Reckless

by Lesley Choyce

  Reckless

  Reckless

  Lesley Choyce

  orca currents

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2010 Lesley Choyce

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Choyce, Lesley, 1951-

  Reckless / written by Lesley Choyce.

  (Orca currents)

  ISBN 978-1-55469-224-8 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-55469-223-1 (pbk.)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8555.H668R425 2010 jC813’.54 C2009-906833-8

  First published in the United States, 2010

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009940766

  Summary: While riding his dirt bike on an abandoned logging road, Josh encounters a Vietnam veteran who has been living in the wilderness for forty years, and the two develop an unusual friendship.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  13 12 11 10 • 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  Titles in the Series

  chapter one

  I was having a bad day. I woke up a half hour late and missed my bus. I had to walk to school. This made me late for my English test, so I didn’t have time to finish it. It’s safe to say I failed it. What is it with poetry anyway?

  I had no lunch and no lunch money, and I couldn’t bring myself to beg from anyone in school. Sonia, the Sonia, who had said I was cute and that she wanted to go out with me, changed her mind. I could tell because she was talking to Anton when I walked by her. She totally ignored me.

  On the way to the bus in the afternoon, I stepped in a fresh pile of dog crap. This made me less than popular on the bus, so I got out halfway and walked the rest of the way home.

  At home, I threw my shoes in the garbage can outside and went in to put on my old hiking boots and biking clothes. Without saying hello to my mom, who was upstairs, I grabbed my helmet and headed for the shed. I was almost out the door when I remembered. Leave a note.

  Home from school. Gone to the woods. Be back by dark.

  Josh

  We’d had many arguments about the dirt bike. This was our compromise. I grabbed the cell phone from the top of the fridge— another compromise—and stuffed it into my pocket.

  My old four-stroke Kawasaki dirt bike looked as ragged and beat-up as ever. But it was my only friend right then. Its smell of leaking oil made me smile. I kicked the stand and walked it into the yard, poured gas into the tank and then cranked it over. As it roared to life, the neighbor’s dog started barking. I knew my mom would hear it and want to come out to talk to me. I didn’t want to talk. I popped on the helmet, jumped on the beast, hit the clutch and put it in first gear. I gave her some gas, and we were off.

  One good thing about living in a little town in the middle of nowhere is that you are surrounded by a lot of empty space. Well, not empty really. But there is a lot of land with no people. Hopevale was on the edge of a huge government-owned forest. There were logging roads left over from the old days, and one connected with the road I lived on. It was only a two-minute roar— and I do mean roar—to where I could leave civilization behind. And that’s what I did.

  I downshifted, took the turn a bit too fast and dipped into the ditch that was intended to keep out SUVs, ATVs and bikers off the logging road. I lifted off the seat and revved hard on the gas as my knobby tires clawed at the gravel. I shot out of the ditch and over the embankment, taking a few inches of air. The forest looked dark and inviting. I leveled out and cranked my bike wide-open for the first straight stretch.

  I wanted to get deep into the forest as quickly as I could.

  The logging road was rutted and full of rocks. Tree branches hung down over the trail. Sometimes the wind knocked maple limbs down onto the path. Once I found an entire tree blocking the trail. I was riding recklessly the day I found that tree. I forgot that the trail was always changing. I have a dent over the gas tank and a scar on my left knee from that day.

  But we learn from our mistakes, right?

  I tend to learn the hard way.

  I learned to double-clutch so I could shift from second to fourth without stalling or losing speed. I didn’t have third gear. I learned to keep my weight off the seat, feet on the pegs, when riding over a rough road. And roads don’t get much rougher than this weathered, potholed, rock-strewn trail. I had learned how to control the rear end of the bike as it fishtailed through the sand and gravel on the trail.

  The bike and the trail taught me all I needed to know. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

  As I raced deep into the woods, I put my day behind me. What did I care about poetry or Sonia or dog crap? None of that mattered now.

  I loved the throaty roar of the old engine. Yet, once I’d gone a half hour or so into the forest and scared away every living creature, I’d usually cut the engine. I’d let the ringing in my ears fade and sit in the quiet of the woods. I loved that as much as I liked the buzz of riding. I guess that makes me a bit weird.

  I wanted to get as far from Hopevale as fast as I could. There was no one else on the trail. I whizzed through the shallow stream that crosses with the trail without getting wet. I popped a wheelie on a smooth stretch. I ducked under a couple of poplars bending over the trail. I spun gravel, bounced over rocks and rode through dry leaves that swirled around me like a tornado.

  Just before Loggerman Creek the trail makes a ninety-degree turn to the north. The turn is sand and gravel. It’s perfect for cranking hard, leaning low to the right, dragging my boot and letting the back wheel slide. I’ve fallen here before, but I usually nailed it.

  This time was different. I went low and felt the rear wheel slide. While my right foot skimmed along the ground, I gave her a full throttle and shot out of the turn. I was concentrating so much on the turn that I didn’t look where I was going.

  When I was upright again, a shaft of sunlight pierced through the trees, blinding me. But I knew this trail, so I kept giving her gas.

  That’s when I saw him.

  A crazy old man with a beard stood in the middle of the logging road. He looked straight at me with fierce blue eyes.

  I jammed hard to the right again and hit the brakes. I had no choice but to drop the bike. I stayed with it though, and I thought I might miss him.

  But I didn’t.

  I was sliding with the bike over painful gravel when I slammed into him. Hard. He toppled over me as
the bike dragged me into a big rock.

  I felt pain shoot through my right leg and up my side. The engine had stalled. I tore off my glove and I reached out. I accidentally touched the hot exhaust pipe and screamed from the pain. My side hurt more as I dragged myself out from under the bike. I tried to stand and fell into the bushes at the side of the trail. I staggered to my feet, tore off my helmet and looked down at the crumpled figure on the road. He wasn’t moving.

  I was sure I had killed him. The blood drained out of my head. I was afraid to approach him. I needed to get help. I took several deep breaths and found myself shaking. Hold it together, I told myself. Just hold it together.

  I looked down and saw raw skin and blood where my jeans had been torn. I touched my ribs and felt the pain there too. But I was pretty sure nothing was broken. But him. How was I going to help this crazy old man?

  I pulled out my cell phone and was thrilled to see that it still worked. But there was no signal. I knew that it didn’t work deep in the forest. I had never told my parents that.

  I had to see if he was still alive. I stumbled forward and said in a shaky voice, “Yo. Are you okay? I’m sorry, man. It wasn’t my fault.”

  There was no answer. He was lying there curled up, facing away from me. I tried to remember first aid. What was I supposed to do? Not move him? Check to see if he is breathing?

  Cautiously, I bent over. I tried to listen for breath, but my own breathing was so ragged and my heart was pumping in my ears so loudly I couldn’t hear anything. I kneeled beside him and noticed the smell. This guy hadn’t had a bath in a long, long time. A Boston Red Sox baseball cap, frayed and grimy, was on the ground beside him.

  That’s when it clicked. This guy was the hermit of Loggerman Creek. The hermit had been living out here since before I was born.

  And now I had killed him.

  I got the courage to touch his shoulder. “Hey,” I yelled. “Please!”

  Please what? Please be alive, I guess. Please don’t let this happen.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. He still didn’t move.

  I moved around to check out the crumpled old man. His face looked ancient with deep creases. His beard was gray and brown. I wondered if the police would put me in jail. This could not be happening.

  I was still staring at his face when suddenly the eyes opened. Those fierce eyes of a madman. I let out a scream.

  He stared up at me. He let out a moan that sounded inhuman.

  Then he pushed himself up, his eyes still locked on mine.

  I shuffled backward as he tried to stand. He coughed several times, spit blood onto the ground. He looked wild and angry. I wanted to say I was sorry again, but I had lost my ability to speak. I was happy he was alive, but now this guy looked capable of murder.

  He faltered as he finally made it to his feet. Then he bent over to pick up the ball cap. He slapped it on his leg and then put it on his head. “You have no right,” he shouted at me. “You have no right to be out here with that infernal noise machine!” He turned and glared at the bike.

  “It was an accident,” I whispered, hoping I could calm him.

  “Spewing smoke, scaring the deer, the birds. Digging and gouging the earth. Why do you come here?” He looked like he was about to hit me.

  “You need to be taught a lesson.” He spat more blood.

  I thought he was going to come at me— he was standing with both fists raised— but he turned and looked at my bike. The front wheel was bent badly and so was the fork. The gas tank had new dents. It looked more pathetic than ever. He seemed to forget about me and hobbled toward my bike. He lifted it upright and then looked back at me. “Enough,” he said.

  Then he began walking the bike into the forest. With the bent front fork and rim, it was not easy for him to roll it forward.

  It dawned on me that he was stealing my bike. “Hey!” I yelled, taking a few steps toward him. “That’s mine.”

  He stopped and looked back. That crazy look again. “Hey,” he said, mimicking me. “It’s not always about you. Learn that one.” And he rolled my bike away again.

  I took a few steps toward him, but I stopped. Who knew what he might do? But it was my bike. That’s when I said, “I guess it is true. I guess they are right. You are crazy.”

  The hermit stopped again and turned. “Get out. Go home. Leave me alone.”

  I watched until he was swallowed by the forest. I felt the pain in my side more than ever now.

  I picked up my helmet and started the long painful walk home. The forest didn’t seem so friendly anymore.

  chapter two

  I couldn’t believe how long it took me to walk home. About halfway I discovered I had cell phone reception. I considered calling home for help. But I knew I’d be in big trouble.

  Once it started to get dark, I was spooked. I heard noises around me in the trees. There were bears out here, I knew, and a few coyotes. And what if that old crazy man decided to come after me? I felt a shiver go through me.

  After getting slapped in the face a couple of times with branches, I slowed my pace. I felt like sitting down to get my heart to stop racing and regain my cool, but I knew I better trudge on. I decided to call my friend, Kyle. I had to hear a human voice. The word friend might have been an exaggeration. Kyle didn’t really have any friends. He kept so much to himself that no one knew much about him. But he seemed to know everything there was to know on any subject, local or international. I figured he’d read all the encyclopedias on the Internet.

  I phoned his cell, and he answered the first ring.

  “Kyle, it’s me, Josh,” I said.

  “Josh, where are you at?” he asked. “I can hardly hear you.”

  The connection was really bad. “I’m in the woods, walking home. I, uh, had some trouble with the bike.”

  “It’s getting pretty dark. Are you okay? What happened?”

  I told him my story. It helped to have someone to talk to.

  “You plowed into the hermit of Loggerman Creek?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I guess I did. He scared the crap out of me.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you, dude.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I think I better tell you later.”

  “Okay. Listen, I better save my battery. I’ll call you later. If I don’t call though…” I swallowed hard and couldn’t finish.

  “If you don’t call me by eight, I’ll get help. You’re on the old logging road, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “You want me to get a flashlight and meet up with you?”

  “No,” I said. “But thanks.”

  My parents were eating dinner when I arrived. They started yelling at me, asking where I’d been. I quickly walked on through the house and mumbled something in response. I ran upstairs to my room, ripped off my clothes and took a shower. I gave Kyle a quick call to say I was safe. Then I walked downstairs as if nothing had happened.

  “Where were you?” my mom demanded.

  “I was just hanging out with Kyle,” I lied. “Sorry about the time. Guess I lost track.”

  They knew I was lying. They knew I’d been out in the woods on the bike, but they didn’t push it.

  My mom noticed the scratches on my face. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  They looked more than a little ticked off. After a long minute or two of silence, I added, “Sorry.” That was often enough to get me off the hook. They probably wouldn’t notice the bike was gone. The shed was pretty much my territory. My father hardly ever went there.

  Back in my room, I started getting angry about losing my bike. Hitting the old guy was an accident. He shouldn’t have taken my bike. No dirt bike meant no life as far as I was concerned. All I had to do was call the police, right? My bike was stolen, and I knew who had it.

  If I got the cops involved, though, it would get messy. My parents would never let me go into the woods again. I lay on my bed, and I couldn’t get the image of th
at guy’s angry face out of my head. I had heard of the hermit of Loggerman Creek but never paid much attention to the stories. I phoned Kyle. He would have the scoop.

  “He’s been out there living alone for over forty years,” Kyle said. “That’s what I’ve been told. He’d been a soldier in the Vietnam War. They say he killed one hundred men. He kept count. On the day he killed his one-hundredth enemy soldier, he cracked. He deserted and ran. Eventually he came back here, went into the woods and pretty well never came out.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked.

  “He thinks he can still be arrested,” said Kyle. “A couple of older guys who go in there on ATVs have tried to tell him that an amnesty was declared a long time back. No one is going to put him in prison. But he doesn’t believe them. The forest rangers say he runs and hides whenever they go near his shack. He’s scared to death of anyone in a uniform. I bet he’d try to kill anyone who tried to make him leave the woods.”

  “How does he live?” I asked.

  “He fishes, I think. Grows some of his own food. Kills a few rabbits. Dave Jenkins and some other ATV guys take him some supplies once in a while,” Kyle said. “He tells them crazy stories about trees talking to him and UFOs. And helicopters. He hates helicopters more than anything. Something to do with Vietnam.”

  “You ever meet him?” I asked.

  “No way. I never want to meet him. Ever wonder what would happen to you if you lived alone in the woods for forty years? It’s not a pretty picture.”

  “Thanks for the story, man. Guess I was lucky to get out of there alive.”

  “What about your bike?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  I lay back on my bed and thought about what it would be like to be a hermit in the woods. Part of me thought it wouldn’t be that bad. No school. No people. Why not? With a good trail bike, a nice little cabin. Just ride to town once in a while for gas and supplies and spend the rest of the time doing whatever you wanted. It didn’t sound like a bad life.

  I found myself thinking about the hermit. Was he really crazy, or was it all made up? Maybe some people just wake up and realize the world is crazy and the only way to stay sane is to get away from all the craziness.