“I’ve run every single mile you’ve asked of me.”
“And yet you still have not mastered a Military Five. You are weak and unmotivated, Miss Holloway. Undeserving of the training you are receiving.”
The break has refreshed me, and my outrage gives me new strength. “You want extra effort?” I turn back to the trail. “I’m going five more.” It’s a pointless protest, and harder on me than it is on him, but it is a protest, and that feels good. I’ll show him he hasn’t beaten me.
His eyebrows push toward his nose. “You have weapons training right now.”
“Reschedule it.” I start jogging away.
“You won’t make it,” he calls out.
“Then you better have that ambulance crew ready,” I shout back.
I do finish, but it’s a little late to begin putting in extra effort. Because two days later I start wilderness training—a full week in the mountains with nothing but a knife, a compass, and the clothing I am issued. It’s the final stage of training, and Willoughby has specifically ordered Captain Alston to accompany me. I’m pretty sure I could do better without him, but I bite my tongue.
On Saturday morning we’re loaded into an aeropod and delivered to a distant area of the mountains where we’ll be picked up seven days later. We land on a rocky pinnacle. The sun has barely risen, so it is easy to pick out cardinal directions. I spin in a circle, getting a good feel for the peaks and valleys that surround us. Behind, the mountain rises to a summit. On three sides, the ground falls away to the lush valley spread out below us. I catch snatches of reflected sky in its depths. A small stream. That’s where we want to go.
Two sides of the pinnacle are too steep and rocky to navigate. I choose the only way down. Without waiting for Captain Alston to finish whatever he’s saying about the week’s rules, I set off into the trees.
“Where do you think you’re going, Miss Holloway?”
I turn around and point into the valley. “Down there.”
I see the irritation on his face. He hasn’t gotten that far in his speech yet. “Miss Holloway, the first rule of survival is sticking together.”
I show him my back. “Then I suggest you follow.”
But Captain Alston isn’t keen on following. He soon overtakes me and I can see the stiff set of his shoulders as he takes the lead. I pay him little heed. My mind has already jumped ahead to lunchtime, and I scan the woods as we descend.
Along with knife and compass, I have been issued a lightweight jacket, insulated and weatherproof. I zip it up, tie the sleeves together to cinch off the neck, and form a rudimentary pack. The landscape supports a variety of edible greens—spiderwort, arugula, burdock, chicory, dandelion, wood sorrel. I pick them as I walk, dropping them into my jacket-bag, and throw in a few oyster mushrooms for variety. I also note a cluster of autumn olive berries that I can come back for later.
We reach the valley floor about an hour later, and Captain Alston stops in a sunlit clearing near the brook I spotted from the heights. “We’ll camp here.”
He’s back in his element, in charge once again, but he’s chosen our site well. Sheltered, near to water but high enough that we won’t flood, and with lots of vegetation nearby. As Captain Alston explains its virtues, I toss my bag of greens into a patch of shade.
“The first thing we need to do is make a shelter,” he tells me. “Since we’ve been given no materials, we’ll have to make do with what we can find. Let’s scour the area for downed branches we can use as poles and I’ll show you how to construct one.”
“No.”
He falters for half a second, taken aback by my blunt refusal. “I’m not building one for you, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“It is the end of August. The only reason we would need shelter is if it rains, and in that case, your sticks and leaves will be next to useless. If it rains, I’m heading back to that toppled tree.” I spotted it about three minutes ago. Its huge root system has pulled up the surrounding soil and formed a shallow cave.
His face flushes deep red. “Fine.” He tromps off through the woods, returns with a handful of poles, and starts building a lean-to without looking at me. It’s low and sturdy and would be ideal if he had a tarp to throw over the top. The leaves he stuffs it with will provide insulation but little protection.
As he works, I take my knife and peel two good-size chunks of bark off a downed birch tree, then divide up my cache of mushrooms and greens. I have spotted a patch of huckleberries growing at the edge of the clearing, so I collect a few handfuls to sweeten our salads. By the time I return, Captain Alston has finished his shelter and eyes me warily. “Our next priority is food. Unless you have some objection to that, as well.”
“No objection.”
“Good. We should find plenty of edible greens without having to go very far. Tonight, we’ll see about catching some fish for supper, but for now, I’ll show you how to poke around the edge of the woods and identify sorrel and—”
I hand him his birch-bark trencher.
“What’s this?”
“Lunch.”
He picks through the greens, finds they’re all edible, and gives me a calculating look.
I bite back my laughter as I fetch my own meal, but I have recomposed my face before I settle next to him on a log. We eat in silence. The dish would taste far better with some vinegar and oil, but at least we won’t go hungry.
When he finishes eating, Captain Alston asks, “When did you learn to forage?”
I shrug. “I’m an Outlier.”
I thought that would be explanation enough, but he asks, “They teach you this sort of thing in the settlements?”
My frown shows my puzzlement. “This is what we eat.”
“Oh.” He picks up a huckleberry that has rolled onto the ground and thoughtfully pops it in his mouth. “Do you know how to make a fire using only wood?”
I shake my head.
“Help me gather some dry wood and I’ll show you.”
His confidence soon returns. After the firewood is stacked, he clears a patch of ground and lays out a handful of dandelion fluff. Then he breaks off a twelve-inch length of wood, about the thickness of his hand, and uses his knife to split it lengthwise. One half he lays on the ground in front of him and gouges out a small notch with his knife. Then he picks up a stick about the thickness of my little finger and nearly as straight as a dowel and fits it neatly inside.
“I’ll be forming embers using the friction I create by spinning this stick within the notch. We’ll use them to light our tinder. Watch carefully.”
Placing his hands together high on the stick, he spins it quickly, bearing down until he works his hands all the way to the bottom. Then he repeats from the top again and again. After a few minutes, smoke begins to curl up from the hollow where wood rubs on wood, and then tiny orange embers form.
He pulls away the stick and adds a bit of dandelion fluff, blowing on it gently and steadily. His first attempt goes out, so he starts over from the beginning. After two more tries, the fluff ignites. He feeds it slowly, tipping the growing flame into our fire pit and adding grass and tiny bits of wood. Within minutes, he has a steady blaze burning.
His lesson has contained some of his usual arrogance, but he’s worked efficiently and quickly. And I’m feeling magnanimous after ambushing him with lunch. I smile at him. “Nice job.”
He looks pleased and surprised. “Thank you. You want to try?”
“Later.”
He watches as I make a bough bed far enough from the fire to not ignite but near enough to benefit from its warmth and light. I drag over two poles and place them a body width apart. Then I layer the middle thickly with pine branches and leaves. It’s less work than a shelter, and leaves are the warmest insulator out here.
“Is this all we have to do?” I ask when I’m done. “Just camp out here for a week and go home?”
Captain Alston smiles wryly. “There’s a little more to it than that.”
“I’ll show you how to make a line and hook.”
He leads me to the woods where he cuts a long strip of bark from a sapling and slices off several thin branches from the same tree. “I’ll whittle these into hooks and tie them off with twine made from the bark.”
Setting the hooks aside for later, he begins a tutorial on preparing the fishing line. “First, you have to remove the outer bark, then separate the softer inner bark into long, thin strands.” He demonstrates by peeling off a few. “When I have enough, I’ll twist them into thread.”
I watch for a while, but it is a long, slow process. “How about I go gather some more greens until you’re ready to start braiding. I think I saw watercress down by the stream.”
He nods absently, concentrating on his line. I gather my jacket-bag and head upstream. The water flows quick and clear, humming over a rocky bed. Perfect.
Within a few minutes I find what I’m looking for, and it’s not watercress. Here, the stream has widened and shallowed, but it is still narrow enough that I could cross it in ten or twelve steps. I set down my bag, remove my boots and socks, and wade into the stream. The water is cool and the footing slippery. I begin moving rocks, forming them into a funnel that points downstream and stretches from one side of the creek to the other. I leave the mouth open about a foot, and there I build a large square holding pen. This will catch the fish that swim into it, and the narrow mouth will prevent them finding their way out.
Next, I hike upstream a few hundred yards and, taking a large branch in each hand, I wade down the middle, striking the water as I go and hopefully scaring a few fish into my trap. When I reach my weir, there are two fair-sized brook trout, a large brown trout, a sucker, and several small shiners. I block the entrance and use a pine bough to come up beneath the trout. It’s an easy matter to flip them into my jacket bag. Then I unblock the funnel mouth, put on my socks and boots, and hike back to camp. I’ve been gone approximately forty minutes.
When I return to our campsite, Captain Alston still sits where I left him. A length of sturdy fishing line lies coiled beside him, and he’s tying together his second hook. He looks up in irritation. “You took so long I’ve already finished braiding. I’ll have to pull more bark and do it again.”
“Sorry.”
His frown lessens fractionally. “Well, did you have any luck?”
“Fair.”
I toss my bag down beside him, and the fish within begin flopping furiously. The motion startles Captain Alston, who peers inside then looks up at me in stunned amazement. His mouth moves, but only one word squeaks out. “How…?”
I just shrug and turn away to search for sticks to build a spit over the fire, but oh, how I am laughing inside! I wish I could share the moment with Will. He’d appreciate it. I bet he rocked wilderness training too.
When I return, Captain Alston is cleaning the fish by the river. I arrange the supports and sharpen a long stick. He skewers the gutted fillets. I can see his thoughts spinning as the fish roast over the fire, but he keeps them to himself.
The trout taste delicious. Crisp and smoky. Afterward, I go back to the huckleberry patch and gather another few handfuls to share. Captain Alston rolls one over his palm. “I’m supposed to teach you to use a compass and read a map. Mark a trail in the woods. Evade capture. Move without being seen or leaving a trail. Throw dogs off a scent. How not to attract wild predators. I suppose that would all be pointless?”
“Probably.”
“Then, yeah, I guess we just hang out here for a few days and go home.” He closes his fist around the berry. “Miss Holloway, I’ve got to ask. How did you catch those fish?”
“I’ll show you if you promise never to call me Miss Holloway again.”
Another flicker of annoyance. “There will be circumstances that require it.”
“Fair enough. But the rest of the time?”
He gives one brief nod. “All right. Lead on, Jack.”
This gets a genuine smile out of me. I hop up and lead him to my weir that now contains an additional three fish. I close up the funnel mouth so they’ll be waiting for us tomorrow.
Captain Alston whistles in amazement. “Genius. Where did you learn to do this?”
“I spent a few years in the mountains as a kid. When there is no extra money, everyone in the family learns how to make it stretch.”
“I thought you came from the Coastal Zone.”
“I’ve lived there the last eight years, but Opal’s just as savvy as the mountain folk.”
“Opal?”
“My foster mother.”
I can tell by the glint in his eye that this is also news to him.
The rest of the afternoon passes fairly pleasantly. We return to the campsite where Captain Alston gathers a large pile of firewood while I forage for greens. I find a tree downed by lightning, about ten inches in diameter and cracked along its length. Captain Alston helps me split it into halves and drag them back to camp where we burn them into usable lengths. I spend the rest of the day firing shallow bowls into the center of each.
When the sun goes down, the mosquitoes come out. Fortunately, our clothing is effective at repelling bugs. I haven’t found a tick or a chigger on me. But the mosquitoes attack our hands, faces, and necks. We throw heaps of wet wood on the fire before hunkering down for the night, and the smudge helps drive them away. When I burrow into my bed of leaves, I can honestly say it’s been one of my best days since leaving home.
The next morning, Captain Alston and I maintain our peaceful truce. He gathers more firewood while I use my sock and a handful of sand to scour all the soot from our fire bowls. When they’re clean, I fill them with water and drop in golf-ball-sized rocks I tong out of the fire. Then Captain Alston checks the weir and I head to the stream to dig mussels. I come back with my jacket full and toss them in the coals. Then I swap out new heated stones and add greens and chunks of fish to the water in my bowls, along with slivers of hickory for flavor. We have roasted mussels and a tasty stew for lunch.
The days merge into one another. We work well together, both of us knowing what chores need to be done and pitching in to accomplish them. In the evenings we sit by the fire and make small talk. There is an element of respect in our relationship that was greatly lacking at headquarters. It’s comfortable enough, but I wish Caedmon could have come in Captain Alston’s place. She would have been a lot more fun.
The weather holds for three days. On Tuesday afternoon, the wind kicks up and the temperature starts dropping. That quickly, thick, dark clouds roll in over the western peaks. I huddle by the fire and watch the sky nervously, trying to judge the best time to make for my fallen tree.
“We’re going to get wet,” Captain Alston comments.
Before the last word leaves his mouth, while our faces are still lifted to the sky, the clouds unload. Not gradually but all at once. By the bucketful.
I shriek and scoop up my knife and my coat full of greens and make a beeline for the tree with Captain Alston close behind. Then I remember our dinner cooking above the fire. I whirl. “Ethan, the fish!”
He runs back for it and we crowd into the shelter, laughing from our mad scramble. Only then do I realize that I have dropped the formality of his title, and he has not objected.
We’ve been issued water-resistant clothing, so apart from our hair, we remain mostly dry. A thick roof of root-bound soil deflects the rain. There is room in the cave for both of us, but barely. We crowd against the back wall, shoulder to shoulder, and watch the violence of the storm play out over the mountain.
The heavens put on an amazing display, with vivid flashes of lightning and thunder so loud I swear it will knock me over if I stand up. The sound waves vibrate like a gong within my chest. Ethan thought to grab one of the fire bowls, which he sets outside to catch water for drinking, and we divide up the fish. It cooked through, but it’s not as crisp as I like. I eat it anyway, realizing my next hot meal may not come for days
.
The storm lasts about an hour, followed by steady, drenching rain that gives no indication it will ever let up. The air has cooled significantly, and my teeth begin to chatter. “Don’t watch,” I tell Ethan. “I’m going to switch my clothing to the warm side.”
He drops his face into his arms while I change both tops and bottoms, and then I look away while he does the same. A rivulet of water seeps down from the roots, so before we settle back down, I empty my jacket and spread the waterproof fabric out beneath us. Then we divide up the greens and eat them, knowing they’ll just get ruined by the mud.
When we’ve finished, Ethan leans back as much as he’s able and wraps his arms around one knee. “So, this is how you grew up, is it?”
“All but the tree cave.”
He chuckles. “What was it like?”
“Where shall I start?”
I give him the briefest version of my history, just locations and timeframes, as stripped of emotion as a page from a library book. Ethan comments now and again on the areas I mention, but he’s never actually been to any of them. Our paths have never overlapped. The conversation may be shallow, but it’s the best one we’ve ever managed.
Suddenly I realize how much the last few days have altered our relationship. Leaving Axis and removing to the wilderness has placed us on equal footing where I have matched or exceeded his abilities. It’s been a healthy blow to his ego. Without the shell of arrogance, he’s fairly pleasant to be around. I glance over at him, observing the damp curls, the scruff of beard, the well-defined contours beneath his uniform. Right now, he feels less an instructor and more of a comrade.
The week has also pared off some of my defensiveness. Freed of the constant threat of failure, I can better see myself through his eyes. Ethan has accused me of not working toward my full potential, and I know that claim was justified. I have slacked off. He could have been more personable—a lot more personable—but honestly, I haven’t tried very hard.
Recompense (Recompense, book 1) Page 11