Navigating Early

by Clare Vanderpool

“She give me a stern look and say, ‘Gunnar, Huckleberry Finn is a boy, not a dog. I believe you cannot read.’

  “Well, I want to walk out of that library and never come back, but she say, ‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ll teach you.’

  “And she does. Hours and hours we spend in the park, in the library, she read to me, I read to her. She love the poems of Hopkins. I find a book of his poems in a used bookstore and give it to her. Her favorite is ‘The Starlight Night.’ There is nothing for me to do but fall in love with her. But she will have none of the fighting.”

  Gunnar shook his head. “She say fighting is for people who don’t know their own worth. She say I got a good mind and I should use it instead of my fists.

  “So one night, I tell Mr. Benedict this is my last fight. I tell him I save up enough money and I am going to the college. I am to get married. He smile a mean smile and say he own me and I do what he say.

  “That night, I know something is different. There is a buzz in the room I don’t understand. Until the bell rings. And suddenly there are two men in the ring with me. Brothers. Mr. Benedict nods from the side rail. I can tell he has bet a lot of money on me this night.

  “They come at me. One punching here, another punching there. I stagger back, then my eyes go red. All of my hate pours out, all of my shame. Hitting whatever comes in front of me. Until one of them does not get up. He is dead.

  “The brother look at me, in a rage at what I have taken from him. He look at Mr. Benedict, who give a nod. Two men hold my arms, and the brother beat me. But I almost laugh. The two men are wasting their time holding on to me. I don’t fight. I don’t struggle to get away. I let him beat me. Because I am ashamed. We hear police sirens. A raid, they call it. They drop me to the floor. I am barely conscious. The room clears as everyone scatters. Bottles are smashed. Whiskey spills everywhere. I smell the fumes. I hear the match. But my vision is blurred and my mind cloudy. I stir at the smell of smoke and my own burning skin. Then I know I must get out or die. I get out. But part of me dies anyway.”

  The campfire had dwindled to embers, and the sky was alive with stars.

  “How did you end up all the way out here?” I asked.

  Gunnar leaned back against a rock near the fire pit and looked into the sky. “I crawl in the back of a truck and it heads north. The truck belong to a veterinarian, and I wake up at his place. He puts ointment on my burns and lets me stay in the barn for a couple of days, but then I have to move on.” Gunnar ran his hands over his eyes, as if trying to wipe the memories away. But it didn’t seem to work.

  “Everything had changed,” he continued. “I could not go back to Portland. I could not face Emmaline again, after what I had done. Looking like this. I want to go far away. To hide my scars. The ones on the outside as well as the ones on the inside. So I come here. To the end of the world …” His words trailed off.

  The end of the world. I’d landed there myself. And I knew that it was a hard place to find your way back from. Was that what I was doing out here with Early? Trying to find my way back? Or was I just running away? Maybe Gunnar and I were alike—both strangers in a strange place, both stuck outside our own lives, unable to jump back in. In fact, after our fly-fishing excursion that day, I felt very much like that tiny fly, glancing off the water time and time again, never quite able to break the surface.

  “But what about Emmaline?” Early’s too-loud voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “I told you. Emmaline would have none of it. She would never want me back.”

  “I bet she knows you feel bad. You didn’t mean to kill that man,” Early said.

  I thought of the letter to Emmaline tucked away in the poetry journal and wondered how many times Gunnar had tried to put words on paper without being able to send them off.

  “Maybe you could send her a letter,” I said.

  Gunnar looked up, startled. I couldn’t see the redness of his face in the dim firelight, but I felt it. I was pretty sure I’d given away the fact that I’d snooped through his books. He settled back on his rock. “I don’t know. I suppose I lack the courage to do what you say. As long as I am away, as long as I do not write to her, there is still a chance. But what if I get a letter back and she say, Do not write to me again? Or what if a reply never comes?” Gunnar shook his head. “I wish I had not killed that man.”

  “But it was two against one,” I said. “You were just trying to protect yourself.”

  “If that is what it take to protect myself, to keep living, I think I rather it have been me who was laid flat in the ring that night.”

  The conversation died out, and Gunnar shoveled sand onto the dying fire.

  We trudged our way back to Gunnar’s cabin, tired and sore from the day’s happenings, our steps making hardly a sound on the soft, damp leaves underfoot. It was in that quiet that we heard the sound of dogs panting and yelping, along with that of men grumbling and milling about, while we were still some distance away from the cabin.

  Don’t go putting your hand in a honeypot till you make sure it’s not really a bees’ nest.

  That was one of my mom’s sayings that was plenty clear.

  Now that we were close enough to see into the clearing near Gunnar’s cabin, we got a full-on view of MacScott and his sidekicks Olson and Long John Silver. The dogs were in an excited state, having caught our scent again. It was clear the honeypot was a bees’ nest. And the bees were buzzing mad.

  22

  Gunnar put a finger to his lips, motioning for Early and me to wait as he raised his lantern and walked into the clearing. We quickly found a better spot behind a large oak tree, where we could see but were still hidden.

  “Greetings to you, gentlemen.” Gunnar’s voice boomed out of the darkness, startling the three pirates. “Might I offer you some beef jerky or a cool glass of water on this fine evening?”

  MacScott spun around, startled. He stared hard as the giant Norwegian stepped into the lamplight, Gunnar’s undershirt unable to conceal his scarred back and arms. MacScott seemed stunned by the sight. Could he be that repulsed by one man’s scars when he wore his own plain as day?

  Finally, MacScott grabbed a large walking stick. “What you can do is tell us if you’ve seen a couple of boys hiking along this trail,” he said, clanging the stick against some hanging camping pots, as if Early and I might fall out of one of them. “My dogs seem fairly sure they’ve been here.”

  Gunnar splashed his face with water from a bucket on the porch. “Well, no telling who might have been here while I was away. Two boys, you say? And what do they look like?” He casually took a canister of shaving cream and rubbed foam over his stubbly face. He drew a razor from beside the bucket and proceeded to shave as if he were getting ready to go to church—and looking as if he didn’t have the slightest concern about MacScott and his dogs.

  Olson and Long John tried to create a description.

  “Well, the little one was kind of skinny.”

  “The bigger one was skinny too, just taller.”

  “But the shorter one was real chatty.”

  Finally, MacScott interrupted the two. “What difference does it make what they look like? There can’t be too many pairs of boys wandering around these woods. Have you seen them or not?”

  “Now, there’s no call for the harsh words,” said Gunnar, rubbing the remaining foam off his face. He patted his pockets and offered beef jerky to the whimpering dogs, scratching them behind the ears. “But as I have not seen any two boys of late, like you say, it really makes no difference what they might look like.”

  MacScott raised the rifle he’d been cradling in his arm but hung back outside the circle of lamplight. “You think you’re being funny?” He motioned to Olson. “Go look inside.”

  Gunnar stood straight, the muscles in his arms twitching.

  “I think unless you’re looking for some beaver traps, fish bait, or maybe a fine hunting knife, I am unable to help you gentlemen this evening.”
/>   MacScott rubbed a finger over the gleaming gun barrel. He turned the mauled side of his face into Gunnar’s lamplight. His scars took on an even more mangled look in the flickering light. “Do I look like someone who needs beaver traps or fish bait?”

  Olson emerged from the house. “No one there, boss.” Even the dogs seemed to understand, as they gave up their panting and whining.

  MacScott kept his eyes fixed on Gunnar. “You may be unable to help us this evening, but we’ll check back.” He placed the gun in its sling.

  MacScott and his men gathered up their packs and headed in the opposite direction from where we were hiding. Early and I waited a while longer before giving up our safe spot.

  Early was the first to speak, of course. “Gunnar, who do you think would win in a fight between Captain America and Captain MacScott? MacScott has a gun, but Captain America’s shield would protect him from bullets.”

  “It’s too late to make a guess, little man. They won’t be coming back tonight, I don’t think. You two go to bed, and we iron it all out in the morning.”

  “But the dogs,” I said. “They’ll smell us.”

  “They’ll be smelling nothing but menthol for a while.” He held up his hands, giving us a whiff of the shaving cream he had applied generously to his hands and apparently to the dogs’ noses as well.

  Early and I crawled into the big bed I’d occupied earlier that day. Gunnar clanked and rummaged around in the cabin while Early and I made our plans. Finally, we heard Gunnar shove a wooden plank against the front door to bar it shut.

  When everything was locked up tight, he lowered an extra quilt over Early and me as we pretended to sleep, both of us knowing we would be gone before Gunnar woke up the next morning.

  Early and I knew we had to leave. The pirates were looking for us, and we had no business bringing our troubles on Gunnar. The farther away we got from the outfitter’s cabin, the safer he would be. Early and I found our packs, crawled out the bedroom window, and walked away in the dark of night.

  It was overcast, so we set off in what we thought was a northerly direction. I had taken only a few steps behind Early when I felt something crunching underfoot. Walnut shells, again.

  “Jackie,” Early said once we were far enough from the cabin that Gunnar couldn’t hear, “those pirates really want that bear, and they must think we’re getting close.”

  I’d been thinking that myself. But I also remembered Early telling his story of Pi. “I guess so. But MacScott got real interested when you mentioned the part in Pi’s story about caves and buried treasure. Maybe he thinks we know where there’s a secret treasure and he’s going to follow us until he finds it.”

  “It doesn’t say treasure is buried in the caves. It says that’s where people go to bury their dark secrets and accidental treasures.”

  “Who knows? Maybe he’s got his own dark secrets buried somewhere.”

  “Maybe,” Early breathed.

  We stopped for a short break to rest our legs and eat a piece of beef jerky. Reaching into my backpack, I found some extra items that had not been in there the night before—a pouch of nuts, dry matches, some chocolate bars, and two apples—and a new flashlight to replace the one that had gotten soaked in the river. I flicked it on and off. It worked.

  “Look,” I said, giving Early a chocolate bar. “Gunnar knew we’d run out of food and supplies. I guess we didn’t fool him into thinking we were experienced travelers.” But it was what I found next that left me bewildered.

  “What’s that?” Early asked as I pulled out the small rose-colored volume. Gunnar had also known that I’d seen the book.

  “It’s a book of poetry. And”—I removed the delicate envelope that was now sealed—“a letter to Emmaline. Why would Gunnar put this in my backpack?” I wondered out loud.

  “He wants you to mail it,” Early said in his characteristically straightforward way, which left no room for doubt or rebuttal.

  Early took out a fresh box of matches and lit one to shed some light on the book and the letter. The envelope now showed a complete address—Emmaline Bellefleur, Portland Public Library, Portland, Maine.

  “Why wouldn’t he just mail it himself?” I asked.

  “He needs a proxy.” Early blew out the match. “You know, someone who can act in another person’s place.” I could hear the string of synonyms coming from Early, the walking thesaurus, even before it began. “A deputy, a second, a substitute, a surrogate, a representative, an emissary—”

  “I get it,” I interrupted.

  “Like, if Captain America needed to keep a Nazi spy from discovering war secrets and keep Red Skull from assassinating the president of the United States at the same time, he could send Bucky as his proxy for one or the other. Probably he’d send Bucky after the spy.”

  I studied the letter. “So, Gunnar wants me to be his sidekick.”

  Early’s eyes lit up. “Yes, a sidekick. I like that one the best.”

  I tucked the envelope and book back in my pack. “Well, that’s a bone best chewed on another day.” Early didn’t seem quite sure what to make of that. “That just means we’ll worry about it later. For now, we’d better keep moving,” I said.

  We walked a ways in silence. Early looked up at the night sky as the clouds cleared and found the constellation Ursa Major, the Great Bear. We followed it into the darkness, in search of another great bear—this one on the Appalachian Trail. My feet were heavy, and the woods closed in around us. There was only darkness and danger in front of us. And now there were dogs and pirates behind us. Early’s quest had gone on long enough. It was time to turn back. I opened my mouth to say so, but Early spoke first.

  “Jackie?” Early said again.

  “Yes, Early.”

  “Thank you for coming with me.”

  For a moment I didn’t know how to answer him. I could be honest and say, I think you’re crazy and we’re both crazy for looking for this stupid bear. Or maybe, I know you want your brother to be alive, but he’s just not, and nothing is going to bring him back. Or, I only came because my dad didn’t show up and I didn’t want to be alone.

  Then the moment passed, my feet kept moving, and all I said was “You’re welcome.”

  23

  The dawn was just beginning to cast a purple hue all around, and we could see puffs of air coming from our mouths as we breathed. We were getting tired. You’d think we’d have figured out that it was best to sleep at night and walk during the day, but with dread pirates following us, what worked best and what was safest were two different things.

  Eventually the sun peeked out, stretching into the day around us. We came to one of those covered bridges that New England is famous for. It seemed a little strange to me, why anyone needed a covered bridge. Even in the horse-and-buggy days, when travelers were more at the mercy of the elements, that bridge would keep them covered for only the minute or two it took to cross the bridge. Then they’d be out in the rain or snow again. Our neighbor back home, Mr. Kloster, who—according to my mom—was as cheap as the day is long, would call that a poor use of good lumber. But even Mr. Kloster couldn’t argue with the fact that that covered bridge spanning the banks of the Kennebec River and nestled among countless maple, ash, and birch trees, with their red, gold, and orange leaves, was a pretty sight.

  Seeing that bridge gave us a sense of direction. After all, a bridge is meant to be crossed, isn’t it? Bridges are a means of getting somewhere. They give you safe passage to wherever it is you need to go. So we went.

  Once we set foot on the shaded wooden planks, it felt like we were stepping back in time. Our shoes clopped along, echoing like horses’ hooves in the cavernous structure.

  “HELLOOOOO!” I shouted, expecting to hear an echo.

  “HELLOOOOO!” came the reply. But it was only Early.

  “Very funny,” I said. “I was waiting for an echo.”

  “Oh, do it again.”

  “EARRRLLLLLYYY.”

  “WHAAAAA
T?”

  I just shook my head.

  “CAPTAIN AMERICAAAAA,” he called.

  “TO THE RESCUUUUUUUE,” I answered.

  We ran the rest of the way across the bridge and into the warm sunlight on the other side, where the path forked. I was just getting ready to ask Early which way we should go, when I caught sight of something red on the path to the right.

  “Hey, look! Berries!”

  And lots of them. They were dark red in color and had that squishy look of berries that are past their prime.

  “I think we should stay to the left,” Early said.

  “What? And miss out on a feast of free berries? Both paths head north. They’ll probably end up in the same place eventually. Besides, it’s my turn to lead for a while.”

  I started off to the right, and Early followed a reluctant two paces behind. I don’t think he liked me choosing the direction, as he didn’t even eat any berries.

  Suit yourself, I thought, popping one berry after another into my mouth as we walked. They glistened with dew and had a moist taste that was both bitter and sweet.

  I don’t know if it was the berries or having decided on a course, but I felt relieved and sort of relaxed. I had chosen a path and could let go for a while, just let it take us where it would.

  “Does Billie Holiday have any good hiking songs?” I asked.

  “No. Besides, it’s not raining.”

  “How about Benny Goodman?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sinatra?”

  “No.”

  I popped another berry in my mouth, thinking, I guess good singers don’t make good hikers. But I recalled my grandpa Henry’s favorite walking song.

  “Camptown ladies sing this song

  Doo-dah, doo-dah …”

  I paused for Early to join in.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” he said.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport. Just enjoy the scenery.”

  He was grumpier than I’d thought. But that was okay. I let my eyes take in the soft shades of some evergreen trees. And the reds of the berries, a few here and a few farther down the trail. Just enough to keep me moving along, beckoning me. It felt good to get drawn into the intoxicating colors, scents, and flavors of the path.