Author
JOSEPH BRUCHAC is the author of SKELETON MAN, as well as numerous other critically acclaimed novels, poems, and stories, many drawing on his Abenaki heritage. THE DARK POND was inspired by traditional tales still told by the Senecas, Shawnees, and other northeastern American Indian nations about murky waters that hide hungry and terrible creatures. Mr. Bruchac and his wife, Carol, live in upstate New York in the same house where he was raised by his grandparents.
Visit him online at www.josephbruchac.com
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ALSO BY JOSEPH BRUCHAC
SKELETON MAN
WHISPER IN THE DARK
Credits
Cover art © 2004 by Sally Wern Comport
Cover design by Karin Paprocki
Cover © 2005 by HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Joseph Bruchac Page 7
