"If you want—” began Shadow-Below.
The boy looked at him, and then focused on the map again.
"Ride with me,” the older man suggested. “I'm leaving before dawn. We'll get there first, and you can slip off. Then you can trail us downriver. You know this country. It wouldn't take much for you to keep pace with the current. You could sleep in sight of our camp. And nobody's going to notice you, this time."
Raven's face tightened.
"You might even have some fun,” his uncle said.
"I wouldn't,” the boy swore.
"Or you wouldn't. But you don't particularly like living here, so you're not going to feel homesick. Would you?"
The young eyes lifted.
"What did you do today?"
"Played."
The boy was mastering several tutorial programs on his uncle's old computer, and as he grew more comfortable with the machinery, he was beginning to sneak his way about the Web.
"If you ride with me,” Shadow-Below suggested, “you can drop in on your mother. Show her how you've grown."
Raven looked up, staring into a row of shabby Chinese elms. Something in that darkness was making him nervous.
"You might even find the body you buried out there,” his uncle said. “Dig it up and make peace with the spirit, maybe."
"Why did you say that?” the boy whispered. “You don't believe in ghosts."
Smirking as he nodded, Shadow-Below agreed, “I'm not much of a believer. Not in ghosts or anything else. But then again, which one of us are we talking about here?"
* * * *
Late last summer, Shadow-Below had returned from two weeks of backpacking to discover messages from his past life. Exhausted but scared, he was forced to drive back into the Sandhills, following increasingly poor roads until he found himself standing on the last private ground in the Dismal drainage. An ugly little fire had damaged a familiar house. The rancher and his wife stepped out from behind the burnt lumber, and with the unity of emotion common among long-married people, they smiled. They looked relieved to see Shadow-Below, yet at the same time they felt guilty and defensive about what had happened. The rancher was known as Blue Clad, and he had been a decent friend to the People. Blue Clad took hold of his guest's hand and squeezed hard. Then the little blond woman said, “Thank you,” before Shadow-Below had done anything. She was called Stone Face, although at that moment nothing about her expression was impassive or inert. “I know this is a huge imposition,” she allowed.
"It is,” he agreed. Then his nephew stepped into the glow of the yard light.
Raven Dream had to be a strong boy. A rattlesnake had done its worst, biting him near the face. Yet against long odds, Raven had survived, some residual puffiness in the neck being the worst of the obvious damage. Otherwise he was fit—a big burly kid who wasn't yet ten years old, but thriving on a diet of grasshoppers and prairie dogs, with the occasional fire-charred venison and beef thrown in. Raven stood on the mowed ground with a duffle bag riding his shoulder, the bag stuffed with second-hand clothes—a wardrobe donated by the decent people who had cared for him a little longer than they should have.
Shadow-Below stared at Raven's swollen face.
"Your hair's growing long again,” the boy observed.
"That is a fascinating topic,” his uncle agreed. Then he pointed at the mangled house, saying, “My hair's probably more interesting than anything that could have happened here."
The boy dropped his gaze.
"You tell me,” said his uncle. With a firm, slow voice, he said, “With your words. What happened tonight, and what happened before."
Raven told a sad story.
Alone, the nine-year-old had left his underground home and slipped into the Demon lands, eager to prove his worthiness as a young man and would-be shaman. The journey had gone well. With spells and practiced stealth, Raven fed himself while remaining out of sight. But then he found a crashed aircraft with two Demon children onboard, one of them severely injured. Raven managed to help the hurt boy while hiding from the older sister. But there were unexpected troubles: One of the People had followed Raven into the Demon lands, and that man didn't approve of the boy's generosity or his sacrifice.
"Wait,” said Shadow-Below. He lifted a hand, quietly offering the name: “One-Less-Than-Nothing."
Raven turned to the rancher. “You told him?"
"I sure as hell didn't,” the old man growled.
"Nobody had to,” said Shadow-Below.
Raven studied both men, his eyes settling on his uncle. After a moment's consideration, he said, “You guessed."
"A small guess,” Shadow-Below confessed. After all, there were few People left in what they called the World, and excluding children and women and the old people, only four candidates remained.
Raven's face changed. His eyes grew big and empty, and he stared off into a stand of cottonwoods.
"What happened between you and One-Less?” his uncle asked.
Shame and silence were the only replies.
Again, Shadow-Below made a guess. “He dragged you away from that hurt boy. Is that it?"
Raven was staring at the trees, watching for something.
The day was late—a cool evening rising from inside the earth—and Shadow-Below tried to imagine what was hiding in that nameless grove.
Stone Face ended the contemplation. “The man didn't pull anybody anywhere,” she reported. “He used a knife, and what he tried to do ... he tried to kill both of them."
"The Demon children?"
She said, “Yes."
Her husband put a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. And that's when tears began running down all of their faces.
"You stopped One-Less?” his uncle asked.
Raven offered the tiniest nod.
"Stopped him for always?"
Blue Clad spoke in passable Lakota, saying the word, “Ghost."
Shadow-Below could not quite picture One-Less trying to commit murder. But if he had, then perhaps Raven had obeyed some instinctive principle of human nature, defending the helpless and small. Then his nephew would have returned home with the dead man following after him. Which meant that either One-Less was the shadow of a soul trailing his killer, or the boy was burdened by guilt and shame as well as every possible regret.
Blue Clad mentioned Raven's grandfather.
"Did the old fellow banish you?” asked Shadow-Below.
Again, Raven offered a small nod.
"Well, that might have been best,” Shadow-Below conceded. Then he gestured at the house, asking, “So how does this fire fit into the story?"
"One-Less set it,” the boy said.
Doubtful. But Shadow-Below admitted, “That does sound like the man.” He studied the cottonwoods, nothing inside him able to believe in vengeful spirits that walked the land. But what he truly believed were small things in a giant world. He reminded himself of that, and almost as an afterthought, he realized that he was startled and saddened to hear about the death of a childhood friend.
Four living people stood in the rising darkness, wrestling with monsters.
"He was a hard creature to like,” said Shadow-Below. “But I can't imagine him trying to kill children."
"With a knife,” Stone Face repeated.
"Or a bomb. Or by accident, even.” Shadow-Below shrugged and emptied his head, and then a question came to him. “Who were these children?"
Blue Clad grinned. Here was something unlikely and impressive, which was why he smiled before admitting, “It was the Bounty kids."
A fire-toting ghost wasn't half as surprising as that revelation.
"Bounty?” Shadow-Below said incredulously.
"Mara Bounty,” said the boy.
"And the other one is Greg,” Shadow-Below reported. “Except the sister usually calls him Greggie."
"You've met them?” Blue Clad guessed.
He nodded. “When I worked security at New-Year City. Sometimes their father brought
them along on his visits."
The old people nodded, and Stone Face asked, “You met the father too?"
Shadow-Below wasn't certain how to respond, but he had to offer some answer. So he quietly said, “Yes.” Then he paused for a moment, studying the cottonwoods. “Once or twice, I talked to the man. Yes."
* * * *
During the night, the weather turned. The sultry greenhouse spring retreated before a Canadian front, moisture from two oceans falling as a light sprinkle forecasted to turn into a several-day soaking. One student called to cancel before Shadow-Below left home, saying that yes, he was enjoying the class, but the idea of canoeing under these conditions left him morbidly depressed.
For an instant, Shadow-Below let himself dream that every student would have the same failure of will. Wouldn't that solve some nagging problems? But of course that would be too easy, and he had to push those thoughts aside.
An old, nearly abandoned highway led to the drop-off site—a concrete bridge that crossed the river's headwaters. Shadow-Below pulled up in the predawn darkness, an hour early, and three minutes later a pair of headlights sprang into view in the south. He was standing alone when the green Mercedes pulled over and parked. The girl leaped out of the front passenger seat, her body obscured by a chameleon poncho but the pretty face full of light and energy. “Are we first?” she asked. Then before he could answer, she confessed, “It's still early, huh?"
Her driver wasn't wearing raingear, only wool trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. But he didn't seem to notice the elements. He climbed out and gave the teacher a bland look, and then without a hint of expression, he turned and told the trunk to open and removed two well-stuffed backpacks.
"Do you need help?” the girl asked. “With the canoes, or anything?"
"Help wouldn't kill me,” her teacher admitted.
Mara and her bodyguard unloaded the boats, and Shadow-Below shoved them down the bank, setting them upside-down on the sandy shore. Then he returned and got his own gear from his truck, and after a final look at his messages—nothing of consequence here—he stowed his phone and wallet inside the glove box and told the autodriver to lock up and drive downstream to the pickup site.
Like an obedient dog, the Mercedes trailed after the truck.
The darkness was thick and relentless, and sweet. Three people stood close to one another, and yet everyone felt as if he or she were standing alone. The rain fell and the river pushed over sandbars, filling ears with a blanket of water sounds. Even the most night-adapted eye couldn't see more than the rolling outlines of the open land. This was a perfect solitude. Here was a delicious little taste of Death. Then another vehicle broke over the hillside to the south—Porter and his family, as it happened—and the light caught two faces staring at Shadow-Below. It was as if they had always been watching him. To him, it felt as if he must be producing a light, some telltale glow that he couldn't perceive for himself, but left him transparent to the world, without any secrets at all.
* * * *
"Do you know what she told us?” asked Porter. “On the first day, when we were standing by that little schoolhouse waiting ... and you were in your truck, checking messages..."
"What did she tell you?"
"She's here to learn, like all of us are. She told us she loves the prairie and being outdoors, and she was hoping to enjoy herself. Then she said that she'd talk about her father and his business, if we wanted. If we insisted. But she didn't know anything special, and despite what everyone says, the Bounty family wasn't half as interesting as the world made them seem to be."
Shadow-Below eased his paddle into the river, angling his stroke to keep them pointed downstream.
"She's an interesting kid,” Porter said.
Mara was at least one river bend behind them.
"That girl is smart,” Porter insisted. He was sitting in the bow, a heated poncho over his body and life jacket. With ten students, plus Mara's companion and the teacher, it had seemed sensible for one person to ride with Shadow-Below. Porter had volunteered. And he wasn't a bad canoeist. Proud men with money and the time for training are usually fit, and he used his strong arms to give his paddle the occasional shove. “Mara's smart in ways you don't see in teenagers today. And I'm speaking from personal experience here."
No one else was in earshot. The cool rain was falling harder, smothering every other sound.
Porter said, “I haven't asked her about Daddy."
"She's probably glad."
"But you're not off-limits,” the man warned. Then he turned forward again, stroking hard and fast.
Using his paddle as a rudder, Shadow-Below maintained their elegant line.
"You know about New-Year City,” Porter said, looking back over his shoulder. The morphing hood was pulled snug around his head, the man's bony face wearing a focused, intense expression. “You worked there, didn't you?"
"You know the answer, so why ask?"
"Keeping away snoops. That was your job."
A nod seemed like ample response.
"Well, I don't know the answer to this, so I'll ask: Conrad, did you get to spend much time inside the City itself?"
"As much time as I wanted."
Porter had a quick smile, but there was a sense of disgust to the mouth. He looked impatient. He looked smart and focused—a man accustomed to being in charge. With no patience for wordplay, he asked, “How much time was that?"
"None."
"You never stepped inside?"
"No."
"Not curious?"
Shadow-Below had lost his focus. The canoe was drifting close to the junipers overhanging the south shore. He lifted his paddle, setting it against a likely branch, and gave the tree and his canoe a determined shove.
"Funny,” said Porter. “You strike me as somebody who could be very curious."
"Apparently not,” said Shadow-Below.
Whatever the man was thinking, he kept it to himself. They worked their way around a long tight bend, and then the little river straightened and picked up speed. The sounds of peaceful rain began to fade. Rocks huddled in the fast water, with deep pools between, and after the next bend, where a band of stubborn stone had resisted erosion, one small waterfall waited for careless souls.
Shadow-Below pulled them onto a sandbar above the falls.
"We could have jumped this thing,” Porter decided.
"You try. Let me get my gear out first."
They unloaded everything, and the others caught up to them, beaching and unloading. Some people carried their packs and bags of food and the portable refrigerators, while the rest tied long ropes to the bows and walked downstream, playing out the ropes until they were ready. Then one at a time, they gave a dramatic tug, and the empty canoes slid over the brink, always reaching a point that fooled the eye, looking as if they might hold flat and stable until they were hanging in the air, ready to settle slowly onto the river beneath. But nobody seemed able to control the boats. The chaos embedded inside the current sent the canoes one way or another, and four of them flipped, forcing people into the chilled water to roll them over again and drain them.
Porter's son was built like his father. Righting his canoe was easy work, but he insisted on warning his teacher, “Your bailers are broken. Have you noticed?"
"I'll check them at home,” Shadow-Below promised.
Ginger laughed longer than anyone else.
Her son offered his expertise to Mara. “Give me that rope. I'll drop yours nice and neat."
The girl couldn't have been more pleasant, saying, “No, thank you.” Then she let the rope fall limp. With nothing but gravity and momentum at play, her empty canoe came over the edge and maintained its trim, falling with a drum-like splash and drifting straight to where she was waiting.
The boy was standing close to her. “Hey,” he exclaimed. “Good job."
She could have responded with her own patronizing remark. Or she might have given him a mocking look and left things there. But wha
t impressed Shadow-Below was that she did nothing but smile, making sure the boy saw her face, and then she said, “Thanks,” without even a taste of sarcasm.
* * * *
Through that first day, the river grew wider and deeper. Active springs were visible on the banks. Most of the prairie was still a despairing winter brown, but the ground water was warm enough to help patches of grass burst into a rich early green. There were animal signs in abundance—tracks and piles of crap and signs of concentrated feasts—but except for a few dark splotches on the far dunes, no creature showed itself. Trying to stave off disappointment, Shadow-Below reminded his class that the herds were determined wanderers, and they might have to go another day or two before seeing a spectacle.
Jokes were made about refunds.
Their teacher decided to put on a smile and hope for the best.
When they were in the lead again, Porter turned in his seat in order to look at him, using that same intense, strange gaze.
He's going to mention his wife, Shadow-Below thought. He thinks it's time to deliver a warning.
But he was wrong.
"Give or take,” Porter announced, “I'm worth about two billion dollars."
Shadow-Below blinked. “Congratulations."
"You think I'm boasting? Because I'm not.” The man shook his head for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. “My company manufactures an assortment of automated machines. Our robots are as smart as mice, in most cases. Or stupid monkeys, if you want the top of the line."
Shadow-Below touched the water with his paddle, and nodded.
FSF, March 2009 Page 16
