A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds)

by Colegrove, Stephen

  “I doubt it. What’s the real problem between you two?”

  “He wanted me to follow the old rules and find a tribal partner, instead of Kira.”

  “Kira?”

  “Airman Chen. Kira is her birth name.”

  His father took out a skin and drank a few mouthfuls as they walked.

  “Do you know the story of Reed and his partner?”

  Wilson shook his head. “All I know is that she was from the tribes.”

  “I heard it when I was a boy,” said his father. “Reed and his friends were given permission to go scouting. They disguised themselves as tribals and visited villages farther off-map than anyone would have allowed. Finally they came to a vast settlement. In a market packed with people, Reed saw a beautiful golden-haired girl. He stared open-mouthed and stumbled right into one of her bodyguards. Punches were thrown. When the shouting was over and the crying had started, he was standing and all the guards were flat. It couldn’t have been simple to convince the young girl’s father, but Reed did it. Probably the bags of gold he’d saved from trading helped. Six weeks later he and his friends arrived home with the golden-haired girl.”

  “Doesn’t sound all that special to me,” said Wilson.

  “I never claimed it was. But try to be more circumspect. Whether you reconcile with Father Reed or not, try to understand that he was once a rebellious teenager like you.”

  AFTER THE MID-DAY MEAL they left the main road and traveled east over smaller trails to avoid Woodland, a tribal village part of the Circle. These paths led across the forested hills for a few kilometers then descended to a valley and old Route 24. Badger and Carter found trail signs, but no actual people. The smell of woodsmoke disappeared as they hiked southeast.

  In late afternoon a brief thunderstorm forced them to shelter in a collapsed building. Wilson rested with his head on his pack and listened to the drowsy conversations.

  “That dog is still out there,” said Martinez. “Look under that tree.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Badger. She reached for her crossbow.

  Wilson sat up. “What? Leave it alone. It’s followed me since Station.”

  Martinez pointed into the rain. “That thing? No wonder it looks half-dead.”

  “It’s bad luck to be followed,” said Carter. “And bad luck to let animals suffer.”

  “Leave the dog alone,” said Wilson.

  “But–”

  Badger spat on the ground. “If Wilson says leave it, I don’t care if it’s a mountain cat with your first-born child in her mouth. You leave it.”

  The men kept their opinions to themselves. After the rain stopped, the expedition began traveling again. Wilson left a hunk of bread in the open.

  As the sun dipped in the west the road curved lower and lower in elevation and passed vertical walls of red and brown sandstone. The road had been cut through the rock instead of around or over it. Wilson was amazed by the great power used so casually. The road curved down through many of these exposed red and brown layers. Beyond the last sandstone wall the horizon opened up to Springs.

  The ruined city lay below the hills like a gray mold. A few curls of smoke trailed up from it and faded into the sky. The yellow plains stretched beyond. To the south rose the massive granite of Pike’s Peak. The northern hills were red with sandstone and scattered with pine trees.

  Badger waited for them beside a thicket of chokecherries.

  “Should we camp now?” she asked.

  Wilson’s father leaned on his walking stick and looked over the open country to the north.

  “Yes, that’s the plan,” he said at last.

  Badger immediately slid down the dusty bank. At the bottom an old road headed straight into the hills.

  “Look at that!” said Martinez. A huge six-point buck stood only twenty meters away. Martinez aimed his rifle and fired before anyone could stop him. The hills echoed with the shot.

  Teacher pushed the rifle down. “What’s wrong with you? I said no firearms around here!”

  Martinez looked at the other hunters. “I don’t remember that!”

  “He was probably in the rear when we talked about it,” said Carter.

  The deer thrashed in the brush across the road and Badger ran to finish it off.

  Wilson’s father took his hand off the rifle. “It’s my fault, then. But everyone listen––if anything’s important, you need to pass it along. How many ears heard that shot?”

  Two men went to help Badger clean the deer. The others took position across the road, near a red sandstone sign. The face was carved with deep lettering.

  “Garden of the Gods,” read Wilson’s father. “I remember this place.”

  Wilson touched the rough sandstone. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Years ago.”

  With the deer cleaned and carried on a spit of branches, they continued north. The road was covered with red, broken rock and lined with oak and pine trees. After a short hike that steadily sloped higher, they turned a curve to a strange sight. On the left side of the road a huge, ten-meter-high boulder was supported by less than a half-meter of sandstone. Across the road from the balanced rock and almost as tall was a massive wedge of stone. The sandstone in both formations alternated in layers of red and brown, and all layers angled to the sky. A wide carpet of yellow and purple flowers grew in the soil at the base.

  Badger touched the yellow petals of a tall, strange flower.

  “That’s a sunflower,” said Wilson. “After it blooms, it only faces east.”

  The hunters found vantage points high on the sandstone and rested. One prepared a small cooking fire beneath the wedge rock. He used green sticks to roast the venison and a few vegetables, then brought it to the rest of the expedition.

  Near the fire, Teacher whirled a spoon in a small pot of spruce tea. Wilson sat next to him.

  “Why is this place called Garden of the Gods?” he asked.

  “Good question.”

  “If they believed in the one true God, why not just call it ‘The Garden of God’?”

  “I would say it’s from an older time,” said his father. “There were many different beliefs in the old days, just like now. This could have been a holy place from even older days. Or, it was just an exaggeration.”

  “A few rocks is nothing to be excited about.”

  “Says the boy who always begged me for a hike up Old Man. In any case, it’s not only the physical form of the stone, but how it makes you feel. The formations to the north are magnificent.”

  “Still …”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, son. Remember, nothing is objective. The life we experience is filtered through our eyes, thoughts, and emotions. As we think, we see. As we speak, we feel. If you name it beautiful, you will see beauty. If you think you’re surrounded by enemies, you will have no friends.”

  “I’ll remember that, the next time a wolf bites me.”

  Teacher lifted the lid of the teapot. “I was talking about perception, but your glib remark is closer to the truth than you realize. The reason you’re here and not breakfast for a wolf cub boils down to attitude.”

  “So I wasted all my time with knife practice?”

  “The body needs training the same way a knife needs sharpening. But like the knife your body is only a tool. It’s the mind that will be the critical point of success or failure. If you focus on the negative you’ll never achieve your goals. Whether that’s immediate survival or a general life goal is irrelevant.”

  Wilson rotated a stick of meat over the fire. “This positive thinking didn’t keep you from running away, did it?”

  Teacher stared at the steaming pot of tea. “People make mistakes. I’m not running away now, am I?”

  Wilson shook his head and watched the small fire.

  “Does attitude have something to do with the founder’s tricks?”

  “Any action is helped by visualization. How much has Reed taught you?”

  �
�Only a few things.”

  Teacher lifted his head and looked left and right.

  “Father?”

  “Sorry, I thought I heard a wolf.”

  “Are there any founder’s tricks you could teach me?”

  “A few. I learned two when I was an apprentice to Reed, and another from a friend.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  “I don’t know if you’re ready. If Reed hasn’t pounded it into your head already, I’ll tell you the reason. The tricks have a cost. They can drain the body and kill you if used recklessly. My grandmother––your great-grandmother––told stories of this happening. It’s why tricks have been kept secret for generations. Most people only know one, if that.”

  “But how can they kill you?”

  Teacher poured tea into a wooden cup. “The tricks draw energy from the body, some more than others. What this means in terms of body chemistry, I haven’t discovered. I do know that being young and healthy doesn’t matter. Without experience and training you can debilitate yourself in the snap of a finger.”

  Wilson slowly pushed a stick into the fire. “I’ve had strange dreams. I wonder if it’s because of the tricks.”

  “What dreams?”

  “I run through sunflowers. A bird, probably a poor-will, asks me questions.”

  Teacher thought for a moment. “It could mean anything. The poor-will is a type of nightjar. Did you know it’s the only bird that hibernates? The tribal people call it ‘The Sleeping Bird.’ It makes a nest under piles of rock and sleeps through the winter.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Birds were one of my hobbies, a long time ago. Reed and I–”

  The low baying of a dog echoed through the hills.

  Teacher scrambled for a rifle and climbed the wedge sandstone to join the others. Wilson kicked dirt over the fire then scaled the north side of the balanced rock. He pulled himself up to the flat top and crawled to Badger on far edge. She’d been there for some time, watching the east.

  “Cat’s teeth,” he cursed.

  “Shhh.”

  “Why don’t we run?”

  “I’d like to see you outrun a dog,” said Badger.

  Wilson thought the howling sounded off-key. “That sounds like tribals, not dogs.”

  “They’re following behind. Once we kill the animals we have a chance.”

  Wilson placed his rifle and extra bolts for his crossbow on his left. He heard Badger whisper under her breath. Wilson closed his eyes. He imagined a bright, full moon and said the phrases quietly.

  Eyes made of light

  Eyes made of sun

  Eyes made of moon

  Restore my sight

  When he opened his eyes the world had changed to a gray twilight. On the wedge rock to their right the rest of the group lay prone with their rifles. He looked to the east and saw black, canine shadows darting forward, followed by sprinting, man-sized shapes.

  “Kill enough and they’ll leave,” murmured Badger.

  “Kill enough and we’ll live, you mean.”

  The howls and barking came closer. A dozen massive black dogs rocketed through the brush and clawed around the wisps of the cooking fire. Two ripped apart a leather pack and the rest barked up at the travelers. Wilson and Badger were high above the ground and safe, but not the rest of the group. A slope of rocks led to the top of the wedge and would be an easy climb. The dogs began to scramble up.

  “Fire!” Teacher shouted. Rifles boomed smoke and flame around him. A few dogs tumbled down the rocks or scrambled away through the brush. The rest barked at the foot of both the wedge and the balanced rock.

  Badger’s trigger clicked and a feathered bolt jerked into the dark. Wilson aimed at a dog and pulled the trigger. The bolt hit the animal in the flank and it jumped away. A second volley of shots from the wedge killed or chased off the rest. The air smelled of hot metal and blood. The shots had dulled Wilson’s hearing. He lay on his back and reloaded the crossbow.

  “Keep down,” said Badger.

  Shots cracked from the dark hillside and chipped fragments of rock into Wilson’s face. The travelers on the wedge fired at targets in the shadows. Wilson shot half his bolts. From the number of curses screamed in his direction he knew at least a few were hits.

  After ten minutes the firing stopped. A tribal walked into the flat area below the wedge. He stuck his arms straight out from his sides and showed no weapons. His red-brown overalls and strange skull cap glinted with tiny pieces of metal.

  “Parlay!” yelled the man in the dialect.

  The breeze changed and Wilson smelled cold earth. He watched Teacher climb down to the tribal. Wanting to help his father, he slid to the edge of the rock.

  Badger grabbed his jacket. “Stop. Cover your father from here.”

  Wilson picked up his bolt-action rifle and sighted on the tribal’s chest. Teacher and the strange man were still talking. Wilson wished he could hear what either of them were saying. He noticed the man had black thorns tattooed across one cheek, identical to the marks he’d seen on the Creeks and Lagos.

  Teacher shook his head and backed away. The tribal leader whistled loudly. Shots and savage shrieks came from near the wedge rock and a mass of dark figures rushed the top.

  The tribal leader and Teacher still faced each other. The tribal pulled a long knife from the back of his belt. He rushed forward and Wilson pulled the trigger. He missed.

  Badger fired at the melee of fighting on top of the wedge. Wilson pulled back the bolt and ejected the shell. His heart was in his throat and his ears pounded. He fumbled with the reload then slammed the bolt forward and down.

  Teacher had avoided the knife and both he and the tribal struggled with hands around the hilt. Wilson couldn’t get a clear shot. The blade flashed and Wilson felt like the entire world had blinked. Teacher stood meters away and the tribal knelt in the dirt, the knife in his throat.

  From the brush, a rifle boomed sparks and Teacher stumbled forward.

  “Father!”

  Wilson pulled the trigger and sent a tribal flying backwards. Badger fired her rifle and reloaded as Wilson scrambled down the ten meters of boulder. Teacher was on his back and trying to sit up.

  “Keep still!”

  He checked Teacher’s back. Blood spread in a wide patch below the shoulder blade. Shots cracked across the rocks as he cut through the cloth with his knife and saw blood oozing from a thumb-sized hole. Wilson touched the wound. Teacher jerked and mumbled.

  “Father!” Wilson said. “Talk to me!”

  He opened his eyes and stared at Wilson.

  “Need more time … ”

  Wilson heard rapid footsteps and looked up. Two tribals with axes were on top of him. At the last second he rolled away from a slash. He dodged a kick from the other man and got to his feet.

  “I’ve killed more wolves than you have teeth,” said one tribal.

  “Don’t die too fast,” said the other.

  They circled. Wilson pulled his knife and crouched next to his father. A shot rang out and one of the tribals fell backwards. His feet jerked in the red dust. The other ran east into the dark.

  “You’re welcome,” Badger shouted.

  Wilson put his hand on the wound in his father’s back. “Father, it’s me.”

  Teacher had turned pale and breathed in rapid, shallow gulps.

  “Too much …” he said. “Artery … need … time.” He grabbed Wilson’s arm. “Station.”

  “What? You’re going to make it,” said Wilson. “Stop talking like this!”

  “No. Go back.”

  His father let go and coughed more of the pink foam. Wilson held him as he sweated and breathed even faster. At last he jerked with an agonized shout and stopped moving. Wilson felt his neck. The pulse beat irregularly then was gone.

  Badger and Carter were beside him. Wilson didn’t know how long he’d knelt beside his father but the night air was cool and quiet. He covered his father with a fur blank
et.

  Carter’s face was pale. “Your father is dead?”

  Wilson nodded once. He climbed the dark wedge of sandstone and surveyed the scene.

  The bloody bodies of more than thirty tribals and a dozen large dogs were scattered over the rocks. At the top of the wedge lay the bodies of three hunters from David, all stabbed or shot multiple times. After Wilson covered them with blankets the survivors gathered at his father’s body.

  “We have to go back,” said Martinez.

  “After we find what I’m looking for,” said Wilson. “Not now, and not before.”

  Martinez spat in the dust. “Do you want to get the rest of us killed?”

  Wilson stared and Carter pushed Martinez back.

  “Think before you open your mouth,” said Carter. “It’s your fault they found us!”

  Wilson shook his head. “I won’t force anyone go any farther. You’ll each have to make that choice.”

  The two men from Station and the two surviving hunters from David mulled over their options.

  “We should return His Grace to our village,” said a hunter.

  “I understand,” said Wilson. “But it’s my wish that we bury him right here. He felt this was a majestic place.”

  “Majestic or not, I’m voting with my feet,” said Martinez.

  “Reed send us to help Wilson,” said Carter. “The first sign of trouble and you want to go back?”

  “If you call half the party being dead the first sign of trouble, then yes.”

  Wilson remembered Father Reed’s words on the implants. Vessels for the soul. He pulled Carter away from the others. “You have to go back. Something has to make it back to Reed.”

  “What?”

  “Part of my father.”

  THEY WOULDN’T HAVE wanted to watch even if he let them. Wilson took the small throwing knife and sharpened it, then cut a meter of cloth and three smaller sections. He knelt beside his father and held the cold arm. He started an incision on the inside of the wrist and cut upward. Wilson cut shallow at first then used his fingers to spread the edges of the incision apart. Blood oozed from the cut and revealed silver threads around a white casing. Wilson carefully extracted the implant from the arm and placed it on the cloth.

  Next was the chest. He felt on the upper left for a small lump and cut transversely to reveal a white sphere. He pulled carefully and the sphere came out, followed by several feet of thin yellow wire. The final implant was behind the left ear. An incision revealed a curved section of white metal. Wilson wrapped the implants in cloth and placed them in his father’s backpack.