The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

by Christopher Scotton

  He picked the fish up and gently laid it back in the water. It floated for a moment just below the surface, side fins moving slightly, then with two quick tail flicks, it disappeared to the deep.

  “Muskie are best caught and released. They are a boney eat.”

  We stayed out there for two hours, casting into the hole. Buzzy caught three smaller muskie; Pops hooked another monster and a small crappy through its tail fin. I landed two more muskies, none of which fought like the first, and a keeper bluegill.

  The sun was a half hour from Harker Mountain when we drew up our lines. I was in the bow, Pops in the middle, and Buzzy in the stern. They dug their paddles into the water and the heavy canoe lumbered forward toward camp.

  It came from behind us like a queen bee winging hard by our heads, then diving into the water. Phhhfffftttt. Splash. A half second later the report of a gun. Pops spun to the sound. The cliff face was empty.

  Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!

  We all flinched.

  Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!

  “Everybody down!” Pops shouted. I lay flat in the bottom of the canoe. He and Buzzy dug hard with their paddles.

  Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!

  “Buzzy, get down!”

  “No, sir!” he yelled back.

  Pops thrust the paddle in again; Buzzy did the same.

  Phhhfffftttt. Splash… Bang!

  Chapter 31

  EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN

  I moved forward on my stomach, put my head on the bow, and dug my hands in the water as if piloting a surfboard. Phhhfffftttt. Thunk… Bang! A bullet hit the side of the canoe. “Paddle, boys. We gotta get outta—” Phhhfffftttt! Thump! “Uhhhhh, shi…”

  “Pops is hit!”

  I turned. Pops was slumped forward, a spreading bloom of red on his upper left chest. He was coughing, a dribble of blood on his lips. I moved to him.

  “Get the fuckin paddle! We gotta get outta here!” Buzzy yelled.

  “I need to help Pops,” I screamed.

  “Then paddle, mutherfucker!”

  Pops lay back in the canoe, his head on Buzzy’s lap, face ashen, eyes focused on a point somewhere in the sky.

  Phhhfffftttt. Thunk… Bang! Splinters flew.

  I stood to go to Pops and almost toppled the canoe.

  “Paddle, mutherfucker!”

  I grabbed the paddle and thrust it hard into the water. “Go!” Buzzy yelled. We dug deep in unison, sending the ponderous boat forward. Three more shots sounded, but they fell short as we moved out of range.

  “Come on! We gotta get him to camp,” I yelled.

  “I’m comin on,” he yelled back.

  We worked the paddles in a frantic rhythm and in two minutes came to the beach. I splashed out and pulled the canoe to shore.

  We laid Pops in the bottom of the dugout. His breathing was thin, eyes fluttering. I bit on my knuckle until blood. Buzzy ripped open Pops’ shirt; buttons flew. The exit wound in his chest was bleeding and bubbling on every exhale. Buzzy lifted up his shoulder to check the smooth entrance wound and the blood pooling in the bottom of the canoe.

  “Boys, I—”

  “Don’t talk, Pops,” Buzzy said softly.

  I stood and wrapped my arms around myself, jumping up and down as if to counter a chill.

  Buzzy hovered over him like an emergency room doctor. He took Pops’ bowie knife from his hip sheath and cut shirt strips. He balled them up and plugged the entrance and exit holes.

  “What are we gonna do? We can’t let him die up here!” More jumping and stamping. Tears flooded, bile burned in my throat.

  Phhhfffftttt. Bmmmmmp. A splash of sand. Bang!

  I jumped on the sound, then dove onto Pops to protect him. Buzzy ducked behind the canoe.

  Phhhfffftttt. Thunk. Splinters at Buzzy’s head. Bang!

  “Muthafucker!”

  The shooter had moved from the cliff to directly across the lake. Buzzy ran up to camp and hid behind one of the big rocks. I lay on top of Pops, felt his breath on my cheek. I closed my eyes, expecting the queen bee wing and the bang and the impact of a bullet. A strange peace came over me as I shielded him from the sniper. It was as if a hit on me instead of Pops would somehow bleed out any lingering pain of Josh.

  The gun went silent. After a minute, I picked my head up and saw movement across the lake. I looked back to camp. Buzzy was peeking from around the rock. “We gotta get him out of the boat,” I yelled. “Help me lift him.”

  He nodded and ran toward us, bent low. Halfway across, the ground at his feet exploded and a rifle report echoed off the mountains. He dove down into the sand, spraying some of it into the canoe. He grabbed Pops’ legs and I looped my hands under Pops’ armpits and we lifted him out. He grunted in pain, blood pool smeared in a swath across the boat bottom.

  He was lighter than I imagined; his warm blood soaked through my shirt. “Go!” I urged. Just as we took off, the sand in front of Buzzy jumped.

  Bang!

  We sprinted toward camp and made it just as the next round ricocheted off the rock. “Fuck. Shit! What are we gonna do?”

  Buzzy said nothing. He just peered above the rock at a space across the lake. “I think he’s shootin from those rocks across there, but I don’t see nobody.”

  “He’s gonna move again. We gotta get out of here. If we just get away from his pot field, he’ll stop shooting.”

  “We can’t go nowhere til we plug up them holes. You stay here an start packin. Take the tent, sleepin bags, rope, anythin else you think’ll be useful. Leave everythin else. Also get a fire goin an some water boilin.”

  “What if he comes?”

  “Shoot him with the crossbow.”

  He took up the big knife.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We gotta make a poultice to plug them holes. Gonna try an find some cranesbill an alumroot; maybe goldenseal an boxberry. My granma used to pack our cuts with it when we was kids. Stops bleedin and infections.” He ran off.

  I crawled to the tent and found Buzzy’s crossbow pistol, which gave me little comfort. I rolled up the sleeping bags, removed some dirty clothes, and quickly collapsed the tent, stuffing it in its carry bag. I revived the fire with pinecones and sticks from the courtesy pile. The canteens were nearly empty, so I grabbed the cooking pot and ran down to the lake, zigzagging to avoid the bullets, but there were no shots. I ran back to the fire and set the pot to boil, then moved to Pops, who was lying on a bed of pine needles behind the safety of a large boulder. His lips were gray, his face white. His breathing was lean, and the hole in his chest bubbled and whistled on every exhale. The blue shirt pieces were soaked red. Dirt had collected above his eyebrow. I gently brushed it away. His eyes fluttered, then opened. “Bastard shot me,” he said, then licked his lips. “Canteen, son.”

  I put my hand behind his head and gently raised it to bring his dried lips to the canteen. He took several large gulps. “Not much left. I’m boiling more now.”

  “Thanks, Kevin.”

  I opened his shirt to check the wound. Blood had coagulated in dark clumps around the hole, but the core remained raw and bleeding.

  “You and Buzzy get the hell outta here,” he breathed, then coughed. “Go get help.”

  “No way I’m leaving you up here with that psycho.”

  “You need to get to safety, son.”

  “I’m not leaving you. It’s decided.”

  Pops closed his eyes, shook his head, and coughed again.

  I brought the packs to the protection of the rock and laid the contents out in front of me. I grouped all the unnecessary items to the side—bathing suits, extra underwear, some books, extra shirts and shorts—and packed one change of clothes for Buzzy and me, several for Pops. All the camp hardware—ropes, lines, hatchet, saw, extra crossbow arrows, waterproof matches, rain gear, flashlights, leftover turkey and rabbit, lighter, pocket knives—went into the side pockets of Pops’ backpack. The water came to a boil and I filled the cant
eens, then went back to the lake for more.

  I heard footsteps in the woods and raised the crossbow. Buzzy stepped from behind a tree and rushed to me, hunched over.

  “Did you see him anywhere?”

  He shook his head. “You?”

  “No. What did you find?”

  He unwrapped a T-shirt and placed a pile of roots and leaves on a rock. “These two are the goldenseal; they’ll help keep infection out. This one here is the cranesbill, which is for bleedin. The other is alumroot, which is also for bleedin. I couldn’t find no boxberry.”

  “Your grandma taught you well,” Pops said weakly. “Cranesbill and alumroot work better when used…” He coughed. “… together.”

  Buzzy had washed the dirt from the roots in a spring on the mountain and began peeling the outside layer with the bowie knife. I did the same with the pocket knife. We diced the roots and put them in the boiling water. “Jus til they’re soft; then we mash em into a poultice an plug up them holes.”

  “Feel like I been hit by a dump truck,” Pops whispered.

  “Don’t be talkin. You’re lung shot. Save your breath for breathin.”

  “Why would they be shooting at us anyway? It’s just a pot crop.”

  “It ain’t the pot guy,” Buzzy said.

  “How do you know? Did you see him?”

  “No, but it wasn’t enough pot to shoot us over.”

  “What about the booby trap?”

  “It was for animals, not humans; that’s why he set it so low. If it was the pot guy, he woulda jus scared us off an missed. This mutha is tryin to kill us.”

  “Buzzy’s right,” Pops breathed. “It isn’t the pot guy.”

  “Pops, don’t be talkin.”

  Pops brought up a shaky hand and waved Buzzy’s comment away.

  “Who was it, then?” I asked.

  “No earthly idea.”

  Buzzy tested one of the root cubes and pronounced it ready. He emptied most of the water into another pot and began mashing the roots with a fork.

  “Take that extra water an clean out the wound. Make sure you get all the dirt out. Especially out the back where he’s been layin in it. Put a clean shirt down there or somethin.”

  I opened Pops’ shirt. He looked at me with a wan smile. I poured a little bit of the hot liquid into the wound. He jumped at the pain, grabbing my arm and squeezing.

  “It’s hurting him too much. I can’t do it.”

  “You mash, then. We gotta get it cleaned out.” He handed me the fork and I started breaking the roots down. Buzzy sponged the exit wound, then poured more solution into the hole; Pops’ body tensed on the pain. The wound bubbled as he coughed.

  “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

  Buzzy ignored me.

  “Pops, I’m gonna shift you on your side so’s I can clean the back. It’s gonna hurt.” He rolled him over and Pops grimaced. He washed out the entry hole. “You got the poultice done?”

  “I think so.”

  Buzzy washed his hands in the leftover root water, then began packing the entry wound with the poultice.

  “It’s a lung shot, so tape plastic over the exit hole,” Pops whispered. “Tape it on three sides and leave one open so air can get in and out.”

  Buzzy packed the entry wound, then covered it with gauze and tape. We carefully eased Pops onto his back.

  The exit wound was the size of two half dollars with tatters of flesh and lung and fractured bone. He carefully lifted bone splinters out of the wound with the blade of the pocket knife.

  “Don’t pack it too tight around my lung,” Pops said. Buzzy carefully placed some mashed root into the wound. I took a ziplock from the pack and split it with the pocket knife and handed a plastic square to Buzzy. He taped it on three sides and wrapped gauze around it. He placed the unused poultice in a ziplock bag with a sprinkle of root water.

  “How does that feel?”

  “Like some bastard lung shot me then a coupla striplings decided to play witch doctor.” He coughed.

  I took Buzzy aside. “Is he gonna die?” My voice cracked as all the fear, guilt, sadness, of before came racing back, but doubled up because it was Pops.

  “I dunno. The bullet went clean through an looks like it only took some lung with it. But we gotta get him to a hospital.”

  “I just can’t be having him die on me, Buzzy. Promise me he isn’t gonna die on me!”

  He looked away. “We gotta make a stretcher or somethin. You stay with him while I go get some poles an stuff.” He took Pops’ ax and handsaw and disappeared into the woods.

  With the wounds plugged and packaged, some of the color returned to Pops’ face. His breathing became steady and deep. I knelt beside him and wiped his forehead with a wet T-shirt.

  “Thank you, son.” He sounded weak, but his voice had lost the desperate rasp of before.

  I took a new shirt from his pack and helped him to a sitting position. I gingerly removed the bloody old shirt and threaded his arms through the clean one.

  He grunted and huffed from the pain. “Kevin, hand me my jug and prop me against this rock.”

  More grunting and huffing as I moved him. He kept his left arm at his side and pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a sip of mash, then coughed. Something heavy bounded through the trees. I took up the crossbow and crouched in front of him, shielding an attack. Buzzy pushed out of the underbrush, dragging two stout pine saplings. He laid them parallel, then placed smaller limbs across the saplings like railroad ties. He lashed the crosspieces to the larger poles. We flipped it over, tied Pops’ walking stick to the frame to strengthen it, then laid the bedrolls on top for padding and placed it next to Pops. We slowly eased him onto the pinewood stretcher, him grunting and blowing and grimacing.

  “Let’s do an equipment check,” Buzzy said. We ran through the essentials. “Shit, we gotta go get the paddles. They’re down by the canoe.”

  “No, we don’t. Just leave them.”

  “We’re gonna need em.”

  “No, we won’t; let’s just go.”

  “How we gonna cross the river?”

  The river.

  “Forget it. It’s too dangerous. We can just do the rope thing.”

  “We used almost all the rope to make the stretcher.”

  “We’ll find some other way across. You can’t be running down there.”

  Suddenly Buzzy bolted for the canoe, zagging and juking to avoid a bullet. He grabbed the paddles, spun, and sprinted back to camp, two shots exploding at his feet. He threw the paddles to me and dove behind the rock. “Jesus Christ!”

  We huddled in the shelter of the rock for five minutes. Finally Buzzy stood to hoist the pack and a bullet thunked into the tree next to him, then the rifle report. He jumped to the ground. “Shit!” The sun had already set behind Harker Mountain, but we were two hours from the cover of night.

  “We’d better wait until dark.”

  “No way, Buzzy. We gotta get to help now.”

  He looked over the top of the rock, then quickly ducked his head down.

  “How we gonna get outta here without gettin shot?”

  “We can sprint to the trees over there. Once we’re in the underbrush, he can’t see us.”

  He nodded. I was at the front of the carrier, Buzzy at the rear wearing the pack. We picked up the stretcher, bending low to avoid the bullet plane.

  “When I say go, we sprint for the woods. You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “One, two, three, go!” We ran hunched for the underbrush fifty yards away. Halfway there another shot hit at Buzzy’s feet. Briar and mountain laurel ripped at our bare legs as we plunged in and drove through the undergrowth until the camp and the lake were out of sight.

  We put Pops down on a clear flat spot. I knelt to him and brushed a mosquito away from his face. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a horse kicked me in the chest.” He coughed.

  “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

>   “Listen to me, son. Under no circumstances are you to put yourself in harm’s way for me. Your mother needs you.”

  I sat down next to him and for the first time contemplated losing him. Tears slid. “But I need you!”

  He reached up with a shaky hand and wiped them away. I took his hand and held it. Buzzy saw us and moved off to the side. Pops and I stayed like that for about five minutes.

  Finally I said, “Does it hurt when we carry you?”

  “Don’t worry about what hurts; worry about getting us all home safely.”

  I nodded and stood.

  “Best keep off the trail til dark.”

  “Good thinking, Buzz,” Pops said.

  “Stop talkin, Pops. It ain’t helpin you.”

  He coughed.

  We picked up the stretcher and slalomed through the trees and brush, out of sight from the lake. We worked our way to the slight valley between the lake and the rise of Old Blue. After an hour, with dark coming on, we crossed the trail down from the summit.

  “You boys best prop me up on my side with my good lung above my shot one. And lash me in—I don’t want to be falling out and rolling back down the mountain.”

  We secured Pops with the last of the rope, wrapping it tightly around him and the crosspieces, leaving his right arm free.

  Buzzy and I switched places. It was lighter at Pops’ feet, but the pack dug into my shoulders. Regardless of the weight I kept pushing, keeping Buzzy on pace from the back.

  It was full dark, but there was enough light from an early moon to see the rocks and fallen limbs on the trail. We were halfway up the switchbacks, moving deliberately, when Buzzy slowed, then stopped. “Gotta rest.”

  “Can’t rest. Come on, let’s go. We’ll rest at the top.” He huffed, then stepped forward. My heart was thumping, sweat running out of me, but I pushed Buzzy on, setting our pace from the rear. The trail steepened and the switchbacks shortened as we neared the summit. Buzzy faltered and stumbled, losing his grip on the right-hand pole. Pops pitched sideways and grunted in pain. I pulled up to right the carry. Buzzy stopped.