But that’s just what Travis Lindsay did.
Silvertip sniffed the air again and then picked up his pace, heading straight in the direction Travis had just taken.
“GO, TRAVISSSS!” Sam called.
Travis thought he was in good shape from lacrosse, but he had never tired so quickly in his life. He was covered in sweat. It was stinging the scrapes from the branches and raspberry bushes. He had dirt in his eyes. But he was still moving.
He crashed through the bush, down a dried-up creek, and up a small hill. He leaped over rocks, used roots to pull himself higher, swung onto a bluff and kept on running.
Travis’s lungs were killing him. He stopped, just for a moment, to catch his breath and look back.
Silvertip was still coming!
Travis hurdled logs and crashed through bogs and stumbled over stones, but he kept going.
He no longer needed to look back to see if the bear was following.
He could hear it behind him.
The big bear grunted like a pig. He crashed through the bush as if it were made of paper, not hardwood and rock. He snapped branches and ripped aside logs and sent rocks churning down slopes.
Travis leaped up a small hill and over a fallen tree and came – suddenly – to a dead end.
He could go no farther.
Ahead was open air, and thirty feet straight down was a tangle of rock and stumps and dead branches.
Silvertip was already on the hill, grunting heavily, crashing through everything in his path.
Travis had no choice. He had to jump. There was a soft ledge about halfway down. If he could land on that he might roll safely to a stop. He might even be able to stay there, out of reach of the bear.
He had no time to think. No time to cry or pray. He just leaped.
He felt the air cool on his face, welcome on his scrapes. He felt himself floating through the air, moving so slowly he almost believed he was taking flight.
Then he crashed into the ledge.
It no longer looked, or felt, so soft.
He hit hard and rolled, paused for a moment on the edge, then dropped again, heading for the bottom.
19
Travis had no idea how long he had lain there. He knew he was hurt. His left hand was throbbing. He felt his legs, moved them both, flexed his feet. They were fine.
He looked up to the top of the bluff.
Silvertip was standing there, staring down!
Travis had no more strength left to run. Something sticky was on his face and dripping down onto his lips. He tested it with his tongue. Blood!
Instinctively, with his right hand, he fumbled for a stone to protect himself. He stared up at the bear, and the bear stared back, sniffing the air.
Travis felt a large, round rock and tucked it in tight to his chest. If the bear comes down, he thought, I might be able to scare him off with one good throw. But I’ll only have one chance.
Silvertip backed off.
He’s looking for a way down! Travis thought.
He was crying. He was crying for his parents and his grandparents and for Muck and Mr. Dillinger. Crying for Nish and Sarah and all his teammates. Crying because they’d been so foolish.
He could hear the bear grunting, hear the slide of gravel and stone as the huge beast began coming down the side.
He drew the rock back, ready to throw.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
What was that sound?
Travis shook his head, trying to get a fix on it.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Jesse’s pot! The wooden spoon on the old pot!
Now there was a whistle. Then another. Loud and shrill.
There was movement in the cedars. First Jesse pushed through, still banging, then Simon with his whistle blasting, then Sarah and Sam, with the camera still filming, and finally Nish, his helmet off and his face redder and wetter than Travis had ever seen it.
“He’s over to your right!” Travis called.
They looked to where Travis thought he had heard the bear coming down.
“He’s long gone!” Jesse shouted down to him.
“Stay there, Travis,” shouted Sarah. “We’re coming to get you!”
Travis felt his first full breath enter his lungs. He could feel his hand hurting now, his skin was stinging, but he felt absolutely wonderful.
Silvertip was gone!
He set his rock down, already smiling at his own foolishness. As if this would have stopped Silvertip! he said to himself, looking at it.
It was an oddly shaped thing, perfectly round on one side, jagged on the other, and not all that heavy for its size. He almost threw it away before catching himself.
It wasn’t a rock at all!
Travis stared at it, not believing what he held in his hand.
A human skull!
20
“The remains have been identified as those of Liam Fontaine, a twelve-year-old Tamarack boy who disappeared under mysterious circumstances more than thirty years ago.”
Travis was not surprised to hear the newscast confirm what everyone in town already knew. The provincial police had called in the forensic investigation unit from Toronto, and more bones had been found in the rubble and rotting branches where Travis had landed when he fell down the bluff.
It was not a shallow grave. It was typical of a black bear cache, a kill hidden under branches and leaves and partially covered with earth. Teeth marks on the skull and several bones clearly indicated that the youngster had been killed by a rogue bear.
Zeke Fontaine had not, as so many had believed, killed his son.
Travis was taken to the hospital, cleaned up, checked over, X-rayed, and released. His left hand still hurt, but the doctors said he could play lacrosse if he wanted, so long as he was careful not to use his hand too much.
There was no more talk about a movie. No one wanted to make the ninth episode of The Blood Children or even the first episode of The Killer Bears of Tamarack. Now that they knew the truth, it seemed wrong to think about Liam Fontaine’s fate as a plot for a made-up story, and none of the Owls ever again mentioned it – not even Nish, the director.
All the Owls wanted to do now was concentrate on lacrosse, and they were happy to have a practice to go to the next day. Even so, they had trouble concentrating on breakouts and defence patterns and the like. Travis, in particular, found it hard to keep his thoughts on the game.
Two newspapers from Toronto had sent reporters to talk to him and the other Owls involved in the find. No one, mercifully, had mentioned Nish’s ridiculous movie or how he came to be wandering through the deep woods dressed in his lacrosse goaltending equipment. That would have been just too hard to explain.
And now there was a television camera at the practice. Travis was wondering what effect the camera might have on Nish when he noticed a couple of familiar figures standing behind the seats, watching.
One was his grandfather, who rarely came to games and had never, ever been to a practice.
The other was old Mr. Donahue from the Autumn Leaves Retirement Home.
Muck ended the practice with a team run around the boards, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then in a long figure-eight pattern with the players crossing at centre floor lobbing a ball back and forth to the nearest passing teammate.
Travis was exhausted. After Muck blew the whistle to signal practice was finished, Travis loped over to where Mr. Fontaine was hauling the water bottles out of the players’ box. He picked one up and sprayed the water directly into his face. Travis had come over deliberately. He still hadn’t said anything to Mr. Fontaine.
“How’s the Logan?” Mr. Fontaine asked, smiling.
“Fine,” Travis said. “I love it.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Mr. Fontaine looked younger. He no longer seemed so white, so stooped. No longer seemed as if he were trying to disappear as he walked.
Mr. Dillinger was holding the door open for them to leave t
he floor and head for the dressing rooms. Mr. Fontaine went first, Travis right behind him.
His grandfather and Mr. Donahue were waiting.
Mr. Fontaine kept his head down, though Travis knew he must have recognized the two former policemen.
“Do you have a moment, Zeke?” Travis’s grandfather said.
The old lacrosse coach stopped, fidgeting with the water bottles he was carrying. He seemed to have trouble looking at the two men.
“Ed and I just want to say how sorry we are,” old Mr. Lindsay was saying. He had his hand out, waiting.
Slowly, old Mr. Fontaine reached for the hand of the former policeman who had always believed something else had happened to little Liam Fontaine.
Muck wanted to speak to them.
He had never done this before. Muck speaking to them before a game was rare. Muck speaking to them after a game was almost unheard-of. Muck speaking to them after a practice was unimaginable.
Nish was lying flat on his back on the floor. He had his mask off and was holding a water bottle directly over his head, spraying hard. Sam and Sarah were also on their backs on the floor, their legs resting on the bench. Mr. Fontaine had said it was a great way to get the blood flowing right again.
“Saturday morning we start the tournament,” Muck said. “We’re the hosts and, naturally, we don’t want to let the town down. That means you’re expected to behave well in addition to playing well. Got that, Mr. Nishikawa?”
“Got it, Coach!” Nish called from the floor, still spraying water in his face.
Muck frowned. He hated being called “Coach,” which only made Nish do it all the more.
“When we began the season we didn’t know much about this game,” Muck said. “I think we owe Mr. Fontaine here a vote of thanks for helping us out.”
The dressing room erupted with cheers.
“Our aim is to provide some real competition,” Muck said, “and when we played against Brantford, we proved we can do it. Mr. Fontaine has another thought, though, and I’d like you to hear it from him, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Fontaine swallowed hard and stepped to the centre of the floor.
Even Nish was paying attention now, his empty water bottle held to his chest like a newborn baby.
Mr. Fontaine cleared his throat. He rapped his old Logan stick once on the floor.
“We can win it,” he said.
Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.
We can win it.
21
The provincial peewee championship began in Tamarack on a Saturday morning so hot there was some concern Nish might melt entirely away. He sweated so much in game one against the Niagara Falls Thunder that several times the officials had to blow down play and get the arena staff to come out with squeegees and clear off the water around the Screech Owls’ crease.
Nish had good cause to sweat. The Thunder was a good team, fast rushing and smart with the ball. But for Nish’s extraordinary play the Owls would have fallen out of contention right from the opening whistle. Sarah and Travis and Dmitri also played their best game yet. Sarah ended the game with eight assists and a goal, Dmitri with seven goals and three assists, and Travis with four goals and four assists. The Owls won 14–9.
In game two they were up against a team from upstate New York, the Watertown Seaway. They won easily, 22–5, with Jesse Highboy leading the charge with four goals and four assists. Sarah had another four goals and three assists, and Travis and Dmitri both had two of each.
“You’re leading the tournament in scoring,” Jenny shouted back to Sarah as she scanned the results in the lobby. Sarah said nothing. She blushed and headed outside with Dmitri to toss the ball around between matches. Travis joined them, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the incredible brightness of the sun.
Mr. Fontaine was already out there. “C’mere for a moment, son,” he said when he noticed Travis. “Let me see that stick again.”
Travis handed over the precious Logan. Mr. Fontaine ran his bony hands up and down the shaft and over the pocket and along the catgut. He punched the pocket and felt the heft of the ball in it and punched the pocket again.
“You’re shooting slightly high, you know,” the old man said, adjusting his glasses on his nose.
Travis knew instantly that Mr. Fontaine was right. One of his goals had looked spectacular, the ball tipping in off the crossbar, but in fact he had intended to skip the ball in off the floor.
Mr. Fontaine’s hands were fast at work. He was undoing the braiding and pulling and yanking the lines left and right. He put the heel of his foot in the pocket and pushed down hard, using the ground for leverage. He tried the ball again, adjusted the pocket again, then declared himself satisfied and rebraided the stick.
He handed it back to Travis. “Try an overhand fake.”
The ball seemed to sag in the pocket. It felt odd, and for a moment Travis wished Mr. Fontaine had left the stick alone.
He tried the fake and was amazed at how it held in the pocket. He giggled. The old man giggled along with him.
“Try a full forehand fake,” the old man said, “and let it become an underhand shot.”
Travis didn’t follow.
“Here,” the old man said. “Watch me.”
Mr. Fontaine took the ball and faked a couple of times to get the feel of it. Then he fired what looked like a hard overhand against the arena wall, but the ball held perfectly in the pocket. Mr. Fontaine let the stick swing almost in a full arc, past his left knee and towards his back, but at the last second it changed direction and he ripped a hard underhand that slapped off the wall and jumped back into his stick so fast it seemed he couldn’t possibly have had time to catch it.
“Wow!” said Travis.
“Try it,” Mr. Fontaine said with a grin.
Travis did, and lost the ball on the fake. He made a second attempt, and lost the ball when he tried to stop the arc and turn the stick. He lost it a third time on the shot.
But the fourth time he got it.
“It’s yours now,” the old man said. “You own that play.”
22
Jenny Staples was again at the round-robin chart pasted up in the lobby. The Owls had won three games and tied one, and a tournament official was just now pencilling in the two teams that would meet in the championship game.
He wrote “SCREECH OWLS” above one line.
Then he began writing on the opposite side: “T-O-R …”
“Oh no!” wailed Jenny. “Not the Toronto Mini-Rock!”
But it was indeed. The Owls against the Mini-Rock, the team they had lost to 19–8 earlier in the summer. The biggest, meanest, toughest, nastiest, and best peewee team in the province.
The game was set for Saturday night at eight o’clock. “Prime time!” Nish called it. The local cable station was going to carry it live, and Nish was acting as if ESPN, TSN, Sportsnet, and Eurosport were all going to broadcast it.
“Sports Illustrated called,” Nish told them as they dressed. “I got next week’s cover.”
It was as if the Owls had never before played a real lacrosse game. Travis had never felt the game move so quickly, never felt himself move so quickly. There was no time to think, no time to plan, only time to react – and right from the start the Mini-Rock were reacting quicker than the Screech Owls.
The big Toronto centre was again dominating Sarah. He used his strength and size to bowl her over on draws. He crushed her in the corners. He hassled her when she wasn’t even in the play, and twice tripped her when she tried to break free. Not once did the referee call a penalty, which angered the Screech Owls’ bench so much some of the players shouted at the referee.
“Enough of that!” Muck said, once.
Once was enough. Every player on the bench knew that Muck disapproved of catcalls. He always said, “Players win and lose games, officials don’t.”
The Mini-Rock went ahead 4–1 early in the match, the Owls’ sole mark coming from little, skinny Fahd, who whipped a
sidearm shot blind from the point and let it fly like a laser for an open corner of the net.
Muck kept pushing the Owls to use their speed, and it began to make a difference. Dmitri was sent in alone by Sarah, and double-faked the goalie flat onto his back before scoring the Screech Owls’ second. Sam scored on a hard overhand that ticked off a Mini-Rock player’s shoulder pads.
By the start of the third, the game was tied 9 –9. The squeegee patrol was working overtime to keep Nish’s crease clear of water, but it seemed the more he sweated the better he played. Several of Nish’s stops had been unbelievable. He was clearing shots away with his stick to prevent rebounds and had developed a trick of falling backwards when he stopped a ball, flipping his stick high as he went down and sending the ball up into the rafters. A couple of times it even went over the netting at the back of the goal and sailed into the stands.
“He’s showing off,” Sarah said to Travis as they sat a shift.
“He’s going to score on himself if he isn’t careful,” said Travis.
“He’s brilliant,” said Dmitri.
Both Sarah and Travis looked oddly at Dmitri.
“He’s Nish!” both corrected at once.
Yet Travis had to admit that Nish was brilliant. He was playing the game of his life.
The Mini-Rock went ahead 13–11 on a string of goals and assists by the big centre.
“Speed,” Muck kept saying. “Use your speed!”
Dmitri broke free and ran almost the entire length of the floor to score.
The officials called a time-out so the arena staff could mop up around Nish’s crease. It was beginning to look like they needed a pump, as well as the squeegees.
Travis felt hands on his shoulders. He looked down. Long, bony fingers, white and wrinkled.
“Time for a little creativity, son,” Mr. Fontaine said in Travis’s ear.
Travis had tried his bounce pass, but he’d been knocked flying before he could step around the defence. His left hand was still a bit sore from the fall, so he’d been afraid to try the “Muck Munro”; if he botched it, the Mini-Rock would end up with the ball and he’d be lost, without his stick, at the other end.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4 Page 16
