The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1

by Roy MacGregor

  Shaking his head in disgust, Muck finally turned away as the workmen took up their chainsaws. He glanced over at the boys’ cabin.

  “What are you staring at, Nishikawa?”

  “Nothin’,” replied Nish. He wasn’t convincing.

  “Dry-land training at eight-fifteen,” Muck said, and turned away.

  The workers both pulled their chainsaw starting-cords, then gave the smoking engines full throttle. The roar made any more talk impossible.

  The boys hurried to dress for breakfast.

  The girls paddled over from the island camp for the dry-land training session. When they reached the mainland, they carried their canoes up from the beach and turned them over, stuffing paddles and life-preservers underneath. It was a wonderful way to start the day, thought Travis. Sarah paddled as well as she skated: smooth and elegant and strong. It was great to be all back together again.

  Travis had been looking forward to this ever since Mr. Cuthbertson, Sarah’s father, had approached Muck Munro with the idea of the two teams, the Owls and the Aeros, all coming to the Muskoka Summer Hockey School for a week. The camp covered an area the size of three schoolyards, the land falling away from the boys’ cabins to the beach and dock, where they could swim and dive from a tower. A large boathouse at the far end of the beach held a speedboat and equipment for tubing, kneeboarding, and waterskiing. There were also sailboats and paddle boats.

  The girls were on the larger of the two islands nearest the shore, and they were allowed to swim or paddle out to the smaller island, where they could hold marshmallow roasts. And best of all, at week’s end, they were going to have a one-game, winner-take-all, Owls-against-Aeros Summer Hockey Camp World Peewee Championship.

  Muck had never been too keen on the idea of summer hockey–“Ever seen a frozen pond in July?” he’d ask–but was finally talked into it by the other parents and the enthusiasm of the kids on both teams. Besides, the hockey school was just outside Muck’s old home town, and he said he had a score to settle with a thirty-pound pike that was still lurking somewhere in the narrows that led out of the lake toward the town of Huntsville.

  “This guy’s a jerk,” Sarah whispered to Travis when the boys and girls were assembled together on the training field.

  She didn’t need to explain. Travis knew she was talking about Buddy O’Reilly, who was indeed acting like a jerk. He had a new shirt on now–candy-apple red with the sleeves cut away at the shoulders to show off his muscles and a tattoo of the Tasmanian Devil chomping a hockey stick in half–and he was blowing his whistle and barking out orders. He had placed his clipboard beside him on the grass, and on top of the clipboard was the ever-present cellphone. No matter what the situation, Buddy wanted everyone to know exactly who was in charge.

  “BEND! C’MON, BEND WHEN I SAY ‘BEND’!”

  Buddy had them doing warm-ups in unison: neck twists, shoulder rotations, leg stretches. Next he ordered everyone to do bends from the waist, and then, bent double, to roll their heads from one side of the knees to the other.

  Nish fell over, face forward, which made everyone laugh…with one predictable exception.

  “WHATSAMATTER, FAT BOY? THAT BIG GUT OF YOURS THROW YOU OFF BALANCE?” Buddy screamed at Nish. And though he wasn’t laughing, he was smiling–delighted, it seemed, to have someone to pick on. Nish flushed the colour of Buddy’s muscle-shirt.

  Travis winced. Fat Boy! All Nish had meant to do was put a little humour in the situation. Travis had seen him do dumb things like that before, and even believed that Muck kind of liked Nish’s hi-jinks, although Muck would never let on.

  Travis looked around for Muck. He was standing off to one side, staring. Muck was the only coach the Screech Owls had at the camp–Barry and Ty, the Owls’ two assistant coaches, couldn’t take the time off work–and he seemed terribly alone here. Muck didn’t have the camp personality. He just didn’t fit in. He didn’t allow any of the players to call him “coach” (“I don’t call you ‘forward,’ or ‘defence,’ or ‘goaltender,’” he once explained), and he didn’t wear wraparound sunglasses, and he sure as heck didn’t have any T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off them.

  “KNEES UP! KNEES UP!”

  Sweat was already pouring down Buddy’s face. If this was warming up, Travis wondered, what was working out going to feel like? He could hear Nish puffing and chugging behind him. Travis didn’t have to turn around to know that Nish’s face would still be shining red. Only by now it would be from anger, not embarrassment. Fat Boy! What was with this guy?

  At least Travis didn’t have to worry about Nish fooling around any more. Usually, if Nish was standing behind you where you couldn’t see him, you were in just about the worst place on earth. Just when you least expected it, Nish would be likely to reach out, grab the sides of your shorts, and yank down, showing the world your boxer shorts.

  Data was so wary of Nish and his stupid pranks during gym class that he once took the precaution of joining his gym shorts and boxers together with safety pins. But the idea backfired. When Nish snuck up behind Data and yanked, the pins held all right–but Data’s shorts and boxers both came down!

  No, Nish wouldn’t be risking another “Fat Boy!” insult. If anything, Travis thought, he would be plotting his revenge. And Nish was very, very good at revenge.

  As the Screech Owls and Aeros worked out, a work crew moved the chainsawed logs from the cabin area over toward the tool shed. Travis could see a white-haired man struggling with one of the wheelbarrows. It was Morley Clifford, the manager of the island camp. Sarah and the other girls said he was a nice old guy, and Travis couldn’t understand how he had ever got involved with Buddy in this summer hockey-school deal.

  When the players had finished their field work-out, they ran cross-country around the camp: twice around the playing field, then up along the nature trail, down along the rock trail to the beach, and back, finally, to the main camp building where they ate their meals.

  Travis ran with Sarah, and as they ran he wondered what it was that Sarah had been born with that allowed her to be so good at everything she did: skate, paddle, run. Sarah could even talk as she ran: “Word has it that Nish is planning the World’s Biggest Skinny Dip.”

  “H-how d-did you hear that?” Travis panted.

  “Data told me yesterday at lunch. It’s all over the island.”

  “H-He’s just k-kidding. You know N-Nish.”

  “He’s nuts.”

  “T-tell me about it.”

  “Sssshhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  Andy Higgins had his finger raised to his lips as Travis and Lars came back from the afternoon swim. He met them at the door, carefully holding the screen so it wouldn’t slam behind them.

  “What’s up?” Lars demanded.

  “Just don’t say a word. Come on in.”

  The three boys entered the cabin silently, Andy carefully setting the screen door so it closed soundlessly.

  Nish was lying on his bunk, flat on his back with his eyes wide open. His eyes were rolling around and didn’t seem to be focusing on anything. Was something wrong?

  “Shhhhhh,” Andy hissed very quietly.

  Travis drew closer to Nish’s bunk. His eyes were still rolling; he seemed to be searching for something. In his right hand he clutched the microphone from Data’s boom box. Data had brought along the tape recorder and the microphone so he and the others could make up a camp song about the Screech Owls, but so far no one else had shown much interest in it.

  What was Nish doing?

  Andy signalled for Lars and Travis to freeze. Nish had raised the microphone and was holding it next to his face. Travis could hear a very quiet buzzing whine, and then realized that Nish’s rolling eyes were following a mosquito circling around his head.

  Nish hated mosquitoes. What on earth was he up to? Nish let the intruder land on the side of his neck, and, instead of raising a hand to crush the dreaded insect, he slowly moved the microphone closer. The mosquito rose, circled, whined, and
landed a second time. Nish moved the microphone near again, causing the mosquito to take off once more. This time, when it landed, Nish’s other hand came down like a hammer.

  “BINGO!” Nish yelled, and rolled out of the bunk bed looking delighted.

  “Did you get it?” Andy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nish answered. “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s right on your hand,” Travis pointed out. “You squashed it–look at the blood!”

  Nish and Andy looked at Travis as if he came from another planet.

  “Not the mosquito, dummy,” Nish said, “the sound.”

  Andy and Nish settled over Data’s boom box to rewind the tape. Then Nish pushed the play button and cranked up the volume.

  Travis and Lars couldn’t believe the effect. It seemed as if the cabin was filled with mosquitoes. The squeal of the insect was unbelievable. They could hear it circling, landing, circling again, landing, circling a third time and–slap!

  “That’s gotta go!” Nish said. Andy nodded.

  “What’s gotta go?” asked Travis, confused.

  Nish looked at Travis, unimpressed. “The slap, of course.”

  “Why?” Lars wanted to know.

  “You’ll see, my friend. You’ll see.”

  C-RACKKKKK!

  Nish was first to jump up: “What the…?”

  “What was that?” Travis asked, running to the screen door. His first thought was that it was another round of thunder–or maybe another tree coming down–but the sky was clear and blue.

  C-RACKKKKK!

  “It’s coming from over there!” Andy shouted, pointing in the direction of the shed where the lawnmowers and chainsaws were stored.

  The boys began running toward the shed. They were joined by others heading in the same direction; the gang from “Loon” Dmitri Yakushev from “Raven” cabin; Jeremy Weathers and Derek Dillinger from “Kingfisher.”

  Nish stopped in his tracks, his mouth falling open in shock.

  There, behind the shed, Buddy O’Reilly was wrestling with a man holding a rifle! Buddy seemed to have jumped him from behind. The man, in greasy green coveralls, was trying to twist away. Travis thought he recognized the man, but couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen him.

  Others were running up now: Morley Clifford from the island camp, the lines in his face dark with concern; Muck from the cabins.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Muck demanded in a low, cool, commanding voice.

  Buddy now had the rifle free. He turned, triumphant, holding the gun away from the man, who scowled. Buddy held up the gun as if it were a trophy he’d just been awarded.

  Muck moved faster than the Screech Owls had ever seen him move before. He ripped the rifle out of Buddy’s hands, and worked the bolt back and forth to empty out the rest of the bullets–one, two, three, four, five, the bullets flew, spinning and glittering in the sunlight–and then he stomped them into the ground. Travis couldn’t believe how smoothly Muck handled a gun.

  “Explain,” commanded Muck.

  “Just keep your nose out of it, okay?” said Buddy. He seemed very angry.

  “You fire a rifle around my kids, you answer to me,” Muck said. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  The man who had been shooting spoke. He had bad teeth. “You wouldn’t want a rabid fox around your kids, either, would you, mister?”

  Buddy winced, and gave the man a look that said, Why can’t you keep your mouth shut? Suddenly his manner changed, from nasty to nice.

  “Roger here thinks we might have a small wildlife problem…”

  Travis remembered where he’d heard the name. Roger–of course, the caretaker Buddy had called to clean up the fallen tree.

  “Whatdya mean ‘thinks’?” Roger snarled. “You know as well as me there’s rabies around.”

  “That true?” Muck asked, staring directly at Buddy.

  Buddy smiled, but the smile seemed forced. “There was, but way back in the spring.”

  “A fox don’t walk in here in plain daylight lest he’s sick,” Roger argued. “No matter what the season.”

  “Is that what you were shooting at?” Muck asked him. “A fox?”

  “And I’d’a got him, too, if this lunkhead hadn’t grabbed me.”

  “Easy now, Roger,” Morley Clifford said soothingly. Roger seemed to respect Mr. Clifford, and nodded quickly, as if to say he knew he’d better cool down before he really upset Buddy.

  But Buddy was acting sheepish, almost sweet. “C’mon, Roger. We can’t have guns going off at a summer camp when there’s kids all over the place, now, can we? Lucky for you they were having rest time in the cabins.”

  Roger spat. Travis could hear Nish beside him: “Yuk!” Roger obviously chewed tobacco.

  “I think I know the difference between a rabid fox and a damn kid,” Roger said.

  “And I know the difference between a properly run camp and a joke,” Muck said to Buddy O’Reilly. “You didn’t think we needed to know there was rabies about?”

  Buddy smiled, trying to win someone onto his side. “The Ministry said it was all cleared up.”

  “Not that I heard,” said Roger.

  Travis knew instantly that Roger was telling the truth and that Buddy was lying. There was something about Buddy’s overly sincere look that told you not one word this man said could ever be believed.

  “And you didn’t think there was anything wrong with firing a gun with kids around?” Muck asked Roger.

  Buddy gasped, shaking his head in disbelief. “You forget–I’m the one who tried to stop him from shooting!”

  “It would all be over now if you’d just let me alone,” muttered Roger.

  Muck had heard enough: “Well, gentlemen–it is over now. I want the rest of those bullets.”

  Muck held out his hand. There was no mistaking the order. Roger looked at Morley Clifford–not at Buddy–and Mr. Clifford closed his eyes and nodded once. Roger seemed about to argue, but instead dug into the pocket of his filthy coveralls and pulled out a small box, which he slapped into Muck’s open palm.

  Muck pocketed the bullets.

  “And I want a Ministry official out here to talk to the kids about rabies,” Muck added in a firm voice. “Understand?”

  “No problem,” Buddy answered. He was smiling, but he didn’t look pleased.

  Muck looked at the rifle, now cradled in his elbow and disarmed. “I’ll be hanging on to this until the end of our stay.”

  The ministry sent two park rangers out in the evening. Both groups, the boys from Arrowhead Camp and the girls from Algonquin, gathered in the dining hall to listen to the talk on rabies. They learned what it was: a disease that causes wild animals to stop drinking water and eventually makes them go mad, often attacking other larger animals and sometimes even humans.

  “You’ve all heard about the foaming at the mouth,” the older ranger told them. “But that’s when the disease is far advanced. There are few signs in the early stages–although the animal often shows up somewhere it wouldn’t normally be. Like in your backyard, or walking directly toward you.”

  “Sometimes people get bitten and we can’t find the animal to see if it really has rabies,” said the younger ranger. “And unfortunately that generally means the person has to be treated, just in case rabies was present. That’s a series of shots. Big needles, too, and they hurt–believe me, I’ve had them.”

  The kids shuddered.

  The rangers quickly added that it was unlikely there were any sick animals around the camp. There had been a small outbreak in spring, but nothing lately. Even so, they said, the kids should avoid approaching any wild animal that appeared disoriented and not afraid of them, no matter how harmless and cute that animal might seem. They should be particularly wary, the rangers said, of foxes and, especially, skunks.

  At the mention of skunks, everyone turned and looked at Nish, who had a reputation for making long road trips unbearable. Nish shook his head and rolled his eyes
so he looked insane. He took a quick bite in Andy’s direction and Andy jumped, which made the whole room break up.

  Even Muck smiled. The Owls needed something to break the tension. This week at camp wasn’t going at all as planned.

  Nish had his own plans.

  The boys returned to “Osprey” after the Ministry rangers had left and everyone had enjoyed a late-evening snack of hot chocolate and huge oatmeal cookies. Usually, Nish could be expected to beg or scrounge a second or even a third cookie, but this time he and Andy took off for the cabin as soon as the cookies were served. They said they were wiped out and wanted to turn in early.

  The others–Travis, Gordie, Data, and Lars–came in later, and already the lights were out. Andy was lying in his bunk, still awake, but Nish was already snoring like one of the chainsaws cutting up the big fallen hemlock. Andy raised a finger to his lips: “Shhhhh.”

  The boys came in quietly, undressed quickly, and slipped into their sleeping bags. Out on the lake, a loon called. Travis smiled; he loved its strange, laughing cry. The moon was out, and enough light was spilling in through the cabin window for Travis to make out the bunks. He liked the moon coming in like that. No need for a night-light.

  Travis could tell that Lars had fallen asleep. Data was also dead to the world; he was breathing deeply and, from time to time, mumbling to himself, but Travis couldn’t quite make out what Data was saying. Perhaps he was speaking Klingon, as he sometimes did. Andy was still moving about. Lars was trying to get away from a mosquito. And Nish was still out cold. Or so it seemed.

  Nish giggled.

  Travis had been sure Nish was sound asleep. But no, he was moving in his sleeping bag, getting up. Had he forgotten to go to the bathroom?

  Now Andy was getting up, too.

  “What’s up?” Travis whispered.

  “Shhhhh,” said Nish. “Just watch this.”