Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  Corrie’s mood was worse. “Victor, I’m so thirsty.” Her voice was indistinct, as if an unripe persimmon had puckered her mouth.

  Because she left unspoken the real question—“How much longer?”—Victor knew she was getting angrier.

  “Soon,” he murmured.

  From their vantage point on the outcropping, he studied the panorama below. Fireflies blinked among the fallen leaves carpeting the forest floor. Ahead, the trail led through a steeper, rockier section.

  “Soon,” he repeated and moved again with resignation, like he was moving through thick honey.

  The evening was beginning to cool, but Victor’s throat was drier, his thirst more acute. Corrie’s distress made his own seem worse; he only wanted a single swallow of water, even if it was dirty water, just something wet to soothe this raw throat.

  The trail wound upward through sparser growth and started to traverse the slope laterally, first right, then switching back to the left. The first switchbacks were short, but as the steepness increased, they had to be longer. More time was spent going across the slope and less making actual progress upward.

  After a dozen long switchbacks, they followed one leftward that led around the curve of the slope, where Victor suddenly stopped. “Look.”

  A tumble of boulders blocked their way. A rockslide had covered what trail there was, extending up and down the slope for several hundred feet. Twenty feet above them, almost straight up, lay the next switchback that led to the right. Victor realized they either had to climb almost straight up, or climb over and around boulders three times their height.

  Corrie croaked, “Victor.”

  He turned back. Her small ears lay flat on her head and her mouth was open, panting slightly.

  “Stop,” Corrie said, and then stomped her forelegs. “I’ve tried to be loyal. I’ve tried to wait. But we have to go back and find water. Now.”

  “We can do this.” He gestured to the rock pile. “We just take it one rock at a time.”

  Corrie rose on her hind legs and clawed at the first rock. Even when she stood upright, the rock was twice her height. She dropped to all fours. “I need water, and I know where to find it. I’m going back,” she said flatly, then turned and started down.

  “No!” Victor leaped around her. “I told you. We’ll only have this one bad night and then we’ll find water.”

  “Water first.”

  “The eagle’s nest first.”

  “What else will block our way? More rockslides? Goats?”

  “We can do this,” Victor tried to say. Instead, the words tangled up on his thick tongue. He sucked the sides of his mouth, trying to get more saliva, but his mouth was dusty dry. It was curse against curse: they were both beset with the desire to go home.

  Stars reflected from Corrie’s dark eyes. She stared at him, then slowly shook her head. “When we started this trek, I thought I would give my life so El Garro’s dream could be realized before he died. I’ve pushed hard for weeks, but this is wrong. The closeness of my father’s death—” Her voice wavered, but she continued. “—makes me more aware of how precious life is.”

  She was wrong. It was the curse making her go back; he had to believe that. “We must go on,” Victor insisted. He needed her to fight the curse with him, to help him succeed.

  “You’re obsessed,” Corrie said. “This lack of water is making you sick in the head. We have to find water. It won’t do you any good to find the eagle’s nest if you go to the Father of Souls. Come down the hill with me.”

  Victor looked from Corrie to the rockslide. She didn’t understand; how could she? He had to make El Julio proud; he had to be a hero. It was the only way he could go home. He backed away and to the side, so he no longer blocked her path.

  “Come with me,” she repeated.

  Victor shook his head.

  “I’m going,” she said.

  “Then don’t bother to come back. Go to Galen and Rafael.”

  “Fine. I’ll do that,” she said.

  Victor said nothing. She had made her choice. To himself, he imagined the scene where he told her he’d found the Turi’s Cave and saw her regret. He imagined telling El Julio of his success, and he heard the ballad the old one would sing. The vision was so real that he almost sang the song, too. Was this the curse’s effect, too? he wondered. Was he having hallucinations now? Either way, he would not go back. He would do this, even if he had to do it alone.

  “I’ll wait for you at the den where we left Galen and Rafael. If we move on, we’ll leave you a map rock.”

  Victor said nothing. She was relenting and would soon change her mind.

  “Do you hear me?”

  Victor didn’t move.

  Corrie pleaded, “I need water. You do understand?”

  Of course, he understood. Of course, he needed water, too. But he would not give in. Victor said nothing, and Corrie started down. Once, twice, she looked back at Victor, but he refused to acknowledge the plea in her stance. She disappeared around the curve in the mountain.

  Resolutely, Victor turned to the boulders and searched for a way through. The irregular shape of one tan rock made him think he could find toeholds. It was a start. He reached as high as possible and found a place to hold with his fore claws. One at a time, he pulled his hind legs up. Hanging on the boulder’s side, he felt like a fool, but he had to continue.

  Laboriously, he climbed to the top. From here, he could leap to the next rock. What if he fell? Could his armor protect him from a crash? He looked back at the trail, but Corrie was gone. Turning back to the rock, he took a deep breath—like he was going to walk under water—and leaped. He landed squarely on the rock, but even this impact knocked the extra air from his mouth in a loud belch.

  Victor continued to climb up and down, and leap from rock to rock, until he finally reached the trail. Now that the suspense of climbing was over, Victor’s body suddenly reminded him it needed water. Or was it something else he needed? Yes, he needed to go home. No! Water was all he needed.

  Victor mastered the longing for a moment, and then raced upward, from switchback to switchback. The night was nearly spent, but Victor knew the dawning wouldn’t matter to him. He would continue upward. He wondered if he was getting delirious, since he no longer felt pain, no longer felt hunger, no longer felt even the thirst. There was only the path beneath him and his feet moving.

  When he emerged on top of the peak, it was still the dark right before dawn. Forest lay before him in every direction, a mass of green that swayed with the morning breeze. A silver stripe split the woods and the backbone of the hills, indicating the distant river. Several hills below had clear plateaus near the middle of the slope, before rounding off at the top with either a fur of trees or a display of bare armor. One hill in particular looked like a furry armadillo that was sleeping.

  At the cliff’s edge, cedars clung to the mountain. Behind one, Victor saw a mass of sticks. Silently, he slipped around the shrubs until he had a good view. It was a nest: a jumble of sticks were piled into a mound four or five times Victor’s height.

  His heart hammered. He had found the eagle’s nest. Now what?

  Something was wrong, though. Gray droppings dotted the rock around the nest, but it didn’t smell right. And there was no activity. No adult birds, no sounds of hungry chicks.

  Uneasy, Victor crept closer. Still, all was quiet. A bit bolder now, he darted forward until he was hidden in the nest’s shadow. Still, no movement. With a growing dismay, Victor clawed his way to the top of the nest.

  It was empty. Abandoned.

  He lay in the nest like he was a baby eaglet and watched the constellations above him fade away, one by one. The waterfall constellation went first, followed by the Jaguar, until only the morning star, the star of hope, was left. Then, even that star faded. And Victor’s sanity quietly cracked. He had failed.

  With a desperate madness, he scrambled to the nest’s edge. The sun broke the horizon in the east, blinding him
with its hard, shifting light. Turning west, away from the sun, he saw the Ozarks laid out below. He blinked to get rid of the last colorful spots that resulted from looking at the sun. Carefully, Victor scanned the sky. Where were the eagles? His heart thumped so hard it ached. He had made it to the top just as Blaze had suggested and he should be seeing eagles hunting in the early morning, soaring on the thermals. But there was nothing.

  Suddenly, a movement caught his attention. There. A big bird flying. His heart pounded harder. Then, he stumbled backward into the nest, aware of his thirst again. He was very tired, very thirsty. And flying below, searching for its breakfast, was a vulture.

  .

  EAGLES

  Galen and Rafael stayed beside the tiny spring all that day and the next night before Rafael started feeling better. He woke at dawn, took a long drink and stood carefully. His front paws were muddy from resting at the water’s edge for twenty-four hours, but when he backed away, he could stand alone.

  “Be still,” Galen said. “Let me look you over.”

  Rafael’s sightless eyes were closed; his color wasn’t so pale, and he looked stronger. Most of all, the fresh air had rid Rafael of the acrid-sweet sick smell. Relief flooded through Galen. He didn’t want to return to the foul-smelling den, and Rafael needed to eat and sleep throughout the day.

  Galen was a flurry of anxious activity for the next hour; his brother must get stronger. He foraged, digging near the spring where the ground was still moist and soft. He brought Rafael the juiciest grubs, beetles and earthworms, and watched while his brother ate. By then, they were both groggy with the day’s heat.

  Galen wished there was a rose thicket in which to sleep, or perhaps some clumps of fragrant grasses. He didn’t search for them, though, because his fierce loyalty wouldn’t let him leave Rafael. Instead, he gathered dried leaves and whatever bits of grass he could, piling them beside the dead stump which had held the orange mushrooms. In this nest, they slept.

  When they woke that evening, Galen scratched a map to the river on a soft rock and laid it near the den’s entrance. He hoped Corrie and Victor would find it when they returned. If they returned. Only the Father of Souls knew where they were.

  Galen was content to turn his full attention on Rafael. They traveled slowly, resting often, but making steady progress, and Galen thought the open air was good for Rafael. His color was brighter, and even his voice was stronger. Though they found no stream that night, they did find juicy grubs. After eating the last meal of the night, Rafael raised his nose and sniffed. With a grin, Galen followed him to a rose thicket and good-naturedly made a bed in the midst of fallen and bruised blooms.

  The next night, Rafael was even stronger so that they made it to the river an hour before dawn. Galen was anxious to dig a den and get settled, so he could start exploring. But Rafael would try to help dig. They had time, Galen decided. He could be patient and spend another night in a thicket.

  Before settling down for the day, Galen led Rafael to the river, just where it opened up in a wide meadow across from the cliffs. They splashed at the gravel bar, and then swam across a deep pool, making ripples in the starlit water. Rafael wearied quickly and waded ashore to lie on the gravel and follow Galen’s splashes with his blind face.

  Dawn slowly stole over the small valley. Contentment filled Galen, so that he was reluctant to stop swimming. He paddled gently, his nose barely under water. So soft was his movement, the glassy surface barely moved. Hiccup! The jerk pulled him under slightly. Not hiccups again, he thought.

  Suddenly, something from above hit Galen. The blow forced him under; something scrabbled at his armor. Fear gripped his guts, but with great presence of mind, he sank deeper, away from the attacker, until his claws clutched a rock on the river’s bottom. Looking up through the clear water, he dimly made out a massive bird. He had been attacked by an eagle!

  He rose, sputtering, and called, “Rafael, did you see it? The eagle?” Then embarrassment flooded him as he remembered Rafael’s blindness.

  But Rafael said, “Yes. I have seen him in my dreams. He will lead us to the Faralone Falls.”

  Galen stood mute while the sun rose over the trees, and sunlight glinted off the water, and a pair of black and white eagles fished. And he realized his hiccups were replaced with a throbbing hope.

  .

  A NEW LEADER

  Since the last full moon, El Garro had watched seven Luna moths hatch, listened to hundreds of stories and talked until his voice was hoarse. It was late afternoon, and he lay on the map rock, awaiting the cool of evening and ceremonies it would bring. Strange, he thought, how little sleep I need these days. Most afternoons found him here, in the Great Clearing, staring at the map rock and longing for word from the search party.

  Though he was awake off and on during the day, El Garro actually slept more than he knew, like most insomniacs. He dozed, dreamlessly.

  Just at dusk, Blaze landed unnoticed in the Clearing. She had slept that day in a pine atop the White Cliffs, preferring to arrive as evening began, so she would have enough time to find El Garro. Walking around the map rock and studying El Garro, Blaze was shocked. In the weeks she had been gone, El Garro had shrunk, losing weight and changing from the massive commanding armadillo to this fragile one. He’s still alive, she thought. That’s what Corrie will care about.

  Blaze hopped onto the rock and, carefully avoiding the injured forelegs, she shook El Garro’s back.

  El Garro blinked and looked up at the bird’s wings spread above him. What was it? A vulture? Then, he saw it was Blaze, the barn owl. “Oh! What news?” El Garro’s heart was in his throat, his feet suddenly chilled.

  Blaze clicked her bill. “News! Corrie and Victor are very near the eagle’s nest. By now, maybe, they have climbed the tallest peak and have found the Faralone Falls.”

  “The Falls! Tell me,” El Garro whispered. Excitement made him stand, so he was eye-to-eye with the bird who had hopped to the ground.

  “I know nothing else,” Blaze said. “But soon they will find the Falls. The eagles nest near the tallest peak. Another owl told me. It can’t be wrong.”

  El Garro looked at the leprosy eating away his forelegs. Blaze didn’t know if the trekkers were successful. He sank down to his belly. “Tell me about the trekking,” he said.

  Blaze told him of the last day she had seen Victor, Rafael, Galen and Corrie. She had forgotten he didn’t know anything about Rafael, so she explained where they found him. As she talked, she watched the shifting emotions on the old armadillo’s face. He was easy to read, Blaze thought. The news of finding Rafael excited him, of course, but not as much as fresh news about Corrie. His focus was personal now, instead of worrying about issues of the Colony.

  So it was no surprise when El Garro explained, “Tonight, I”ll name a new Colony leader. You must stay and report news of the trekkers to him. He’ll send out more searchers.”

  Blaze agreed. “Much wisdom. Before you leave on your last trek, message for Corrie?”

  El Garro closed his eyes.

  As the moments passed and dusk deepened into night, Blaze thought he had gone to sleep.

  But he roused himself and said, “Tell her: She’s always been my ‘Corazon,’ my heart. And when I go to the Father of Souls, it will be my delight to tell stories of her and her mother.” Looking over Blaze’s shoulder, he realized other armadillos were arriving for the ceremony. “Blaze, stay. Tell Corrie about this ceremony.”

  Blaze gazed at her old friend with sad affection. “Hoo! I stay. When you leave, I will talk to the new leader.” She flapped silently to a nearby oak from which she could observe without interference.

  Those who had known El Garro all their lives gathered before him with heavy hearts. They had honored this elder all month with song and story. They grieved he was choosing to leave, but also rejoiced in the manner of his going.

  El Garro watched them come in family groups, mothers and fathers with their baby quads, and a few parents with
the eldest of previous quads who had yet to take a mate. Once again, he was struck with the importance of family to his people, and again he was struck with sadness for his Anabel and Corrie and his other daughters who were trekking, and all the other family members missing because they must trek.

  Last to arrive were the four nominees, Tomas, Juan, Kemen, and Felix—the brightest and strongest and best. They moved easily through the crowd, stopping to touch a baby, or speak to a friend, or accept best wishes. When they joined El Garro on the rock, the crowd settled into an expectant hush.

  The moon was straight overhead when El Garro gathered his courage—for this night required courage—and stood.

  He called, “Friends and family, nieces and nephews. We are gathered here to name a new Colony leader. This month, I’ve slept in your homes and in the dens these four dug. I have seen your needs and observed their strengths. I am ready to name a new leader.”

  The moonlight was so bright El Garro could even see the young armadillos playing in the back of the Great Clearing where firs grew in a thick clump. Above them, Blaze’s white plumage was dimly visible in the oak.

  First, he had to deal with those he would not appoint as leader. “Tomas,” El Garro called.

  The crowd cheered nervously as Tomas stepped forward. Tomas took a noisy breath and held it.

  El Garro said, “Tomas, your courage and strength are amazing, and your den is deep and wide. But I have this against you: you have no stories. Though I slept in your den and gifted you with a story of bravery, I received no story in return. I’ve waited and listened, but I’ve never heard you tell a story.”

  Tomas seemed to consider El Garro’s words and sighed, “It is true I don’t care for stories and have never learnt them.” He rose on hind legs and punched the air. “I pledge my strength to the next Colony leader,” he said, and then stepped off the map rock. A path opened for him, and he made his way to the back of the crowd.