A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds)

by Colegrove, Stephen

  A patrol would probably be half a kilometer away. At some point he needed to turn north or risk alerting them.

  A howl came from the nearby trees and Wilson knew he was in trouble. They’d either been spooked by the nearby patrol or were following the mule deer. He put his back to an oak tree at the edge of the ravine and gripped the crossbow hard.

  Two gray wolves loped from the dark, white heads down and tongues out. Their blue eyes followed Wilson as they paced back and forth. They were quiet and determined, with large torsos and spindly legs. Wilson tracked the biggest with his crossbow. If he used his pistol the patrol would hear the shot and he needed more time to get off-map. What if the patrol was coming anyway?

  The big wolf bared his teeth and leaped forward. Wilson pulled the trigger and missed. Yellow teeth snapped at his belly. He kicked and blocked down with the bow to fend off the snarling animal and let go of the weapon. It swung from the shoulder strap as he pulled his knife and stabbed at the big wolf. The other wolf bit at his right arm but the teeth scraped harmlessly across the leather bracer. Wilson kicked the animal away. The bigger wolf snarled and jumped again, this time for his throat. Wilson dodged to the right and the big wolf bit painfully into his elbow above the leather. He stabbed the wolf in the neck but lost his balance and stumbled backwards into thin air, weightless. The beast tumbled with him through earth and roots down the vertical side of the ravine.

  Wilson tossed away the knife and raised both arms to protect his head. He landed with all his weight on a fur-covered body at the bottom. The wolf squirmed from underneath and wobbled away, the gray scruff of his neck red with blood. After a few paces along the edge of a bubbling stream it sighed and collapsed in the cold water.

  The bite above his elbow wasn’t deep, but Wilson was scratched and had pains which would probably turn into bruises. He stared at the wide oak branches at the top of the ravine. The wolf had broken a fall of at least twenty meters. He stood in the stream with the dying beast and thought the gray sky looked much farther away, like a frozen crack of lightning.

  Wilson heard a yelp from above and the click-scrape of a crossbow being reloaded. He looked around for cover then slid under a shallow overhang of dirt. A rustling of leaves and whispers came from above. After ten minutes Wilson heard steps moving away. He knew the hunters would take all the wolf pelts they could and hoped they hadn’t seen the big one at the bottom. After another ten minutes he quietly gathered his equipment. The prod on the crossbow looked a little bent. He wanted to check it but also needed to put some space between himself and the valley. Hausen was short-tempered and it’d be just his thing to send men after him.

  Wilson found his knife in the stream then stood over the body of the big wolf. He checked for a pulse then cut a yellow fang from the slack, gaping jaws.

  He followed the stream until the ravine widened and he could safely climb out. Still not free of the foothills, he trudged north over a ridgeline toward open land. He looked back constantly. Even though he was off-map now, any of the fastest hunters could still catch him.

  As the sky brightened through the canopy of green leaves he stopped near a group of scrub oaks and cleaned his crossbow. The mechanism seemed a bit loose but it reloaded and dry-fired with no problem.

  Wilson studied flat, treeless plains to the east. He had to make it to the forest on the horizon as quickly as possible. He walked fast, trading speed for cover, and looked back now and then.

  The sun glowed orange behind the eastern peaks as he reached the trees. It was probably time for a rest. Even though he was still ten to twelve hours behind, he didn’t want to catch up too fast.

  He wandered through the firs and ponderosa pine. At last he spotted a large fallen tree. A pair of red squirrels gossiped as he cut fir branches and laid them against the log to create a shelter. He ate a chunk of pemmican and drank from a water-skin, then hauled his backpack high into a nearby tree and tied the rope to a branch. He crawled into the shelter and covered the entrance with more branches, put his knives and pistol nearby, then rolled up in the bear pelt.

  Wilson lay half asleep and listened to the birds and chattering squirrels. When dreams came they were fitful. He followed a trail of blood through flowers. A poor-will asked him the same questions over and over. Are you a fool? Are you a fool? Are you a fool? A wolf jumped for his throat and he jerked awake.

  The teeth on his skin felt real and the branches over his head confusing. He rubbed his neck for a minute and tried to massage away the dream, then crawled out. The sun was high in the sky and his backpack still hung from the tree. The squirrel family started to gossip again. Wilson made a rude gesture then saw the ugliest wolf in his life. The one that had followed him. Except it wasn’t a wolf. In the clarity of daylight it was obviously a dog. The ears were short and the muzzle too broad. The black fur was patchy and missing in spots––a sign of mange. A lump on the head and large growths under the fur made Wilson wonder how it survived. He didn’t see other dogs nearby. Was it a loner? Only sick or deviant animals left the group. Wilson smiled to himself––maybe the dog saw a lone human and thought he was sick, too.

  Wilson lowered his pack from the tree. He chewed on a strip of dried meat and did some stretches. The expedition wasn’t traveling at a break-neck pace and they would probably camp a few more hours, giving him a chance to make up ground. He wanted to be close but not so close the trailing scouts would see him. This close to Station Reed would just send him back.

  He rubbed more cedar oil over himself and scattered the cut branches from the shelter. The ugly dog gulped a large chunk of meat Wilson tossed nearby. He trotted behind as they headed east through an unbroken forest.

  HOURS LATER WILSON ARRIVED at an ancient road shown on his notes as a north-south line. He watched the area for fifteen minutes before running across the broken, weedy patch of rocks. Thick evergreens along the road gave good cover as he traveled north.

  After a few kilometers he met a clearing where the gray fragments crossed another old trail. This road stretched east and west. Wilson waited in a patch of chokecherry, his fingers on the loaded crossbow.When he felt it was safe he circled the area looking for a campsite or signs of human travel.

  He found nothing. They might have stopped somewhere else or taken a different path for any number of reasons. He could wait but they might never show up. Reed must have continued through the day, in which case Wilson was even farther behind.

  He continued hiking along the faded pebbles of the new, east-west road. The map showed that this trail arrowed northeast across the high plains then straight east to Mina’s village, three days later. It was the fastest route and the one he expected Reed to take. Wilson followed the road from the trees and looked for any high point where he might scout for the group.

  As evening approached, rain from a fast-moving thunderstorm soaked the tree limbs black. Wilson sheltered under low-hanging pine branches until the rain passed. As he hiked through the dripping forest the granite spike of a mountain loomed ahead.

  The climb up took an hour but the view was spectacular. To the east lay a plain he’d have to cross and another mountain range. As mist rose from the treetops he spread his blanket on a flat, granite outcropping. He watched for any trail signs, such as a sudden, disturbed flock of birds, but didn’t expect Badger or the others to be that careless.

  The peaceful dusk lulled him to sleep. The air gradually cooled and the stone pulled heat from his body until he woke in shivers. Wilson ate a meal of cornbread and spruce tea, and left a fistful of dried venison for the ugly dog. Before breaking camp he used the sight trick. The stars disappeared and the trees blurred into one fuzzy gray mass.

  As he hiked east down the flank of the peak he startled a group of mule deer, who trotted away into the trees. A few seconds later Wilson heard a loud crash of branches and the deer hurtled in all directions. He gave the area a wide berth.

  Hoots and calls played a symphony in the night air. Like a specter from a childr
en’s story, a horned owl flapped across a clearing and snatched a brown rabbit from the grass. Wilson followed but couldn’t find the owl’s nest.

  By morning his feet throbbed from hours of walking and he’d discovered no sign of the expedition. The high plains were close and he’d have to wait until dark to cross the twenty kilometers of grass and bare hills.

  Wilson searched the forest. At the top of a nearby draw he found a lonely boulder. He cut spruce branches and laid them at the side to create a thick shelter. On the ground beside the boulder he relaxed and rubbed his feet with oil.

  He’d been thinking about what to say to Reed. The priest would likely spew rage and punishment, and threaten to send him back to Station with a guard or two. He gambled on his teacher having a practical nature. If Reed couldn’t spare the men to send him back, the wayward apprentice would have to stay with the group.

  Wilson took out his pistol and re-checked the hammer over the empty chamber. He wondered where the tribals found all of their weapons. They weren’t all the same quality. Did they steal them from underground? Other bastions of the old ways had to exist, even after centuries of chaos and scavenging.

  A handful of pemmican was his dinner, and he hung the pack again from a high branch. He put more spruce branches over the shelter and slid inside with fur and blanket. Foraging squirrels put him to sleep with their hesitant rustle through the leaves.

  The dreams forced him to search. This time the sunflowers filled a vast cavern. He pushed through the green stalks without direction. He’d forgotten what he was searching for, and his heart pounded and legs wobbled. A poor-will sat on his shoulder the whole time and talked in his ear: Where’re you? Where’re you?

  Wilson opened his eyes and blinked in a ray of sunshine. Late afternoon light flashed behind the scrawny tops of spruce trees. The ugly dog watched him from beneath the waxy olive leaves of a privet shrub. Wilson wondered if the dog had accepted that the stupid human wasn’t going to die anytime soon, and now followed him for the scraps of food.

  He walked over to lower his pack from the tree and heard a dry rattle from the ground. A diamond-patterned snake lay coiled in the leaves.

  Wilson found a long-enough stick and cut the end to a fork. He jabbed a few times at the nervous reptile. It rattled and lunged when the stick came near. At last he caught it behind the head with the forked end of the stick and sliced off the body with his knife. The snake wriggled on the ground for a minute. The head hadn’t moved but Wilson knew it could bite for a long time.

  Wilson took the snake back to his lean-to and made a small fire with tinder and his fire-sparker. He cut the rattle off and tossed it in the dog’s direction. The skin peeled easily once he could get a grip on it. Wilson slit the skinless body lengthwise and removed the guts. He left these for the dog. He cut the meat into smaller pieces and cooked them on a stick. When the meat cooled he pulled it off the ribs and ate until he was full. He stored one of the leftover pieces in his pack and tossed the other to the dog.

  “Just promise you won’t chew on me like that,” he said, as the dog gulped the meat.

  He gathered his gear and hiked to the edge of the grasslands. When twilight deepened he continued northeast across the open land, keeping the road in sight. He left behind a series of massive granite mountains footed with evergreen forest. Ahead and across the sparse brown grass spread a range of peaks. Mina’s village lay not on that horizon but the one beyond.

  He started off at a walk but steadily increased his pace to a jog. Even with the pain in his feet he had to cross the grassland before morning.

  After an hour, a line of water glimmered to the north––a huge lake. Wilson ignored it and continued to jog northeast. He climbed low hills covered with a few sparse pine trees, and spotted herds of elk in the distance. The strange, sickly dog constantly loped along behind, on the trail made by Wilson’s footsteps.

  The open grassland and lack of cover forced him to stay as far from the road as possible. He was approaching tribal territory and they frequently used the old paths. He kept the road at the edge of sight while following his notes.

  From the top of a rise he saw an intersection and a small stretch of ruins. Wilson saw no sign of man or beast, but skirted the ruins by hiking east over hills covered in sharp fragments of shale and beige stone. From the map he knew a pair of narrow lakes lay a few kilometers beyond. The lakes carved across the plains and south of his route, but if he followed a feeder stream into the mountains he would meet the east-west road. Wilson wondered why it couldn’t have a better name than “24.” The old days must have been fast and furious if they had no time to spare for good names.

  Wilson jogged along the north shore as the hill flattened to the knife edge of the first lake. Groups of mule deer, ground squirrels, and screech owls busied themselves in the cool night. A stream linked the western finger lake to the eastern one, which stretched in a bright line to the horizon.

  Wilson stopped to refill his empty water skins. He finished the first. As he plugged it with a cork he heard a whuffing sound. He dropped the skin and grabbed his pistol.

  The bear rumbled along the lake shore like a brown boulder with gaping jaws. Pale yellow splotches covered the rolling brown fur and water matted the lower half.

  To flee would be suicide––no man could outrun a bear. Wilson aimed his pistol with two hands and pulled the trigger. It boomed and jerked up in his hands. The bear stopped short and turned its head left and right. Wilson fired again. The bear turned tail and sprayed clots of mud back the way it came.

  Wilson jogged with more spirit to the eastern range. Apart from the bear the plains around him were as dull and flat as the nearby lake. The occasional pop of firearms rolled from far to the north. His running bothered a flock of black and white geese. They splashed by the hundreds across the dark water and into the night sky.

  After sunrise he made it to the evergreens at the foot of the mountain range and followed a rushing feeder stream into the hills. Granite formations rose in vertical walls around the spruce trees as he climbed higher in elevation. The stream on his right foamed and roared over the stones.

  Wilson stopped in his tracks and pulled his pistol. In the black mud of the stream bank lay the sharp outline of human feet.

  To his right the curling whitewater sprayed clouds of vapor in the air. Sheer granite walls rose to a summit overgrown with stubborn pines. On his side of the stream the trail sloped upward through a thick forest of pine and spruce.

  Wilson considered his options. To cross the roaring whitewater at this point looked impossible. If he actually made it to the other side, the cover would be sparse and the climb difficult. On the other hand, if he turned around and backtracked to the plain he’d lose half a day.

  He touched the edges of the prints in the mud then followed them along the path. The marks were strangely deep at times. The trail ended beside a leather sack at the bottom of a wide oak tree.

  Wilson stopped for a moment. He heard nothing but the foaming roar of the nearby stream. In spite of his best judgement, he crept closer to the discarded sack.

  Metal scraped on wood above his head and Wilson looked up to the lower branches. The black muzzles of two rifles pointed at his face.

  “Ne movigu,” said one of the tribals.

  AFTER PAWING THROUGH ALL of his gear they took him north through the mountains. Wilson’s hands were tied in front with his own rope and this made the rocky trail even harder. He was forced to walk between the two men, and the front one pulled him with the rope like a sheep. The two tribals didn’t say much and Wilson had time to mentally kick himself over and over.

  “Where are we going?” he asked in the dialect.

  “No talking,” said the larger one.

  The tall and weathered men walked along the trail with purpose, the long-barreled rifles resting on their shoulders. The “circle-of-thorns” tattoo––the old biohazard symbol––on the right side of their faces reminded Wilson of the men who’d k
idnapped Mina. Both wore silver wolfskins and wide-brimmed hats decorated with feathers. The tribal in front had leather bracelets around his biceps and a wolf-tooth necklace.

  With warm sun on his right ear he knew they traveled northeast. No breaks were taken, not even for the afternoon thunderstorm that soaked all of them to the skin. They waded through a whitewater stream and followed an old trail to the northeast. Wilson thought he knew where he was. If he could escape he might find the east-west road.

  The pair never stopped watching even when they stopped for the night. His neck rope was tied to the foot of the smaller tribal and the two bantered back and forth about who should stay up. From what Wilson could understand, he was a valuable prisoner. That was probably the reason they’d given him food and water. He fell asleep wondering whether his value came from how he might taste.

  A jerk on the leash woke him. In the gray light before dawn they started again. The road curved through mountains dotted with scrubby trees and led to a wide valley and a lake. A tribal village––flat and uneven like a muddy scab––sat on the near shore, surrounded by a timber palisade. The huts inside were made of the same sturdy logs as the outer wall. White smoke from cooking fires bent sideways in the breeze.

  His captors led him past a wooden guard shack. A half-naked tribal boy jumped from the shack and sped down the hill toward the village. A small gate opened for him in the palisade.

  The two men didn’t take him to the village but to a group of wooden huts outside the walls. The large tribal opened one of the huts and pushed Wilson inside. The interior was dark and the floor was packed earth. On it rested a few sticks of moldy furniture: a wooden chair with arms, a table, and a sheepskin-covered bed. Even with the fresh air from the doorway the room was foul with body odor. There were no windows.