And then one day out of the blue Dad calls me into his office (I go in flexing my hands from Joystick Paralysis) and says, “Jake, I’m sorry. I’m not paying the right kind of attention to you and I know it, and I don’t know when I’ll have time either.”
He glanced back at his desk which was a wild tangle of books, notebooks, loose papers, charts, bits of wood and stone and Bonelands fossils, coffee cups and crumbs. The Institute (of course) can’t afford a lot of support staff so we do all our own cleaning and cooking. Although we’d shared it when Mom was still around Dad and I stopped doing any about a month after she didn’t show up at her checkpoint. We had started to try to do it again but if it weren’t for eating with the Rangers sometimes I might have forgotten food ever came in any shape but microwave pouches or that cooking ever involved anything but punching buttons. And cleaning? Forget it. I can run the dishwasher—hey, I can run the washing machine, are you impressed?—but my expertise ends there.
Dad rearranged one of the coffee mugs on the pile of papers it had already left smeary brown rings on. “I’ve been talking to Billy. You did really well in your last standardized tests, did I tell you?”
He hadn’t. I’d thought he should’ve had the results by now and had begun to worry. I’d been trying to be extra careful since Mom died because I knew social services was just aching to take me out of my weird life at the Institute, but I could have missed something important because since Mom died I just did miss stuff, and sometimes it was important.
“And I know”—he hesitated—“I know you’ve been keeping up with your woodcraft.” The one thing he would let me out of his sight to do without a huge argument was go out for a day with one of the Rangers—as long as we were back the same night. And it was the one thing that would turn the telescope I was looking through around too. For a few hours. “You’re fourteen and a half.”
Fourteen years, nine months and three days, I wanted to say, but I didn’t.
“And—well—Billy says you’re more than ready to—uh—”
Tie my shoes without someone supervising? I thought, but I didn’t say that either, not only because my shoes have Velcro straps. I knew Dad was doing the best he could. So was I.
“Well, I wondered, would you like to take your overnight solo? I know you were—we were—” He hesitated again. “Your first solo is overdue, I know. And Billy says you’ll be fine. And the weather looks like holding. So—”
“Yes,” I said. “I’d love to.” I tried not to sound sarcastic. I almost forgot to say thanks. Almost. But I did say it.
If I’d been twelve I’d’ve gone whooping out of the Institute offices to the Ranger offices which are right across the tourist center lobby and reception area, and probably telling everyone on the way, Nate in the ticket booth, Amanda in the gift shop, poor Bob doing detention in the café, Jo and Nancy answering questions as they shepherded gangs of tourists to and from the bus stop, and anybody else I recognized, but I was nearer fifteen than fourteen and it had been a long almost-three years in a lot of ways. I walked slowly through Nancy’s busload (ID-ing the f.l.s among them at first glance), waved at Nate, and told Dan, at the front Ranger desk, that whenever Billy had a moment I’d like to talk to him.
“He’s hiding down at the caves,” said Dan. “You could go find him.”
I’ve forgotten to tell you about the caves. As soon as the first geologist set foot near Smokehill they knew there had to be caves here. The Native Americans had known for a long time, but after a bad beginning they’d kind of stopped telling the European pillagers anything they didn’t have to, so Old Pete may be the first whiteface to have done more than guess. The caves near the Institute aren’t very good ones compared to what there is farther in, like under the Bonelands, but these little ones near the front door were busy being developed for tourists, so they weren’t going to be much use for hiding in much longer.
Getting the work done was a huge nuisance and everybody who lived here hated it, but we are always desperate for money (I should just make an acronym of it: WAADFM, like some new weird alternative radio station), so we were going ahead with it. Of course in the short term this meant money we badly needed elsewhere was getting spent on making the caves touristproof…and tourists coming to the caves was going to mean more staff to keep an eye on them and more upkeep because tourists are incredibly destructive even when they’re behaving themselves, but the grown-ups (including a lot of bozo outside consultants—for cheez sake, what does some pointy head from Baltimore or Manhattan know about a place like Smokehill?) all seemed to think it was going to be worth it in the end, if we lived that long. Dad had told me that the caves were going to fund him hiring another graduate student, maybe even full-time, because he didn’t think he was ever going to get one otherwise. I was sure hiring anybody was a bad idea because it would mean we could, and everybody would cut our grants accordingly.
Billy was sitting by one of the little pools near the entrance. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark—the construction crews had gone home for the day, and turned off all the lights—I could see both his lantern and its reflection in the water. I went up to him as quietly as I could, but the caves are totally quiet except for the drip of water (and the bats) and on the pebbly path with the inevitable echo I sounded like someone falling through a series of windows CRASH CRUNCH CRASH only without the screaming.
If you’ll pardon the expression from someone who wants to grow up to be a scientist, there’s something almost magical about our caves, even the little boring ones near the park entrance. Maybe all caves are like this and I just don’t know the analytical squashed-flat-and-labeled word for it. But there’s a real feeling of another world, another world that needs some other sense or senses to get at it very well, in our caves. I suppose you could say it’s something about underground, lack of sunlight, nothing grows here but a few creepy blind things and sometimes even creepier rock formations, but that doesn’t explain it. Cellars aren’t magical. The old underground bomb shelter that’s now a really boring museum in Wilsonville isn’t magical. Our caves are magical.
It could have been the weird shadows that lantern light throws but the moment Billy looked up I knew he was worried about something besides more tourists. I was used to Dad worrying. He’d been worried about something since Mom disappeared, and once she died it’s like his worry metastasized and now he worried about everything—and I worried about the holes it made in him, all the gnawing worry. If I lost any more family there wouldn’t be any left. As I looked at Billy I wondered what I was missing. Like that the world’s total Draco australiensis numbers were still falling and there had been only a few hundred left when they died out in the wild. Like that even with the zoo Smokehill was barely surviving. I knew both of these things. But dragons are so hard to count maybe they were wrong about there being fewer of them. Maybe they were just getting even harder to count. And Smokehill had always barely survived, from Old Pete on. But Dad’s a worrier. Billy isn’t.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
Billy shook his head. He was a good grown-up, but he was still a grown-up, and grown-ups rarely talk about grown-up trouble to kids. Eric took the question “What’s wrong?” from a kid as a personal attack, even when it was something like a zoo-food shipment not arriving when it should and it was perfectly reasonable to be worried. I’d often wished Dad would talk about missing Mom to me more. Not only because then I could talk to him back. We could barely mention her at all.
At least Billy didn’t lie to me. “Nothing you can do anything about. Nothing I can do anything about either. That’s what’s wrong.” He shook his head again and then looked at me, visibly changing the subject. “What’s up?”
I thought again of how I’d’ve felt if this’d happened three years ago. It was almost hard to get the words out. “Dad says I can do my first solo. Hike into the park and stay overnight.” I felt as if I needed to apologize for interrupting him for such a lame reason. It could have waited. “Dan t
old me I could find you here.”
Billy nodded. My solo wasn’t news to him—Dad would have discussed it with him first. Even though I knew this was logical and responsible and necessary and all that it made me feel about four instead of almost fifteen. I wasn’t really tying my shoes by myself. Dad and Billy were both watching me. I wished Snark was there. Snark was my responsibility. And furthermore he didn’t seem to mind. That’s being a dog, I guess, not minding being totally dependent on someone who may talk over your head to someone else about you and not let you in on it till everything’s already been decided.
“I’m going to Northcamp, day after tomorrow,” said Billy. “If you want to come with me you can hike on from Northcamp alone and meet me back there the next day.”
Northcamp was one of the permanent camps, and it was five days’ hike from the Institute, after the first day in a jeep as far as the jeep track went. I didn’t get that far in very often—never in the last almost-three years. This was a really nice offer. “Great,” I said, trying to mean it and almost succeeding. “Thanks.”
Billy gave me a look that suggested that he knew what I was thinking, and it made me wonder if he felt about his troubles—whatever they were—not so much different from how I felt about mine. Maybe we both needed a dog.
But by the time we were ready to leave, I was up for it, maybe as much as I’d’ve been if I was only twelve and Mom was there to wave me off. Dad didn’t—waving wasn’t his style—besides, he was at his desk, like he was always at his desk. I don’t mean that as bad as it sounds—we’d had breakfast together and he cross-examined me about what I was going to do in the park by myself and what to do if anything happened. We both knew that if I didn’t know it all already he wouldn’t be letting me go, but it was a ritual, like waving.
The answer to most of those if-anything-happens questions was “call Billy on the two-way, and stay put,” so it wasn’t like it was as grisly as Dad’s cross-examinations when they were on stuff like algebra and Latin. I suck at languages but Latin’s the worst. Maybe “call Billy and stay put” should have made me feel more like a kid too, but it didn’t. That’s how everybody goes into the park, with a two-way, and someone—a Ranger—always there to listen on the other end. Even Billy didn’t go anywhere without someone to check in with. Anyway Dad gave me a hug on the way to his desk and told me to come see him the minute I got back, which should be about two weeks from now. Of course Billy would make me call Dad every day while we were gone, but that was okay too.
Our jeeps were as beat-up and held together with string as everything else at the Institute but the best Land Rover in the world wouldn’t get far in Smokehill. Katie drove us in with Martha, deeply envious, in the backseat with me (Eleanor didn’t come: one of her few weaknesses is getting carsick, although riding in the back of a Smokehill jeep is more like walloped-by-tornado sick) and late afternoon they let us off by the Lightning Tree, which is one of our landmarks, and a lot of walking trails going all over the park start there. Another way to look at it is that it’s maybe one of the (few) good things about never having any money—we couldn’t afford to put in any more road even if we wanted to.
“Good luck,” Martha said quietly. Martha was born polite, it’s like she knew she was going to have Eleanor as a little sister in less than six years and needed to get practicing being nice immediately. Martha is two and a half years younger than me so she was maybe close to her first solo, if she wanted to. I knew she was envying me right now. Maybe it was just the idea of getting away from Eleanor for two weeks.
Billy and I did about six more miles before we camped for the night, and that’s good going, believe me. I slept like a log, and woke up as stiff as one too, from sleeping on the ground. I didn’t do it enough. Billy’s older than Dad, but he didn’t creak out of his sleeping bag. I did.
Four days later I felt about four years older when we made it to Northcamp and I got to sleep in a bed again. The grim little bunk beds at all our permanent camps aren’t very welcoming, but they look pretty good after five nights on the ground. So does the hot water after you get the generator going. Northcamp smelled funny the way any building does that’s been shut up for too long—a little dusty, a little moldy, a little mousy—but we cranked open the windows and got a fire going in the woodstove (and the mice living in the kindling box were not happy, speaking of mousy) and it was pretty nice.
I admit I had a few butterflies in my stomach the next morning—in spite of Billy’s cornmeal pancakes, which I swear must be the best in the world—but five days’ camping with Billy had reminded me that I still knew how to do everything I needed to know how to do, and I was ready to go by sunup and I went. I wanted to cover some ground. I wanted to make as much of a thing of my first solo as possible, so they’d let me do it again. Which meant I had to make the right kind of thing of my first solo or they’d never let me do anything again. I wanted to come out here for weeks and study dragons. I wanted to come out here for weeks and find some dragons to study.
I had my radio and a compass (and a squirtgun and a flare), the weather was perfect, and I’d been drilled since I was tiny to recognize Rangers’ marks. And while Northcamp was a long way into the park by my standards, the area was well used and well designated by the Rangers. There was no way I could get lost if I even half kept my head. There were no grizzlies around here, and you only had to think about wolves later on in bad winters. It was, in the old Institute joke, a walk in the park.
I really poured it on. I covered twenty miles that day. I knew it because I got to Pine Tor, which is nineteen and three-quarters miles from Northcamp, and another Ranger landmark. (I’d never seen it before except on the charts.) Yes, it was stupid of me, and even I knew it. Sure, I was walking on broken trail, but the emphasis is more on the “broken” than the “trail.” Northcamp is a long way from the Bonelands but it’s still all pretty ankle-breaking going. And if I missed getting back to Northcamp next day because I was too tired and beat up, it would be a huge black mark against me, and all the grown-ups would give me lectures, especially Dad, and they’d all be disappointed, which is the worst thing grown-ups do to kids—can’t they just yell at you and get it over with?—and it would be a long time till they let me go out alone again. Like maybe next century or when pigs fly, etc. But I had to go as fast and as far as I could. I’m not going to try to explain it because I can’t. But I had to. I’d get back to Northcamp the next day somehow.
The thing that makes it seem the dumbest is what was I tearing over all that landscape for? I was so busy watching where to put my feet and for the next Rangers’ mark that I barely looked around. I could have steamed by any number of dragons—or grizzlies—and never noticed. And our park is beautiful. Wild and strange and alien and not very friendly to humans, but very, very beautiful, if you aren’t freaked out by it. Lots of people are. Some people find the Institute as much as they can handle—the Institute with its smell of dragon, and shed dragon scales on sale in the gift shop, and the five million acres out back sort of looming. Even as wilderness parks go, Smokehill is pretty uncivilized. It’s supposed to be, but it can still kind of knock you over with it.
I didn’t see anything that day but ordinary eastern Smokehill landscape, and little stuff like squirrels, and a few deer and wild sheep. But the weirdest thing is that by the time I got to Pine Tor I had this huge harrowing sense of urgency, instead of feeling good and tired and pleased with myself—and maybe deciding to go a last leisurely quarter-mile farther to make it twenty miles and then find a nice place to camp didn’t register with me at all. I was so wired I couldn’t stand still, despite how tired I was. I had to keep going. Where? What? Huh?
I have to say I’d made unbelievable time. That sounds like bragging but it’s important for what happened. I got to Pine Tor and it was still afternoon. I stood there, panting, looking around, like I was looking for a Rangers’ mark, except I’d already found the one that was there. I wasn’t even very interested in the fact that
Pine Tor itself looked just like Grace’s—Billy’s wife—drawing of it and so it was like I had seen it before. It was like I was waiting….
Waiting….
I knew what the smell was immediately, even though I’d never smelled it before. The wind was blowing away from me or I’d’ve smelled it a lot sooner. My head snapped around like a dog’s and I set off toward it, like it was pulling me, like it was a rope around my neck being yanked. No, first I stopped and took a very close look at where I was. Pine Tor is big, and I needed to be able to find not just it again, but the right side of it. I was about to set off cross country, away from the Rangers’ trail and the Rangers’ marks—the thing I was above all expressly forbidden to do—and I had to be able to find my way back. Which proves that at least some of my brain cells were working.
It wasn’t very far, and when I got there I was glad the wind was blowing away from me. The smell was overwhelming. But then everything about it was overwhelming. I can’t tell you…and I’m not going to try. It’ll be hard enough, even now, just telling a little.
It was a dead—or rather a dying—dragon. She lay there, bleeding, dying, nearly as big as Pine Tor. Stinking. And pathetic. And horrible. She wasn’t dying for any good reason. She was dying because somebody—some poacher—some poacher in Smokehill—had killed her. If everything else hadn’t been so overpowering that alone would have stopped me cold.
I was seeing my first dragon up close. And she was mutilated and dying.
She’d got him too, although it was too late for her. When I saw him—what was left of him—I threw up. It was completely automatic, like blinking or sneezing. He was way beyond horrible but he wasn’t pathetic. I was glad he was dead. I was just sorry I’d seen him. It.
Dragon Haven Page 5
