Galen’s armor felt suddenly heavy. He was embarrassed by his earlier sadness at the thought of trekking. The Father of Souls gave armadillos tough armor, he decided, so no one would know what we feel.
“Tomorrow, you’ll understand. For now—go and eat. Your stomach has grumbled this whole time.” El Garro winked at Galen, then laboriously climbed down from the map rock and hobbled toward his den.
Galen shook himself and seemed to come back to the Clearing from a great distance away, as if the meeting with the Colony leader had been a trek itself. What would the owls report, and where would he be sent? Tomorrow, he thought with satisfaction, he would have answers. One more day’s sleep didn’t seem long to wait for an answer. Or perhaps, it was just that he felt secure, knowing that El Garro was in charge. The meeting had done the impossible: it had calmed him, made him content. He would trek, all in good time.
Corrie stood beside him. “Your supper is waiting.” She nodded her head toward a strip of bark that held snails.
While he ate, Galen thought about El Garro. His voice was still mellow and strong, but rougher than Galen had remembered. Was it weaker, as well? El Garro’s quad-brothers had succumbed to leprosy earlier than he. The two youngest died ten years ago, and the next-to-oldest died three years ago. What would the Colony do when the leprosy took El Garro?
.
MISSING
The next night, the full moon—directly overhead—cast small, intense shadows, dark enough to keep secrets. Under the thorns of the wild rose, Victor hunched, clenching his peg teeth. His armor was as pale as the Texas dust of his home den, his tail as long as a rattlesnake. And from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail, he felt hollow.
Victor flexed his claws to relieve the chill that crept over him. A clear sky and calm winds had rapidly cooled the evening air. Victor’s position on higher ground gave him a view of the entire Great Clearing. It was enclosed with towering trees, much bigger than Texas mesquites, which promised to keep the armadillos’ business to themselves and not paraded in front of other forest folks. Though a hush lay over the gathered armadillos, an undercurrent of excitement ran through them. The babies and yearlings, including the four new females, raced around the fringes, as if they could corral the Colony’s growing anticipation.
It was an important night, and everyone knew it.
The baby leading the romp around the Clearing suddenly stopped and stared directly at the wild rose bush. Those following tumbled over her, or skidded to a stop. They were going too fast and not watching, so for a moment, it was a free-for-all as they slammed into each other. Above the uproar, one squealed, “Get off my tail. It’s already crooked.”
It was time to begin, anyway. Victor ignored the nagging emptiness and stepped into the moonlight. In what he hoped was a show of confidence, he lifted his chin high. A moment later, all the babies’ noses pointed toward Victor.
As one, the adult crowd turned to see what had caught the youngsters’ attention. Pleased to make a grand entrance, Victor swaggered forward, savoring the moment. He turned back and forth, taking his time and meeting every gaze: El Julio, his grandfather, always said it was important to make a good first impression.
Victor was pleased when Corrie drew near and nodded to him. Amidst the crowd, she was the bright spot. Here, even first-borns like Corrie had a frontier quality. Bright eyes and a comfortable stride spoke of harmony with the land, of skills that helped to map previously unknown hills and valleys, streams and lakes. The frontier was a sparkling stone that pleased him like he was a crow mesmerized by a shiny bauble. And Corrie was the shiniest stone in this Clearing.
Victor advanced until he stood on the map rock, armor to armor beside El Garro. Victor dipped his head toward Blaze, the barn owl, who stood on El Garro’s other side. After a nod from the Diego family leader, Victor slipped into the leadership role his grandfather had groomed him for. Satisfied every eye was on him, Victor began:
“Ah’m Victor, grandson of El Julio, the leader of the Marcus family, which lives in the Texas hill country near the Sabine River. Two weeks ago, Ah arrived here as a representative of the southern Colonies. We want to know what lies in these hills. Ah am assigned to bring them a report next fall.”
The lie, practiced for the last few weeks, was effortless, like an eagle hovering on warm winds without moving a feather. After all, El Julio had always taught him to be practical in matters of leadership. El Garro had accepted the lie, and, as Victor had hoped, it had given Victor a position of influence, a position that he needed if he was to accomplish his goals. The embellishments to the lie had come even easier.
Victor estimated maybe a hundred armadillos crowded into the Clearing. With each word Victor spoke, an overly large brown female on the right bounced her head, like she was a woodpecker hammering at a rotten tree. Tail swishing, a mother and her quad of sons crept around the crowd’s fringes; almost without looking at them, the mother flicked her tail here to corral one restless baby and there to stop two others from fighting. At the crowd’s center, an older gray male, covered with coarse hairs, rubbed his foreleg across watery eyes. Victor’s future depended on armadillos like these. With effort, he kept his claws from digging into the lichens on the map rock.
“The legends,” Victor called, “tell us that our ancestors, the Turis, lived in an area of valleys and mountains. And that’s where we should find the Faralone Falls and end this curse. We know so little about the Ozarks. Is this where the Turis lived? For three years, trekkers have gone out from this Great Clearing. Blaze, where are our trekkers now?”
“Gone from our territory. Hoo, hoo!” Blaze spread her wings and hopped into the air. “We watch and watch, all the armadillos who trek. One after another, they disappear. One day, we see them; the next, they’re gone.”
The young armadillo who arrived at dawn with his four baby sisters—was he named Galen?—pushed forward. “What about the trekkers this year? The owls were supposed to watch them. Blaze, you’ve brought me news about Garcia and Rafael each week—” He broke off and his eyes widened. “The last two weeks—for two weeks, you haven’t had news about my brothers. Where are they?”
“Hoo, hoo!” Blaze sounded as mournful as a morning dove. “We don’t know where they are. They are gone. Gone.”
Utter silence lay over the Clearing. The brown female was frozen, as if her sharp woodpecker-nose had stuck fast in a piece of hardwood. The mother huddled her babies too close; if she’d been a mother hen, her wings would be hiding her sons from the evil she had just heard. The old one’s watery eyes ran unchecked, dripping from hairs along the sides of his jowls. He shook his head and moaned. The head shake spread to those nearest, then farther out in a widening circle. The moan, too, was contagious and grew until the crowd was swaying and moaning in unison. “Gone. Gone. Gone.”
The moon was already moving toward the horizon, leaving part of the Clearing in lengthening shadows while spotlighting Victor. Using one of his grandfather’s tricks, he pitched his voice to reach every section of the Clearing. “Yes, this year’s trekkers are gone. The owls say they just disappeared, like they’d never existed.”
El Garro’s too-bright eyes darted here and there, as if gauging the effect of the announcement.
Galen pushed through the closest armadillos to nudge Corrie. She turned to him, and they shook heads in unison.
Voices rose in confusion, in denial. “Not lost—”
“How could this—”
“My sons—”
“My daughters—”
Victor’s chest had tightened uncomfortably. But it slowly eased as he watched a blessed dissatisfaction settle across the gathered armadillos. It was part of the frontier spirit, Victor decided. The unrest kept them trekking and made them more alive than the southern Colonies. They wouldn’t wait for answers to come to them.
“Listen!” Victor called. “Listen!”
Heads swung back in his direction. This was a tricky moment.
He cal
led, “Who should we send to search for the missing trekkers?”
.
DECISIONS
Victor had loosed an idea, and now, just as it took root in the crowd, he felt like he had loosed a hornet’s nest that might come back and sting him. He wanted to tell the crowd what was going to happen next; he needed to be part of any search party. But the armadillo way was to let everyone in the Colony have their say. All Victor could do was eavesdrop on the idea, look for opportunities to gently nudge it his direction and see where the Colony took it.
Reluctantly, Victor stepped aside and let the Colony leader take over.
El Garro stepped to the edge of the map rock. He favored his right foreleg, which gave him an odd rolling movement. “What do you say?” His vast voice commanded attention. “What shall we do?”
Murmurs rose on every side. Victor held his breath in anticipation, until he couldn’t wait; he had to blurt, “We should send a search party. Immediately.” That wasn’t a gentle nudge, he scolded himself. He must be careful and let the Colony decide.
Galen called, “Why a group? Why not individual trekkers as we’ve always done?”
“Unusual times call for unusual methods,” El Garro said in a reasonable tone. “Before, if one trekker was caught on the Black Road or decided to stay in one den for a season, it didn’t matter; more were coming. But every trekker for three years has disappeared. Every trekker. We must find our missing relatives. Now. This year. I don’t want to send any more until we know their fate. But next spring—” He stopped, then waved his foreleg toward the youngsters chasing each other in the shadows at the side of the Clearing.
The babies didn’t even notice the pause in the adult’s conversation, but the adults were suddenly captivated with their lighthearted play. Their future shimmered as a sharp contrast: next spring, the carefree frolic of one-year-olds would turn to lonely, weary days of walking northward. And the spring after that, those are babies this year would start their treks. It was the fate of all armadillos, except for the first-born, to trek. After his six-week trek up from Texas, Victor understood their joyous anxiety. He loved trekking after the difficult start; what he hated was the travel: the dust, the fatigue, the daily aggravations of getting from one map rock to the next.
“The curse.” El Garro’s voice broke again. “The curse. What choice do I have? We must find answers by this summer. I will not send any one else on a dangerous trek.”
Touched at how El Garro was almost overcome with emotion, Victor took up the argument. “The owls say we’re in the Ozark Mountain foothills. Ahead are more substantial hills. We must be sure at least one armadillo makes it through to uncover the fate of your—of our—loved ones, and at least one lives to bring back word. A search party seems wise.”
“We’ve never sent out a group before,” Galen said. “But tradition aside, I’m the only trekker here, the only one who isn’t first-born. I can do this myself.”
Victor’s head snapped up. Did Galen suspect that Victor was a first-born, too? Did he suspect how hard it had been for Victor to take each step northward, away from his home? Most armadillos thought of the curse as affecting the last three in a quad, but the first-born were under the curse, too. They were compelled to stay home and not trek. In a way, Galen was right: any of the remaining armadillos who joined the search party would be battling the curse with each step they took into the Ozarks.
“It’s true,” El Garro acknowledged. His emotions were under control again. “We haven’t done it this way. I’ve spoken with the eldest of the barn owls—” El Garro bowed to Blaze, who fidgeted beside him. “—and they fly over the Ozarks. We added their information to our map rock three years ago, and since then I’ve sent every trekker to Long Pool on the Big Piney River.”
“We have a starting place, then?” Galen gestured to the map rock.
“Yes, but after Long Pool, the owls can tell us nothing helpful.” El Garro’s voice grew gruff. “Besides worrying about sending the babies off next year, I have other reasons for urgency. We must find the trekkers before—”
An awkward silence lay over the armadillos. In the hush, Corrie strode to the rock and stood just below her father. Her black eyes glittered, and she spoke almost harshly. “Before he goes to the Father of Souls. El Garro, too, has dreamed dreams. The Great Turis do not speak to him, but he hears a melody of water, a song that bubbles over a lost valley and calls him home to sleep.”
Armadillos have strong family ties, but Corrie’s devotion to her father and her courage in openly speaking of his illness was special. Victor stepped off the rock and stood shoulder to shoulder with Corrie. “We will find your sisters,” he promised.
El Garro grieved because he had sent armadillos into the unknown, and the crowd grieved over missing relatives—these frontier armadillos touched Victor deeper than those of his home Colony ever had. Here, on the frontier, emotions were sharper, clearer—life was more precious. Somehow, the promise to find Corrie’s sisters lodged in Victor deeper than he wanted. He felt a sort of breathless urgency: they must find the answers this summer.
Corrie nodded her thanks for his support, but her eyes were on her father.
Nearby, Galen watched Corrie, his black eyes glittering, too. Victor edged nearer to Corrie, cutting off her sight of Galen.
“Who will we send?” Felix, Galen’s brother, had pushed to the front.
Blaze danced back and forth, sharp claws pulling at the gray lichen. “Hoo, hoo! Go! I will go. Scout ahead. Fly back with news. Search!”
“You would go?” El Garro swung around to stare at the owl.
“This isn’t a game,” Victor said crossly. Wings made a creature unpredictable, and this owl wouldn’t be still. “You couldn’t fly off whenever you wanted and come back days later.”
Wings spread wide, Blaze flapped at Victor. “I will scout. I know what to do.”
El Garro stepped between them. “Blaze, we thank you for your help. Victor, the owls have always been friends, and we need every friend we have.”
Recognizing the truth of this, Victor nodded curtly to El Garro. He bowed stiffly to the owl with as much grace as he could.
El Garro continued, “I will lead the search. Who else should go?”
Victor looked up, startled. The old one wanted to lead? El Garro was obviously too crippled for this. He would slow them down, and when he got sick, they would have to stop and come home. With Corrie beside him, though, Victor hesitated saying anything.
Galen clawed at the packed dirt.
The motion caught El Garro’s attention. “Speak, Galen, son of Raulo.”
Galen hesitated. Silence deepened as every eye focused on him. He shook his head.
El Garro repeated. “You have something on your mind. Speak.”
“You are a great leader; no one can deny that,” Galen began loudly. In a softer voice, he continued, “But I wonder, if maybe. . . if perhaps. . . you should appoint a different leader for the search.” A murmur rose around him. “What I mean is—you’re needed here. Who would govern the Colony in your absence? And—” Galen hesitated, but then finished in a rush, “—the leprosy, your leg, the journey will be hard, and maybe you would be more comfortable here.” He ended miserably, “More comfortable in your den.”
No one spoke. Victor was glad Galen had said it, not he.
Arguments—this one supporting El Garro, this one agreeing with Galen—surged around them.
Corrie broke into the growing uproar. “How dare you suggest Father isn’t fit to lead—”
El Garro held up his foreleg. Abruptly, silence reigned again. He lowered his massive head and stared at the sore on his leg, as if he’d never seen it before. With leprosy, sores are numb, so he could forget it because it didn’t hurt. He deliberately put his full weight on his forelegs. His right leg buckled.
“He’s right.” El Garro’s voice was rough with emotion. “I would only slow the trekkers. And we must know something this summer.”
Throughout the crowd came murmurs of support, “No, you should go.”
But others were silent.
El Garro rose on his hind legs and commanded, “Listen!” He dropped to all fours and paced along the rock, obviously trying not to favor the hurt leg, but still limping. “There’s no argument here. I will not go; I will name another leader.”
Corrie glared at her father, and then stepped forward to glare at Galen. In a show of support, Victor scowled at Galen, too. Inwardly, though, he was gloating.
Blaze called to El Garro. “Hoo, hoo! I will scout! Galen must lead.”
“Me?” At a shove from behind, Galen stumbled forward.
“Him?” Victor snarled. He reared up, and then slammed his forefeet on the ground.
“Garcia and Rafael trekking. All trekking. Except Galen,” Blaze said.
“Ah’ve heard of him,” Victor said scornfully. He had made it his business to learn everything about this Colony in the past two weeks. “Galen isn’t a trekker! He just straggled in with four babies, when he should’ve been gone a month ago. He won’t find anything.”
Galen’s eyes narrowed at Victor.
What was Galen thinking? Victor hated the appraising stare. Would Galen see through his facade? Would he realize how badly Victor needed this trek? Victor tried to calm his racing heart by breathing deeply. This was obviously his rival for leadership. Victor needed to act, to do something to outshine Galen. El Garro must put Victor in charge of the search.
El Garro was staring at Galen, too. Victor wheeled back to Galen. Stop looking at me, he wanted to shout.
Galen’s eyes widened, then he nodded, as if accepting a challenge: it would be a fight for leadership, traditional among their people.
Vagabonds Page 3
