Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  It had happened so fast, thought El Garro in wonder. The moth’s wings, though, were short and stuffy: it was difficult to see what kind it was. It crawled along the persimmon branch to an open spot, where it hung upside down. Slowly, the wings inflated as fluid pumped into them. They were large, at least as large as El Garro’s head. The wings were pale green with four dots which looked like eyes, and its tail was split. It was a Luna moth. They must hatch during the day, he thought. That’s why I’ve never seen this before. What else had he never seen?

  The four strong, young armadillos who dreamed of succeeding him as Colony leader would destroy his den tonight. For the next month, he would be, once more, a vagabond without a home. Meanwhile, he would stay in the den of different family members each night and give the gift of a story, thus ensuring that his accumulated wisdom wasn’t lost to his family. And each family would gift him with a story to take on his last trip, so when he went to the Father of Souls, El Garro could tell of those who would follow. And at the end of the month, he would name his successor and be free to leave.

  The worst thing that could happen would be for El Garro to die before he finished this month. He needed to be able to trek a distance away. Of course, he hoped he would see other trekkers, or spend a full night talking with Corrie - but that was unlikely; they were too far away. Mostly he needed to die alone, in a place where his body would never be found, as befitted a true vagabond. The Black Road was such an awful death because the buzzards found your body. Before he died, though, El Garro wanted to wander in the Ozarks and see strange and wonderful things, like the hatching of a Luna moth, things he’d always been too busy to notice.

  He stayed awake, watching the pale moth harden its wings, and near sunset, fly away to find its first meal. After it disappeared in the gloaming, only a torn cocoon fluttered in the evening breeze.

  Any other day, El Garro wouldn’t have noticed such a thing. Tonight, it was what he watched as the four young armadillos worked. They entered his den and chased out the garter snake which hesitated at the entrance, smelling the air with its tongue. The crowded armadillos parted to let it slither away in the dust to find another cool place.

  A sudden gust tore a papery bit away from the cocoon; it floated gently to the leaf litter below, where ants would probably find it.

  Next the crickets hopped up the tunnel and out into the open, where they were chased by squealing baby armadillos.

  The wind picked up, blowing from the west, hot and dry, without the slightest hint of rain, but carrying the fragrance of wild strawberries. Later, when the night’s work was done, El Garro thought, he would find that patch of strawberries and feast.

  The wind swung the cocoon right, then left, like a pendulum, but still it held fast to the persimmon branch.

  From below his feet, El Garro heard small thumps as first the ceiling of the den caved in, and then the tunnel. Armadillos pressed close enough that he could smell their sharp fear that the four might be caught in the cave-in. But four black noses emerged from the soft dirt; they turned their backs on the depression and clawed dirt and leaf litter into it until the collapsed entrance to El Garro’s home was covered. Four dusty faces turned to El Garro for approval.

  El Garro heard the cheers, as if from a distance. He said the right words: “Tomas, Juan, Kemen and Felix, dig your dens well this night. The family will inspect them and visit them and sleep in them for the next month, for the den of the Colony leader must be the den of all. In one month, I will decide which of you will lead.”

  All the while, he was conscious of the cocoon as it swung right, then left, right, then left. Right. Left. Until, just as the crowd dispersed to watch their favorite candidate dig, the cocoon gave way, and for a moment, was uplifted and seemed to fly like the Luna moth itself. But, it, too, drifted to the leaf litter below. Another gust blew leaves on top of it, and it was buried.

  El Garro felt like he was coming out of a dream as he looked around and found himself homeless—a vagabond—after such a long, long time. And his first thought was of strawberries.

  .

  LOYALTY

  That day, when everyone should have been sleeping, the den shrank into cramped and confining quarters. Rafael refused to eat and neither Galen nor Corrie knew what to do. He was sick, hot with fever. Galen lay beside his brother, but couldn’t sleep. Listening to Rafael’s harsh breathing, Galen wondered if Rafael would make it to the Turi’s cave. Certainly, he couldn’t travel tonight.

  On the other side of the den, far from Rafael, Victor was snoring lightly. Galen tried to shut out the sound, but he found himself anticipating, waiting for each snore.

  Wait, wait, wait. Wait. The toady snore filled the cave making it even smaller.

  Galen tiptoed to Victor and poked him. Victor shifted slightly.

  Wait, wait, wait. Wait. Maybe moving him had stopped the snores.

  The toady snore resounded even louder than before.

  Galen sighed, rose, turned in a circle and tried to settle down. At the back of the cave, Corrie slept, breathing normally. A wave of resentment washed over Galen; then, he was ashamed as he recalled how badly she had slept the previous month. She needed to sleep well.

  Heat shimmered at the den’s entrance. Galen suddenly longed for a drink from the tiny spring, but couldn’t face the idea of the searing heat and blinding light. He slept fitfully. The long day had drawn to a close.

  Galen was already awake when Victor stretched his legs and whipped his tail about. With Corrie’s help, Galen woke Rafael and they shoved the blind armadillo up the tunnel and covered the short distance to the spring. The evening heat was still intense. Rafael guzzled water, stumbled back to the den, and immediately slept again. Victor had gone out alone.

  Galen and Corrie hunted for food, then stood guard outside the den; the evening deepened into a soft darkness, and the full moon—the fourth of their trek—rose majestically over the Ozarks. About midnight, Victor finally reappeared.

  “Ah’ve been searching for signs of Blaze but can’t find her,” Victor said. “Let’s face it. Blaze is lost. We must push onward. Ah talked with a bat, just like Blaze did. He said there are eagle’s nests on those peaks ahead. Ah think there’s a pass over the first one, and beyond that are two more peaks. The leather wings said there’s a nest on the eastern one.”

  In the moonlight, fine hairs stood out above Corrie’s armor like an imprecise halo. “Shouldn’t we wait until tomorrow?”

  Victor stamped his forelegs. “No. We need to move on. Blaze has had time to scout and return. Besides, we won’t be able to climb the first peak tonight. We’ll have to bed down at its base and wait for tomorrow. She’ll find us if she’s not lost.”

  “You’re right,” Corrie said. “We must move on.”

  Since they had lived as vagabonds for decades, the armadillos had developed traditions for situations like this. The allegiance of every trekker was to the goal of finding the Faralone Falls; their secondary allegiance was to other trekkers, family or not. When an armadillo was sick — like Rafael — they could not be left alone. But tradition demanded only one armadillo stay with the injured or sick one. All others pushed onward.

  Tradition said Galen should stay with Rafael while Victor and Corrie trekked. But Galen didn’t want Victor and Corrie to leave. “We told Blaze we’d wait three nights,” Galen protested.

  “No! You told Blaze we’d wait three nights.” Victor turned to Corrie. “How long can we afford to wait?”

  “We could wait another day,” Corrie said.

  Victor said nothing; his steady gaze held Corrie’s until she had to look away.

  Corrie turned dark, serious eyes to Galen. She swung back to Victor, and then looked down. Trembling, she traced lines in the dirt. “What choice do I have?” she whispered.

  She was going to leave, Galen mourned. He didn’t blame her, but—oh!—he didn’t want her trekking alone with Victor. Galen dashed down the short tunnel to check on Rafael. Maybe he was bet
ter.

  Where the tunnel opened up, he stopped short. The den smelled wrong. Not like a skunk smell, which was, in its own way, a clean smell. This was the smell of sickness. Maybe, of death.

  Emerging, Galen appealed to Victor again, “This is a chance to do what’s right, not what leads to glory.”

  “You forget Corrie’s father.”

  “You aren’t rushing this for his sake. I’ve watched you, humming as we go. I recognize the melodies. You’re constantly writing and rewriting a ballad. You’re figuring how to put yourself in a ballad as the hero.”

  “OK. Ah’ve got lots of reasons to push on and not wait for Rafael. Ah want a place in the ballads, yes.” Victor thrust his chest up and out. “But also, our people need an end to Ema Esperanza’s curse. If we find Faralone Falls, we won’t have to search for missing trekkers. Ah want to find the Turis so El Garro can pass on to the Father of Souls in peace. What’s wrong with having lots of reasons? All the reasons Ah can think of lead me to this decision.”

  “There’s a good reason not to push on. Rafael is sick and might die.” Galen gulped at his own words. Though he had been thinking how serious the illness might be, it sounded far worse put it into words. He knew it meant he had to stay behind, but it made him even angrier about the curse, about how it tore apart friends and families.

  “But Ah must leave you and continue the search. Ah can’t stop. Not till we find the Turis and the Faralone Falls.”

  Galen breathed deeply, accepting his fate. He solemnly walked to Corrie’s side.

  Her eyes were glazed with emotion, and Galen knew this was hard for her, too.

  “We knew the whole group might not make it,” Victor said softly, as if the tragedy had softened even his heart.

  His unexpected kindness almost broke Galen’s resolve. But he spoke the necessary words to Victor and Corrie: “You must go. I must stay.”

  .

  THE MOUNTAIN

  Though Corrie’s feet followed Victor, she couldn’t stop thinking about Galen and Rafael left behind. Would Rafael get well? What would Galen do all night?

  Galen’s self-sacrifice touched her in an unexpected way. His gentleness with Rafael was surprising. She wondered again if she should’ve stayed home with El Garro, should have been there to care for him. Surely Galen ached to find the eagle’s nest as much as she did; yet, he didn’t complain about staying behind. Corrie wished she had Galen’s commitment to duty. The next time she faced a family situation that demanded self-sacrifice, Corrie decided she would think again and try to follow Galen’s example.

  When she stumbled over a rock for the third time, Corrie realized she needed to detach herself from anything but the path before them. Now, she noticed every rock or stick, dip or bump. Corrie and Victor traveled steadily throughout the night, losing sight of the peaks while they walked under the thick late-summer leaf canopy of red oaks, white oaks and black oaks. The only sign of progress was a steady uphill slope to the ground.

  When they reached an open meadow, Corrie gazed in awe at a towering smooth bluff that was streaked with minerals: black, rust, white, and ochre. The tallest trees only reached the bluff’s feet.

  “Is it possible for us to reach the twin peaks in two nights?” Corrie asked. Any longer seemed an impossible isolation, but the bluff looked incredibly hard to cross.

  “Ah think so,” Victor said.

  Corrie said, “The real question is this: When we reach those peaks, will we be any closer to finding the Faralone Falls?”

  “Ah’m not afraid of failure,” Victor said.

  Corrie realized her worries wouldn’t dampen his hope.

  He continued, “Look at the stars. They say, when you stand in the jungles of the Far South, the stars are different. The longest star picture is a winding river, the Azure River. Here, the star picture is of a square mountain with water pouring out—a waterfall.” His voice deepened with emotion. “Even the heavens tell us we are close.”

  Corrie had no answer. She had only the knowledge that time was shorter than ever for her father. They must not be wrong. Mistakes, she agonized, would be too costly. Still, excitement was growing in her, too. They had found the first two clues, Long Pool and the twin waterfalls. They must be close to the Faralone Falls and the Turi’s cave. Perhaps they would find the Falls tonight, on this first hill.

  It was strange, she thought, that her life was like two forks of a stream. She was flowing down both forks and didn’t know if they would ever rejoin. There was the stream of family: the family dens around the Great Clearing, watching the young ones grow, observing occasional fights, her father’s gruff voice giving kind advice. Somehow, she had been picked up and dropped into the new stream of trekking: the physical labor of walking farther and faster each night, the pleasure of a good meal after a long hike, the excitement of turning a corner, of seeing a new vista. Sometimes the family life seemed a distant echo from a distant stream.

  While they traveled, Corrie tried to tell Victor about her quad-sisters, but when the memories came, Corrie found herself too tender, too easily hurt because her sisters were lost to her. She also felt the obligation to remember and to tell. Only in the telling could she honor the loved ones she may never see again. And maybe, in the telling, she was starting to understand her family. Did El Garro lead so gruffly because he feared failure so much? Was Victor like El Garro in this?

  Corrie stayed close to Victor while they meandered across the meadow, foraging as they went. The grasses were dry and becoming brittle. Had the whole moon cycle passed with no rain? “Victor, we need to find water.”

  He agreed, and they spent an hour searching for bright green foliage, a sure sign of a spring of water. They found nothing.

  “We need to move on,” Victor said reluctantly. “We’ll look for water as we travel.”

  Corrie swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly even drier. But she nodded. Perhaps the Faralone Falls lay just ahead and they could drink there.

  They trotted quickly through the remaining woods until they reached the base of the cliffs. Tomorrow night, if Blaze didn’t find them, they would begin the climb. Were eagle nests up there? Had Blaze found an eagle and been attacked? It bothered Corrie they didn’t know where Blaze was. Maybe their group should have stayed together, no matter what.

  “Let’s dig a den for the day,” she suggested.

  “No. Takes too long and too much energy,” Victor said. He stretched out on a patch of grass.

  Corrie wanted to protest, but she was tired, too. They slept under shrubs that were so dry their leaves crackled when touched. Corrie woke several times and longed for one of Rafael’s deep, cool dens. The heat made her thirstier than she ever remembered.

  Victor woke her as dusk was settling over the valley. “Ah’ve been scouting and found a spring.”

  Corrie eagerly trotted after Victor. The spring, hidden in a cleft of the bluff, was small, but sweet-smelling; cool water ran out of the rocks and pooled in a hollow no larger than her armor. Tiny ferns grew around the fringes. Corrie drank deeply, for they didn’t know when they’d find another drinking hole.

  Victor had also found a trail upward which looked promising. It had a gentle slope and was wide enough for Corrie and Victor to walk side by side

  “Look.” Here and there, the hard-packed, gravelly path gave way to fine dust. Corrie pointed to the footprints of a hoofed animal. What kind of beast it was, neither knew. A hard knot grew in Corrie’s stomach. This path was used by a variety of animals, any of which they might meet.

  “It changes nothing,” Victor said. “We have to push on.”

  .

  BROTHERS

  Galen woke with hiccups. With each jerk of his stomach, he slid closer to the brink of despair. Hiccup! Bitterness began to mingle with the despair. He was stuck again, taking care of family when he should be trekking, should be finding the Faralone Falls. Where had Victor and Corrie slept that day? Without Rafael to dig a den, Galen doubted Victor would take the troubl
e, and Corrie was never good at digging. She was probably huddled under a bush. Now, bitterness mingled with anger: he should be searching for Faralone Falls. But how could he leave his brother alone?

  Making sure Rafael was still asleep, Galen crept out, then stomped to the spring. He drank deeply, and then turning, saw the orange mushrooms growing in the tree stump. Galen marched to the stump and knocked down the largest mushroom. Sweeping his foreleg across the base, he toppled three more. In a frenzy, he ripped every mushroom from the stump, reveling in the way the firm flesh crumpled under his claws. He shredded the mushrooms, one by one, leaving the clearing littered with orange flecks.

  Suddenly, Galen felt hollow, even the anger drained away. He backed away from the orange bits, but they clung to his belly, to his claws, to his armor. He shook himself and clawed the ground to get the mushroom off. Then, he turned and fled back to the den.

  When he entered, Rafael’s sightless eyes were open, his ears cocked toward the opening. “Where were you?” he whispered.

  Galen wrinkled his pointed nose: the den smelled sour. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

  “Where were you? I thought you had left me.”

  Guiltily, Galen thought of his anger. “I can’t lie. I wanted to go with the others, but I would never leave you. Never.” Galen lay before his brother, their noses almost touching. “You’re my quad-brother.”

  For a moment, there was a sweet silence, for the quad-brothers understood each other.

  Rafael spoke first. “You can still explore, you know.”

  “How?” Galen longed to hear something encouraging. Hopeless, he closed his eyes.