by A W Hartoin
Beatrice stood in the middle of the path, clicking and humming. She had a big wad of slobbery grass in her mouth. It dripped off her lower lip into a pool the size of a softball. The ravens circled her and then sped off up the path. It was one of those moments when you just know something. No matter how stupid it is, you know in your heart it’s true. The ravens told Beatrice where to find me. Bastards.
I froze just inside her fifteen-foot spitting radius. Beatrice was a master spitter. If she were human, she’d give lessons and people would pay to see her skill. Normally, she only chased me once or twice a summer when I annoyed her, but it looked like things were going to be different. Since I didn’t have many options, I turned back toward the pond and ran for it.
My feet pounded the dirt and kicked up little dust devils. I was really moving, but Beatrice was closing in. Llamas weren’t great runners, but she had four feet to my two and she could generate some serious speed if required. She stuck her long skinny neck out and added another burst of speed.
I made it to the pond spit-free. There wasn’t any point in running down the dock. I’d be cornered. So I headed to the path around the pond. The path made a loop. If I was lucky, I could be back to the house before she caught up and nailed me.
I was halfway around before I looked back again. Beatrice wasn’t behind me anymore. Maybe she’d given up. It was the impossible dream. Beatrice never gave up. It wasn’t in her nature. She was stubborn as a wart and just about as attractive.
I skidded to a halt and heard a faint clomping noise. Across the pond and through the cattails on the edge, I saw her. Beatrice was trotting the other way around to head me off.
“Shit.”
Just then, she saw me looking at her and accelerated. I didn’t have a chance. She’d cover me from head-to-toe with her nasty ass slobber. She might even stomp me, if she had the chance.
I tossed the empty basket aside, left the path, and ran into the woods. Not my smartest decision, but it was the only one I could come up with on the fly. Beatrice didn’t corner well. If I ran through the trees, maybe I could outdistance her and make it back to the house.
Ten feet off the path, I stepped on a stone. Pain rocketed up my leg, but I kept going. Spit was worse than pain in my estimation and I’d do whatever it took to avoid it. I zipped around oaks and walnuts, stepping on rocks and broken branches. My feet were bruised and bloody. Scratches covered my face and body, but I didn’t care. I wanted to outwit Beatrice more than anything. Outwitting a llama wasn’t much to brag about, but I planned on making the most of it. Even Luke and Caleb would have a hard time escaping her.
I stopped and leaned on a small oak. I forced my breathing to slow, so I could listen for Beatrice. I waited five minutes. Silence.
She was gone. I kicked that llama’s ass.
Then I saw I was in a dip in the woods. It wasn’t very big, about ten feet across. It reminded me of the buffalo wallows Grandpa Lorne told me about, but there weren’t any buffalo around there. I walked out of the wallow and looked around. I didn’t recognize the wallow or anything else. I knew Ernest’s land as well as I knew Mom’s face, and I was in an area I’d never seen before.
“I am going to kill Beatrice,” I said to the squirrels chattering overhead.
The sun was shining, but I couldn’t see its position from under the canopy of trees. Without the sun for a guide, I didn’t know what to do. I looked down at the bloody scratches covering my body and knew I wouldn’t get any sympathy when I did make it home. I was lost in my underwear. Not even a Boy Scout would do that, and they got lost all the time.
I searched for a good tree to climb and found a big oak with low sturdy branches and forced myself to climb as high as I could. The bark and tiny branches dug into my scratches and opened them to cuts. By the time I got to the top, I looked like I’d run through razor wire.
I poked my head out of the canopy and got a good look at the area. I figured once I got up high I’d see the creek and the house, but I didn’t. Instead, I found myself surrounded by nothing but trees. I did get the position of the sun, so I knew north, but I wasn’t sure which way was the best. I didn’t have a map, only bloody underpants.
I climbed back down the tree, making new scratches and opening some old ones on my torso. When I reached the ground, I spun around, looking for a likely direction. I needed to make a decision and just go with it. That’s what Dad would’ve done. Of course I didn’t think Dad ever got lost in the woods on his own property in his underwear after being chased by a llama, but Dad would know what to do, even if he did.
A flash of black caught my attention from beside a tree to the south and I walked toward it. I caught a glimpse of our cats, Slick and Sydney, bounding away. Camp couldn’t be that far, if they were there. I’d walk south behind them. Indian Creek formed the southern border of our property. If I went that way, I’d hit it sooner or later. Then I’d follow the creek back to Camp and ultimate humiliation.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard something. It was a small noise, a rustle, a hint of another’s presence. At first, I assumed it was Beatrice, the evil llama tracking me, so I froze. Minutes went by. The sound continued moving in from behind me. It came from the northwest and got louder.
It wasn’t Beatrice. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. The rustling was just that, rustling. Beatrice usually hummed when she was hunting me. She could be pretty quiet, but this wasn’t quiet. This was rustling.
The hairs on my arms and neck rose. I wanted it to be Beatrice, all the while knowing it wasn’t.
I stood, sheltered by a large, gnarled oak. The oak cast a large shadow, blending me into the scenery. The sound came closer and closer, until out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. A flash of green moved through the woods. It went past my tree and I got a good look.
It was a man, a hunter, dressed in green camouflage. He wore a cap pulled low on his forehead, so I couldn’t make out his features. He blended so well, it seemed a part of the woods was moving and it wasn’t a real man at all. I would’ve been glad to think it was a dream or delusion, but I couldn’t. The man carried a long rifle. The thin, black barrel made him real. I held my breath and watched him walk through the trees until he veered east and disappeared.
I let my breath out in a slow, controlled way through clenched teeth. My skin tingled and the hairs all over my body stood rigid.
One thing for sure. That man wasn’t supposed to be there. Ernest’s land was well-posted with No Hunting signs and everyone in the area knew my family’s views on the subject. Mom and Aunt Calla always said no one should ever be on the property uninvited. It was important, they said, the invitation. They didn’t say that the invitation was important to Ernest. They didn’t have to. It was understood. Things happened to the uninvited. If I saw anyone I didn’t know, I was supposed to tell them immediately.
I’d never seen anyone prowling the property before, and this was no ordinary man, lost in the woods like me. The man was hunting, but he wasn’t wearing the required orange safety gear. He didn’t want to be seen, but I had seen him. More than anything, I was glad the man didn’t know.
Chapter Eight
I STOOD BESIDE the creek, clinging to a tree and watching a water moccasin slither through the leaves and muck at the edge. The snake moved with the gentle current and slipped under a fallen branch mired in the water. A snapping turtle sunned itself on a log and water bugs skated across the water’s surface to escape hungry fish from below. I looked around and listened before I went into the open. The man wasn’t there. He hadn’t seen me and doubled back. I stepped onto the narrow gravel bank and felt the full force of the summer sun on my torn skin.
I balled up my fists, forcing down the urge to cry.
Guys don’t cry about stuff. All I did was get a little lost. Don’t be a pussy. Don’t cry.
I took deep breaths and the fear settled back into a safe spot in my stomach. The creek was beautiful with its rippling water winking at me in the sun. I loo
ked up the creek and saw a wide bend. It was the deepest spot in the creek on our property, forty yards across with a large sandbar in the middle. We never went farther down the river than that spot. It was at the western edge of Ernest’s land.
I’d run a long way, all the way off the property. Something really could have happened. I’d been off Ernest’s land. Worse than that, the man came from the northwest, he’d definitely been on our property. If something had happened, it would’ve been very bad. The fear popped back out of my stomach and I had to work hard to push it back down.
I stepped into the cold water and gasped as it touched my torn feet. After the initial shock, the water soothed and then numbed the pain. I walked against the current. The smooth rocks on the creek bed didn’t bother my feet and I made good time. Remnants of past summers were all around me. Old ropes hung from sturdy branches, and blackened fire pits remained long after we’d left them. The more evidence I saw of my world, of Ernest, the smaller the pocket of fear became, and by the time I reached the last bend in the creek, it disappeared.
The path from the house snaked its way through the woods down the hill. I paused ten feet from the bank to decide whether to cut through the woods or continue up the creek to the path and then it happened. The attack came from the left, hitting me so hard I tumbled into the water face first.
I burst out of the water, gasping and flailing my arms. Once I got my feet under me, I saw Beatrice standing partially concealed by bushes, chewing her cud and looking bored.
“You worthless piece of crap. Look what you did, you goddamn worthless stupid piece of shit llama crap. I’m gonna kill you and beat you to death!” I screamed.
“Puppy! Puppy!” A woman’s voice fought its way through my rant. I wasn’t sure if it was Mom or Aunt Calla, but behind it came other voices, a symphony of concern reaching into my chest, slathering it with relief and comfort.
I moved out of Beatrice’s radius and shouted, “Mom! Mom!”
“I hear him!” yelled the voice.
Seconds later, Aunt Calla crashed through the bushes onto the bank. She took one look at me, raised her eyes and palms to heaven. “Thank you.”
I waded through the water towards her, my eyes watering. She lifted the hem of her nightgown and stepped into the water. We met halfway. She dropped her nightgown and pulled me into her arms. Wet fabric wrapped around my legs and made me feel heavy and tired. I blinked furiously and tried to swallow the hot red ball forming in my throat.
“Jeez, Pup. You’re a mess. What happened?” Aunt Calla held me by the shoulders. “You didn’t get off Ernest’s land, did you?”
I swallowed and in a microsecond considered my options, none of which were good. I should tell about the man in the woods, but if Mom found out I’d been off Ernest’s land, she might send me back to town. I decided to follow Caleb’s advice. When in doubt, lie.
“No,” I said. “Beatrice chased me, but I stayed here.”
“Thank goodness. Who knows what could’ve happened if you got off the property. We got worried when you didn’t show up to eat breakfast and Luke found the basket. You’ve been gone for hours. Let’s get back to the house and fix up those cuts. Did you run through a sticker bush or what?”
“No, just a lot of trees,” I said.
Voices shouted from up the creek. Mom and my cousins appeared twenty yards down on the path leading to the gravel bar. Mom made the same gesture of thankfulness as Aunt Calla. In a few minutes, I’d be pelted with a million questions and insulted, but I didn’t mind. Everything was fine and I’d never go off Ernest’s land again. I washed the remains of Beatrice’s triumph off my body and walked towards them.
Chapter Nine
AN HOUR LATER, I sat in the kitchen, soaking my feet in warm Betadine water and doing my best to ignore my cousins. Luke and Caleb were in the living room, but I could see them through the arched door. Mom and Aunt Calla were at the sink and couldn’t.
Luke took off his shorts and ran around the furniture in his underwear squealing, “Oh, my panties! Someone please save me from this beast!”
Caleb chased him, clutching one of Ernest’s old canes. His knees shook and he bleated like a dying goat. Every couple of rounds they’d collapse into a laughing heap on the floor until Luke yelled, “Oh my panties!” again.
“That’s enough, boys!” yelled Aunt Calla.
Luke hiked his underwear up and ran around in a circle, waving his arms in the air like a freaking loon. My sisters shrieked with laughter. They were irritating, but I never expected anything better from them. As far as I could tell, girls had no mercy. But the smiles on Mom’s and Aunt Calla’s faces just about did me in. Moms weren’t supposed to think that stuff was funny. They were supposed to profess their pride at my ingenuity and survival instincts, but no, not my family. Oh, no.
Luke and Caleb walked into the kitchen, both cuffing me on the side of the head.
“God, that was good,” said Luke. “I owe you, Pup. I haven’t laughed that good since…”
“Since we glued Miss Pritchett’s car to her spot,” said Caleb.
Aunt Calla wheeled around. “You did do that!”
“Duh, Mom. Who else?” they said.
“You swore you didn’t do it.”
“Kids lie, Mom,” said Luke. “It’s what we do. It’s like in the contract. You try to catch us at stuff and we outsmart you.”
“Well, just wait till I tell your father.”
“He already knows,” Caleb said.
“What?” Aunt Calla stared at them. Her eyes grew until they were perfectly round and looked about ready to pop out of their sockets.
“Well, we gotta go. Go…” said Luke.
“Mow the lawn,” said Caleb.
“I should hope so. We’ll talk about this later,” said Aunt Calla to their retreating backs.
Luke whispered, “No, we won’t.”
“Wait till we tell Shasta about Pup,” said Caleb. “She’ll die laughing.”
Great. My dad liked to say that it’s always darkest before the dawn. But for me, it was always darkest before it turned pitch black.
Ella and April came in the kitchen, seated themselves across from me, and smiled their perfect smiles. Compared to me, they looked like they squeaked when they walked. Their matching headbands were in place and their shorts ironed.
“Oh, you’re lucky. If you got off the land, you’d be in big trouble,” said Ella.
“Or dead,” said April, her mouth turned down into a fearful frown.
“Girls, that is not true. Give your brother a break. He had a rough morning,” said Mom.
“But he has to stay on Ernest’s land, right? We all do, so we’ll be safe,” said Ella.
“Well…yes, but the thing about Ernest’s land is just a superstition. We want you to stay on the land, so we’ll know where you are.”
“But Great-Uncle Vaughn ran away and he got hit by a truck. Daddy said he was only twenty feet past the property line.” Ella looked at April, who sucked in her lips and nodded.
“That was an accident. Anybody can have an accident. Vaughn wasn’t paying attention when he crossed the road.”
“And there was that girl, Sara. She left and fell down the old well on the Hereford farm.”
“She got lost.”
“Grandpa Lorne said three bootleggers got stung to death by bees when they tried to hide moonshine in Ernest’s cave. Bee sting allergies are really rare, aren’t they? How could all three men be allergic?” Ella flipped her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms.
“Yeah, Mom. How could they? I mean, that’s so weird,” said April.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. It was a coincidence,” Mom said.
“What about that man that shot himself? He wasn’t invited, was he?” said Ella.
“Of course not. Do you think we’d invite a murderer in? Enough of Grandpa Ernest. Puppy, your feet have soaked long enough. Why don’t you start the bread? Girls, you put away all the grocerie
s we left out.”
I dried my feet on a towel. When Mom looked at me, I gave her a knowing smile. She winked at me, careful to do it behind my sisters’ backs. She was good at changing the subject, but she couldn’t stop us talking about the so-called coincidences that occurred at Camp. I’d listened to different versions of the same conversation every summer of my life. The participants changed, but the content didn’t, and it always got around to the dead murderer lying on the living room floor.
Chapter Ten
JIM AXELROD WAS his name. His story was one Mom couldn’t explain away, because she’d seen it happen and there just wasn’t any explanation. If it was up to Mom, The Pack would never have heard Axelrod’s name, but it wasn’t up to her. Grandpa Lorne was a born storyteller and it was his favorite tale.
One night when Mom and Aunt Calla were fourteen, Jim Axelrod drove a stolen Firebird onto Ernest’s land. He parked it a quarter mile up the road and walked the rest of the way to the house. He carried a buck knife with him. He liked to call it his signature, but he also had a pistol and two rolls of duct tape.
He walked into the house through the open front door and fired a round into the living room ceiling. He waited in the dark, leaning on the large console TV, while the whole family ran to see what had happened.
It took a few seconds for Grandpa Lorne to see him standing there after he switched on the light. Grandpa liked to say the first thing he thought when he saw Jim Axelrod standing in his living room with a buck knife and gun was how average he looked. He could’ve been a clerk at the hardware store or a college student. His dark hair was cut short and parted neatly on the side. He wore jeans and a tee shirt with a band logo on it. Grandpa Lorne couldn’t remember which band it was, but Mom never forgot. It was The Kinks.