“I’ll come,” he muttered.
• • •
At Harry’s SUV, they put up the third row of seats in the back for Hal, so he could sit by himself and watch Bobby sprawl across the seat in front with his girl. The park was fifteen minutes away, long enough for Hal to down two of the beers from Connaughton’s six-pack. Harry parked the SUV where the grass met the parking lot gravel. He, Bobby and the two girls pulled picnic blankets from the back compartment and headed toward the trees about fifty yards away. Hal was left with the SUV and the beer.
“Shit,” he said into the silence. “I’m here to be their lookout. Fuck that. I’ll find my own picnic spot.” It would serve them right if the SUV was stolen while they were having a good time.
It was still warm outside but the wind from the west had picked up, sending dead leaves skittering past the SUV. When Hal looked up, the stars were gone, blotted out by clouds. He took the beer and walked at right angles to the direction the others had taken. The grassy field at the park’s entrance ended in a line of trees and brush, but a barely visible path seemed to go off to the left. Hal took it, his head down, concentrating on placing each foot in succession on the narrow path. It took a sharp downturn, and Hal stumbled and nearly fell. When he regained his footing, he realized the path had emerged at the face of a cliff overlooking the Water Gap. Below the wooded hillside he could see the lines of white and red lights moving in opposite directions that marked Interstate 80. Even at this distance, the roar of the traffic reached him clearly. The wind was stronger now and the temperature was dropping. Hal began to wish he had worn something other than a T-shirt and shorts. A drop of rain hit his forehead. He looked up and laughed at the sky as two more spattered on his cheeks. That would fix their little party!
Just ahead, he spotted an opening in the side of the cliff. Maybe he could squeeze in there and have a beer and stay dry. Meanwhile, the others would get a scare when he wasn’t at the SUV. Maybe they would have left him at the party, but not if he had seemed to vanish here. They wouldn’t have the balls.
The opening led to a small cave, big enough to sit in, if not high enough to stand. It was bare, with no signs of an animal occupant. He settled on the dirt floor and drained two more beers. Outside, the rain fell harder. The air in the little cave seemed sharp. His skin tightened into gooseflesh. It was not just the increasing chill—his hair stood out, as though from static electricity. With one giant flash, the night lit up brighter than noon. Scarcely a second behind, he heard the thunderclap not just in his ears, but in his stomach. Hal jumped to his feet and smashed his head into the low ceiling.
With a moan, he picked himself off the ground. Lightning flashes lit up the sky beyond the cave, while thunder rolled in right on its heels. It might be hazardous to leave his shelter, but he was becoming too uneasy to stay.
He stepped out from under the rock ledge, one hand clasped to his sore head. He thought he felt blood there but couldn’t be sure because the rain drenched him the moment he left the little shelter. The water struck with enough force to sting his face and matted his clothes tight against his skin. The unease in his stomach, fueled by the beer, became more than he could take. A burning fountain forced its way up his chest, out of his mouth, and over his shirt. Tears mingled with the rain on his cheeks as he gasped for breath, hands on his knees. He no longer cared whether the others had been soaked during their tryst. He only wanted to be back in the SUV. Coldness gripped his belly now. Suppose they had left? Suppose they were laughing about him being out in the rain? Would they do that? What a fool he was!
Realizing that he still held the plastic rings from the six-pack, he flung them to the side and spun around. The beer made him dizzy, so he lurched sideways. Flip-flops did not make for good footing on the wet path and he skidded on the mud and water. Blinded by the dark and the rain he started to run anyway. His next step did not meet ground where he expected it. He pitched forward; his foot did strike ground then but at a steep angle. His ankle twisted, sending signals of hot pain to add to his misery.
Then there was nothing under his foot at all. He was falling. His body struck the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him and he tumbled down a steep slope. His clothes snagged on branches and rock and tore. So did skin.
It felt like he fell for hours before he came to a stop, face down in mud. He lay there, battered by the rain, unable to rise against it.
Eventually, the rain stopped. That alone was not enough to get Hal moving, until he vomited again. Then he had to move, or he would have to lie in it. Gingerly, he sat up. Everything hurt, but at least his arms and legs moved. After several more minutes, he pulled himself to his feet. The ankle was sore, but held his weight. The air was much colder than before the storm.
Moonlight shone through broken clouds. It showed he was at the foot of a steep hill that rose to many times his height. He must have fallen down that. “Holy shit,” he said aloud. “I’m lucky to be alive.”
Where was he? There was no possibility of climbing back up that rise to the park. The ground was too wet, too steep, and all he had were flip-flops. He looked down and realized that one of his flip-flops was gone. How was he going to get back? He reached for his cellphone, and found his back pocket empty. It must have fallen out during his tumble. Even if it still worked after that fall, there was no chance of finding it in the dark.
It was almost flat where he stood. Away from the steep slope, the moonlight showed a gentle further slope down. Trees obscured where it led. Still, down was the wrong direction, wasn’t it? The lot where the SUV was parked was at the same elevation as the path. Then it occurred to him that down might be all right.
The interstate ran through the Water Gap. If he worked his way down the slope he should intersect the highway at some point and someone, surely, would pick him up. They’d have a phone. He could call Bobby, and Bobby would pick him up.
It was odd, though. From the path above, he had been able to hear the highway noise. Here, among the trees, it was dead quiet. A quirk of the terrain, perhaps, that blocked the sound? The cold had intensified even as he had stood there. He had to get inside or he would catch pneumonia. Stories of hypothermia ran through his mind. If he did not find the highway, he was going to die. The word “die” resounded through his head, starting a chill in his belly far colder than the one he felt on his skin. He had to run.
He sped downhill, ignoring the pain in his ankle, with no thought except that he was running to the highway. One step landed in thick mud. He pulled his leg free, but at the cost of the other flip-flop. He kept running anyway. His heart pounded; his chest burned. Ahead, there seemed to be a shimmer of light. Was it moonlight on water? The river in the Gap? It had to be. The highway ran along the river. He was saved!
He burst through the last screen of trees whooping, screaming and waving his arms. And then he stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead lay a river, and the sawed-out section of mountain could only be the Water Gap, but there were no lights, no cars, no highway.
His throat closed. How could he have missed an interstate highway? Where was he? Where was the road? Think, Hal, he commanded himself. Stay cool. Figure out which direction to take. But there were no clues in the dark. The more he looked, and the more he found nothing, the more his fear rose.
Hal turned and bolted back into the woods, tripped over a root, and sprawled headlong. He scrambled to his feet and kept running, shouting all the while in the hope that someone would hear him. Bushes snagged his shorts. He pulled free, feeling the fabric tear. At last, out of breath, he leaned against a tree, panting. In all directions, the woods looked the same. No, not the same. Ahead, a shadow had moved by a tree. He stared. Now there was nothing. No, something had been there. Someone had heard him shouting and had come to see what was going on. He ran at the tree where the shadow had been. Something stepped from the tree’s cover. A man! And then, all at once, the moonlight showed him dark hair with feathers braided into it, lines of paint on a bronzed f
ace, a hand pulling a hatchet from a belt. The man let out a yell of his own. Hal spun away in fear and ran, his shoulders tightened against a blow that did not come. Finally, he stopped and turned, bracing himself. There was nothing behind him. Had he imagined that person? No, he heard footfalls moving away.
Now he had no idea where the river was. He just ran. At length he was stumbling rather than running and, at last, he just collapsed into the mud.
3
The Woodsranger
THE SMELL OF smoke brought Hal’s head up. Smoke, that meant a fire. My God, maybe he was saved after all! That thought was enough to get him to sit up in the mud. It was too dark to see anything, but he thought that the smell was coming from the direction he was facing. Of course, maybe the fire belonged to the wild man he had seen.
Hal shrugged. He didn’t have much choice. If he lay, soaked, in the cold all night he’d die of exposure. They’d never find his body.
The smell of smoke became stronger as he slogged through woods that seemed to go on forever. His nose did not play him false. Eventually, he could see a glow ahead. He had learned enough caution from the vision of face paint and a hatchet not to rush toward it with a whoop. Instead, he tried to creep from tree to tree, the way he imagined a woodsman might, although the cracking branches under his feet gave the lie to that idea. The trees ended at a small clearing, where a stack of wood burned on the dirt in the center of a circle of stones. Two rude leather packs were visible outside the circle, a blanket spread next to them. There was no sign of any person to go with it.
Hal stepped forward, drawn by the light and warmth.
“Halt!”
Hal jumped at the shout. It came from his left, across the clearing.
“What?” Hal asked. “Where are you? Who are you?”
“English?” asked the voice. “You speak English?” The accent sounded strange.
“What else would I speak? Spanish?” Hal searched desperately for the source of the voice but found only darkness past the fire.
“Dutch, maybe, around here.” There was a laugh in the darkness. “No matter to me. What’s your name, boy?”
“Hal. Hal Christianson.”
“Odd name, hereabouts. You come from a Trans-Delaware town?”
“I don’t know where that would be. Listen, who are you? I need help. I’m not going to hurt you.”
There was another laugh. “No, not from the looks of you, and nobody with you either.” A shadow detached itself from the darkness across the circle and stepped forward. A small man dressed in leathers came into the firelight. In its flickering light, Hal couldn’t make out features beyond dark hair and a goatee. The man carried a clumsy looking pistol in his left hand but, clumsy or otherwise, it was pointed at Hal’s heart. The right hand held a sword.
“Jesus Christ!” Hal’s lips trembled. The man might be armed, but to Hal, right at that moment, he was salvation. Words poured out in a torrent. “Oh God, thank God I found you! I have to find the interstate to New York. My friends must have taken the SUV and left me. I lost my phone when I fell. Do you have a cell phone? You must. Can I borrow it? I need to make a call! Maybe you have a ride-share app? I’ll pay for it later, I swear.”
The words stopped only when the man slipped the pistol into a loop on his belt, stepped close and delivered a stinging openhanded slap across Hal’s face.
Hal’s hand went up and found a rivulet of blood from his split lip. “What did you do that for?”
“Because you’re speaking nonsense.” The man retreated a step and drew the pistol again. “Now get a hold of yourself. What in the name of our Lord Jesus happened to you?”
“I—I don’t know,” Hal said. “I fell. Down a cliff back there, I guess.” He gestured toward the woods behind him.
“Some fall,” the man said.
At the words, Hal looked himself over and saw a mess. His clothes, what was left of them, were in tatters, and the tatters were caked with mud. His feet were bare. He had cuts and abrasions everywhere and, now that he looked at them, they all hurt.
“Oh God,” he said. “And what are you going to do to me now?”
“What’s the matter, boy? Still believe your mama’s tales that woodsrangers are the Devil’s spawn?” The man stepped toward him.
“N—no. I mean, what does any of that mean?” Now that the man was closer, Hal could see the irregular stitching that had fashioned his garments. “I never thought I’d see anybody like you around here.”
“And where might ‘around here’ be, do you think?” The man’s tone sounded pleasant now.
“Where? New Jersey, Pennsylvania, maybe,” Hal said. “I’m lost.”
“Never heard of either. Maybe you’re more lost than you think.”
The words sent Hal’s mind spinning again. Nothing made sense. “Where am I?”
“In Nassau Province of Nieuw Netherlands, not too many miles from the town of Gap,” was the reply.
“Oh, God.” Hal’s knees gave way. He sat down on the wet ground. “Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. I need help. Please.”
“I can believe that.” The sword went into its sheath and the pistol back into the loop of belt. “Tom Pyke at your service.”
Speechless, Hal looked up at Pyke.
The look on Pyke’s face turned to pity. “Wait a moment.” He went to one of the packs by the fire and pulled out a bundle. “My partner, Danny, had a fall worse than yours a week back. Hit his head on a rock.” Pyke sighed as he pulled out a buckskin tunic and leggings. “He won’t be needing these anymore. They’re too short for you by inches, that’s a fact, but they’re better than what you’ve got left. The moccasins will stretch, I guess.”
Hal changed without another word. The deerskin was smelly and the stitching was crude, but it had been worn smooth and supple and it was warm. It was, as Pyke said, way too short, but it all stretched enough for him to wear it. “Thank you.”
• • •
Sometime later, Hal was sitting on the ground wrapped in a blanket while Pyke puffed on a pipe. The fire was down to glowing embers, but it still shed some light and heat.
“You should get some sleep,” Pyke said. “I’ll be moving with the light and that’ll be here soon.”
The words made Hal realize how tired he was but, as he thought of sleeping, another memory intruded. “There’s another man in the woods,” he said. “He has a hatchet at least. What if he finds us?”
“A man with a hatchet?” Pyke was suddenly alert. “Where was this? Tell me what you saw.”
Hal recounted the story, trying his best to keep terror out of his voice. If he did not succeed entirely, at least Pyke paid no attention to it. Instead, he fastened on every detail of the face paint and hair feathers. He asked Hal to repeat how the encounter had ended.
Pyke laughed then, although there was no humor in it. “The only good thing is,” Pyke said, “that it sounds as though he was as afraid of you as you were of him, so maybe he’ll give us a wide berth. Don’t know for sure, though. That man, he has to be a red savage. If he was around here, then the old Interdict is breaking down.”
“Red savage? Interdict? What are you talking about?”
Pyke stared at him. “The savages, you know, the Indians who were here when the first whites landed. Our lands have been under what we call the Interdict for them ever since the Time of Sickness. They think they’ll die if they come near our houses, and indeed enough of them did just that. Whole villages of them. That’s why he was so jumpy, I’ll wager. He knew he was on dangerous ground and then he saw you. Still, it’s not a good sign.”
“Time of Sickness?”
“That’s what they call it. The Great Black Death is what it was.”
“But the Black Death, that was in the fourteenth century, wasn’t it? There were no whites here then.”
“God knows what passes for schooling in some towns,” Pyke said. “The Great Black Death was the second plague. Started in 1674. That was the one that wiped
out Europe. Nearly finished us, too.”
Hal stared at Pyke and tried desperately to remember his history. Had there been a plague in Europe in the seventeenth century? Yes, but not nearly as devastating as the earlier one. “What do you mean, wiped out Europe?”
“Jesus and his mother. I didn’t say down to the last man, although, in truth, who knows? The last ship from Europe anybody in the north knows of docked in Boston in 1678. They said everyone was dead in the cities and most of the towns, and those left were fleeing for their lives into the countryside. Even though we’re back to building good ships again, no one’s wanted to go check what’s there. Our Interdict, I guess. Three hundred and thirty-eight years now, in the Year of Our Lord 2016.” He poked at the embers and did not see the look of horror on Hal’s face. “Get some sleep, Hal,” he said. “I’ll stand watch. I need to do some thinking anyway.”
• • •
Hal came awake with a spasm that brought him to a sitting position even before he had quite remembered why he was sleeping on the ground. After the night’s events flashed through his head, he was surprised he had slept at all. His head pounded, a consequence of too much beer, too little sleep, and being bashed into the top of a cave.
Pyke stood by the trees, securing packs on two horses. Hal did not remember seeing horses the night before, but nothing he did remember about the previous night made sense.
Pyke walked over as soon as he saw Hal sit up. In the daylight, his leather tunic and leggings were revealed to be heavily stained and worn, evidence that he led a rough life in the woods. That was another item that made no sense.
Hal’s eyes went to the strung bow over Pyke’s shoulder and the weapons on Pyke’s belt.
“Hal, if I had wished you harm, I could have done it easily while you slept.”
Of course. He felt like a fool.
“It has occurred to me,” Pyke went on as though nothing other than a brief “Good morning” had taken place, “that we may, in fact, be of service to each other. In that regard, I have a proposal for you.” To Hal, the words sounded like a much-rehearsed speech. “Before I go on, though, I want to ask you something. Do you know what the Magical People are?”
Accidental Warrior: The Unlikely Tale of Bloody Hal Page 2
