The Wolf Tree

by John Claude Bemis

  As they sat that evening before their sputtering fire, the down-pouring rain ran rivers across the small piece of waxed canvas over their heads. Marisol growled, “You call this a better spot?”

  Lightning shattered the night. B’hoy gave a croak from a tree nearby.

  “Don’t you start, too,” Ray warned. He ventured forward to pick the pan from the coals, offering the last of the meal to Marisol. “Want any more?”

  “More like stew now.”

  “Mind if I?”

  She eyed the pan with disgust and shook her head. “I take it back, by the way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Everything bad I said about where we’ll stay when we meet up with Redfeather. I’ll take any wigwam, teepee, or dugout as long as it’s dry. Javidos can fight off the rats.”

  Ray took a few bites and shook the rest into the fire. Still hungry, he remembered he had a couple of crumbs of the fry bread still in his coat pocket. It was hardly enough for a bite and as Ray started to reach for it, he stopped.

  He looked up at B’hoy, head tucked into his wing and seeming to try to sleep in the storm. Ray turned a bit on the log to put his back to the crow.

  “What are you doing?” Marisol asked, fidgeting with her side of the canvas.

  “Quiet a moment,” Ray whispered.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the cold rain plastering his clothes to his back. There was no need to try to ignore the rain or be frustrated with it. The rain was part of the wild, just as were the trees around him and the crow sitting on the branch. Ray concentrated, letting his thoughts fill with his surroundings. He didn’t consider whether he hated the rain or liked the rain, but simply noticed that the rain was there. The forest was there. The crow was there. And he was among them.

  He then focused on B’hoy, shutting everything else out as he tried to make the link with the bird.

  Ray generated an image in his mind. The bit of fry bread in his pocket. B’hoy was welcome to it if he wanted it. All he needed to do was fly down and pluck it from the pocket by his right hip.

  Ribbons of water curled down his face and dripped from his nose and chin. The fry bread. Come on, B’hoy, he thought. Take it.

  Feathers fluttered, beating wings against the pouring rain. B’hoy’s talons clutched his leg. His beak prodded against his side, nudging open the pocket flap.

  Ray opened his eyes. The crow looked up at him, the soggy bit of fry bread breaking in half as B’hoy turned and flew back to the branch.

  Ray smiled and let out a sharp exhale.

  “That’s a start,” Marisol said. She peered up from the canvas cover at the dripping, dark forest. “Hey, the rain. I think it’s stopping.”

  Ray stood, excitement welling in his chest. “I’ll build up the fire so we can dry out.”

  * * *

  As warm, sunny weather returned, Marisol became more comfortable with the journey. She complained less and did not try more than twice to persuade Ray to stop in Springfield.

  Occasionally as they walked, Ray practiced over and over speaking to the crow with his thoughts. B’hoy was stubborn, and half the time he ignored Ray’s requests to land on that log or pick up that piece of food. But Ray could hear B’hoy’s thoughts too if he concentrated really hard, and he knew the crow understood him. Ray began to turn his attention next to trying to see through B’hoy’s eyes.

  “That’s pretty hard,” Marisol said, after watching Ray walking with his eyes closed. “Even when I can see what Javidos sees, it’s only snippets of images. Hardly anything, really.”

  Ray sighed and looked up as B’hoy sailed a hundred feet over their heads. “You think he’s too far away?”

  “I don’t know,” Marisol said. Her copperhead slithered up from her collar to sprout from her hat like a flickering pompom. “Javidos is never more than a few feet away from me.”

  “You know, speaking to Javidos like you do,” Ray said. “And seeing what he sees. That’s pretty complicated hoodoo, Marisol. From what Nel says, not even that many Ramblers could do it.”

  She laughed as she shrugged. “I learned when I was so little, it’s hardly impressive.”

  “But you can do it,” Ray said. “Maybe there’s other hoodoo you could learn—”

  Marisol stopped and pointed. “Look. More travelers.”

  Ray and Marisol had kept to the rocky woods, but often they passed near roads. It was not surprising to see men on horseback, mule-drawn carts, or even the occasional buckboard. But what they now saw seemed to be a caravan traveling east. A large group of people were riding in wagons, loaded down with supplies, livestock, and even furniture.

  That night, a family stopped near their Five Spot to make camp. The travelers were unaware that Marisol and Ray were not more than a hundred feet away. Ray crept to the edge of the protective perimeter to investigate.

  “They’re from Kansas all right,” he reported after returning.

  “How do you know?”

  “More than half are sick. Coughing and some delirious. Heard a man mention the Darkness. Also they’re digging three graves.”

  Marisol’s brow knit. “I hope they reach where they’re going before …”

  Ray nodded. “I feel sad for the little ones especially. Do you think if we shared Nel’s charms with them, it might help?”

  “Nel did everything he could to save Bradshaw,” Marisol said. “I think once you’ve been in contact with the Darkness too long, nothing can be done.”

  Ray watched the shadows of the refugees moving before their fire. He could hear someone crying. “There must be something.”

  “But what?” Marisol asked.

  “Something.”

  * * *

  They climbed gradually, edging the foothills of the Ozark Mountains to their south. Their journey led them through a vast forestland punctuated now with only occasional farms, sawmills, and cabins. Ray guessed it would not be more than a few days’ travel to the Indian Territory. As they occasionally neared the roads, they saw more of the hastily dug roadside graves.

  They made camp in the woods not far from a small farm that was bordered on one side by a quiet road. Marisol had become comfortable making the campfire, and she stacked twigs in a pyramid. “It’s so quiet out here,” she said.

  “Nice, isn’t it,” Ray said.

  “I guess,” Marisol said. She fed pine needles into the glowing kindling and blew into it until it flamed. “I’m so used to all the children of Shuckstack. All their voices. When you go out on your own, Ray, don’t you miss talking to people?”

  Ray took out some watercress and wild sorrel from his haversack. “I don’t really mind not talking.”

  “Isn’t it lonely?” she asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you ever think of Jolie?” she asked.

  This surprised Ray, and he turned his face quickly to hide his reaction. “Often,” he said.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Me too.” Marisol rested on her heels, watching the flames dance in front of her. “I wonder what happened to her.”

  Ray got to his feet, gathering the waterskins. “I’m going to look for some water.”

  Marisol pushed her black curls from her face as she looked at him over her shoulder. “You okay, Ray?”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Her brow pinched a little as she turned back to prod a stick into the blaze. “I’ll get supper ready,” she said.

  Ray climbed over a downed pine and headed through the trees.

  He had thought often about Jolie over the past year. Many times when he was traveling—down in the marshlands along the Carolina coast to visit some root worker or journeying along a slow, moss-dappled river—he wished she were with him. It was true, he rarely felt lonely when he traversed the wild, but when he did it was not for Shuckstack or his family there. He missed Jolie.

  Where had she gone?

  Ray scanned the for
est. He had a good sense for reading the landscape to locate water, and after some walking, he found a creek. As he filled the waterskins, he called out for B’hoy with his thoughts, but the crow was elsewhere. “What’s he up to?” Ray muttered.

  Slowly winding his way back toward their camp, he concentrated, calling to B’hoy with his mind—

  A gunshot erupted, reverberating through the trees. Ray crouched, not sure which direction it came from.

  “If you know what’s best for you, you won’t move,” a voice called.

  Ray spied him in the falling light: a gray-bearded man with a rifle aimed his way. The man cautiously approached, and Ray reached for his toby. The ball of bluestone. The Indian-head pennies. They could protect him temporarily from gunshots.

  “I can take down a bear three times as far as you are,” the man warned.

  Ray lowered his hand, knowing the man would give him no time to prepare the charm.

  “That there last shot was a warning. Next won’t be. Go ahead and drop that Arkansas toothpick I spy on your belt.”

  “I mean no harm,” Ray said, pulling his knife out and dropping it on the ground. “My friend and I are camped over there a ways. Might be your property and if it is, I apologize for trespassing.”

  “Trespassing is only the half of what you Jayhawkers is capable.” The man had reached Ray now, and he kept the rifle squared against his shoulder.

  “Jayhawkers, sir?”

  “Don’t play me the fool!” he spat. “I’ll no more ignore you Kansas trash coming through stealing and spreading your plague.”

  “Please,” Ray said, “I think you’re mistaken. We’re not from Kansas. We’re heading west.”

  “West is Indian Territory. Think I’m an idiot?” The man tilted his head to shout, “Danny! Over here!”

  “Really, we are,” Ray said. He flicked a glance to the high branches of the trees behind the man, looking for B’hoy in the falling light.

  “Just last week, bunch of you Jayhawkers turn up. First asking to water your jennies. Next thing, you got a knife to my old woman’s throat.” He shook the barrel at Ray, causing Ray to back a few steps. “Tearing the house up! Took the last of our cans and jars.”

  “We’re not like that,” Ray said. “We’re just passing through.”

  “Danny!” the man shouted. Then he growled at Ray, “Was a time I felt right sorry for you people. But no more!” His voice pitched higher. “I see now the lot of you are wicked. I’m tired of you thinking your ills give you a right!”

  Ray closed his eyes, struggling to ignore the shouting man, struggling to find some link to the crow. He called out in his thoughts for B’hoy to help.

  The man hollered, “Danny!” He grumbled under his breath and then shouted again, “Danny! Quick, I got one!”

  With his eyes still closed, Ray saw for a fraction of a moment the forest floor from a great height. Moving. Passing swiftly among the tall trees. The shadowy bracken and leaves stretched out like an enormous quilt.

  A wave of dizziness hit Ray, and he staggered a step, opening his eyes.

  A black comet dropped from the sky. A flurry of wings and scratching talons whirled around the man’s face. The man shouted, dropping the rifle to beat off the crow.

  Ray grabbed the man’s rifle and speared it barrel-down into the soft earth. Picking up his knife, he hurled the waterskins across his back and ran. He could hear the man’s curses, and hoped it meant the man wouldn’t be able to use the rifle now. B’hoy flew past Ray as they raced toward the Five Spot.

  From the edge of his vision, Ray saw another man come around through the trees, a long-barreled Henry rifle following Ray’s movements. He fired, but Ray cut wide, moving in a zigzag as he ran.

  Ray spied the first cornerstone of the Five Spot. He was almost there.

  Then his shoulder was aflame and he tumbled end over end, the echoes of the shot peeling across the forest.

  Ray cried out and clutched his shoulder, spirals of pain coursing down his arm.

  Marisol jumped from the Five Spot’s perimeter. “I’ve got you! Can you stand?”

  Ray staggered to his feet, and they passed the protective line. Ray felt dizzy and stumbled again, his arm hot and wet with blood.

  The shouting men came toward them, but their eyes passed over Ray and Marisol, unseeing. Repelled by forces they could not sense, they continued around the edge of the Five Spot and disappeared into the forest.

  12

  GUNMEN

  “A SECOND SHOT,” CONKER WHISPERED. HE LAY IN THE crowding ferns at the entrance to a cave, a club of knotted ironwood in his hand.

  Jolie drew Cleoma’s shell knife from her belt. She crouched beside Conker, peering out at the dark forest. “Are they shooting at us?”

  “No. They’re a long ways off. I suspect we’re safe.”

  They camped without a fire, as they had done every night for weeks. “These the headwaters?” Conker asked, looking at the water that flowed from a spring within the cave, running out to form a creek.

  Jolie was still peering in the dark, listening for approaching voices but hearing none. She turned back to say, “No. But we should find them soon. I worry we might not have taken the quickest route.”

  Conker dismissed her doubts with a shake of his head. “You said that other way was past a bunch of towns. We’re right to be cautious. This way’s good.”

  Jolie had led them north across the Ozark wilderness. Soon they would turn east following the rivers to the Mississippi, where the Nine Pound Hammer had been lost. Following the rough country to the north seemed the safest. A black boy traveling with an oddly dressed white girl might draw unwanted attention otherwise.

  “You go rest,” Conker said, finishing the last of the river mussels. He leaned back against the lichen-covered entrance. The ironwood club crossed his lap. By his side lay a sack, containing their store of food and the bladders carrying the water from the siren’s well. “I’ll listen out for a while, before I sleep.”

  “You will wake me if you hear those men?”

  “Don’t worry about them.”

  “But if you do …”

  “Go on. Rest. We got far to travel yet.”

  “I think tomorrow we will find the headwaters.”

  Conker nodded. “Okay. G’night.”

  Jolie slid into the waters gurgling in the dark recesses of the cave and slept.

  Stacker Lee held up a hand, and his companions banked their horses beside his. Sunlight pierced the forest in a hundred glimmering shafts. He got down from his horse and kicked at a stone with his boot.

  “What’s it?” Alston asked, watching as Stacker walked a dozen yards to a second stone.

  Stacker then led his horse on foot until he came to a fire pit, cold several days now. “Hoodoo magic,” he said. Kneeling, he touched a finger to the leaves. “Blood. A man was shot near here. His wounds were tended. They put the fire out proper to break the charm, so he must have survived.”

  “John Henry’s boy?” Hardy grunted, still sitting atop his horse.

  “Have they set a hoodoo charm before?” Stacker scorned.

  “Nope.”

  “They ain’t built a fire neither.” Stacker then stiffened and added, “Two men are approaching.”

  Hardy and Alston rustled to draw their weapons, circling their horses.

  “Be still and keep your guns beneath your coats,” Stacker hissed. “I’ll speak to them.”

  Stacker looped the reins of his horse around a tree and removed his Stetson to neatly crisp the folds. He waited, his eyes lowered to his hat as two men—one older with a gray beard who seemed the father of the other—approached with rifles leveled.

  “This here’s my land,” the older man called out.

  Stacker placed his hat back on his head and kicked at the cold coals, his back to the two. Stacker could sense things, and he smiled to himself as he noticed their caution, although not yet true fear. They were sizing up the three horsemen: the ca
lm black man with the fine clothes, the massive man with the dense black beard, and the younger one, filthy and long-haired.

  “It’s always someone’s land,” Stacker replied, still not facing the two.

  “My meaning is that you best get off it,” the old man said.

  “Well, you heard the rube, boys,” Stacker said. “We best get off.”

  Alston and Hardy did not move. Neither did Stacker. The forest was quiet.

  “Don’t they speak?” the old man asked.

  Stacker smoothed the fine hairs of his mustache. “When I want them to,” he replied.

  The son jerked his Henry rifle at Hardy and Alston. “You take orders from a darkie?”

  “Danny!” The older man waved a hand low at his side to his son. Alston and Hardy did not respond, their faces cold and still. The son narrowed his eyes and spat on the ground.

  Stacker looked down at the fire pit. “You shot a man here?”

  “That’s right. Jayhawkers’ filth,” the old man said. “We’ve had right trouble with them that come out from Kansas.”

  “A Darkness drives folk from the western plains,” Stacker said.

  “Storms, they says,” the old man corrected.

  “They’re no storms,” Stacker murmured.

  The old man cocked his eyebrows, but then seemed to remember his intent. “Well, you’ll move on now. I claimed this land near thirty years back. Cleared it. Built my home there with my own hands. I won’t have it overrun now by Jayhawkers and … highway robbers.”

  Stacker smiled down at his feet, his expression dissolving from amusement to disgust. “You may try to defend your wretched sty, but it will be in vain. This land is changing. Darkness and tribulations are coming. Not only to the western plains, but all this land. All this country. All will be smitten and plagued.”

  “You sound more to a preacher than a road agent,” the son said, flicking his eye at the older man. “Is it Armageddon you speaking of?”

  Stacker turned at last to face the two, his eyes aglow with sinister mirth, the clockwork buzzing from his chest. “No, of Eden. A new Eden. A paradise born of the engine and the furnace!” He raised his hands in the air, and the old man and his son backed a step, clutching tightly to their rifles aimed at Stacker.