Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  Everyone shook their heads. “No questions, ma’am,” Fr. Anthony said. “God’s blessing be with you.”

  Alexi almost fell over when she crossed herself the proper way. “And with you.” He’d never seen a Greek Orthodox Indian before. Was she a convert? No, her last name was Greek, so maybe she’d been adopted.

  “Mr. Z, are we having lunch?” Toby asked, interrupting Alexi’s speculations.

  “Yes, we are, if you cook it.”

  A chorus of groans rose from the five boys around him. “Hey, if you keep that up, you’ll have to eat my cooking. Singed camel with sheep’s eyes in charred goat sauce is my specialty.” The groans stopped, at least from the boys.

  #

  Aside from a fight that afternoon, the day passed quietly. The adults had been waiting for trouble and weren’t surprised when, after some heated words, Boris and Gregory started swinging at each other. One of the girls had turned both boys down for the prom in May. Boris thought Gregory had caused the problem, and vice versa. The sixteen-year-olds stirred up a lot of dust and pine straw but hadn’t done any damage by the time Alexi and Mr. Andropolis separated them.

  Father Anthony smiled. “Good. Boys, I’ll let you finish your fight.”

  The pair gaped at him.

  “Then I’ll fight the winner.”

  Alexi heard the clicks as the boys’ jaws snapped shut. Boris ducked, hunching his shoulders until his ears disappeared into his shirt collar. “That won’t be necessary, Father. Sorry Greg.”

  “Yeah. Sorry Boris. I think I, um, misunderstood what Annie said.”

  “Or was it what Katie said that Annie said?” Mr. Maloof asked. “If you are going to have a fight, boys, get the story first hand, then fight over it. Rumors and ‘he-said-that-she-said’ aren’t worth the trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Alexi led a group on one of the south-bound trails the next morning, he decided that if one fight and a mild case of nettle sting were the worst of their problems, they’d be doing a lot better than he’d feared. And the air felt a little wetter. Maybe they’d get rain without big storms, if it decided to rain.

  Paul, Boris, Fred, Toby, and Brian scattered out in a dusty clearing, looking at deer tracks. Alexi stepped into the woods for a moment. He watered a tree and returned to the meadow. As he did, something in the dirt caught his eye. Long swipes marked the dirt and dried grass near some desiccated brush. His mouth went dry. Oh no, he prayed. No, please no, go away, no, not the Sweeper. As he studied the marks, he thought he could see a few small depressions, like something round had thumped against the loose dirt before whatever swept over the spot. A large pestle thumping the ground as it drove the mortar, then the broom erasing the tracks would make that kind of mark. The boys seemed intent on writing down their find of the deer tracks and scat, so Alexi followed the broom marks to a bare patch in the clearing. Something had scratched up the dirt, like a giant chicken might: or like a small house on chicken feet. Alexi stifled a groan. Why him? Why couldn’t the Sweeper go pick on some Pole, or Ukrainian, or even some Serbs? Romanians, he decided as he straightened up, she should go to Transylvania and harass the Romanians. Baba Yaga versus Dracula had a nice ring to it.

  “Do you see anything, Mr. Z?” Paul called.

  “No, all the action must have been on your side of the meadow,” Alexi called back.

  Boris shaded his eyes with one hand and peered that direction. “That kinda makes sense from what the nature books say. This side is leafy trees and bushes, that side looks like all pines.”

  Alexi looked back and forth, and discovered that Boris was right. “Good call, Boris. I suspect you’re on the right track.”

  Paul wandered over and looked at the sweep marks. “Hey, these look like a porcupine brushed the ground with his tail.”

  Fred pushed his ballcap back and looked at the marks, then the animal book he’d brought. “I don’t think so. This says that a porcupine’s tail is about so wide,” the short boy held his hands a few inches apart. “Those are wider.”

  Paul spread his hands across some of the marks. “Darn.” The lean, freckled boy straightened up. “They go to that bare spot. I wonder if it was a fire crew doing something.”

  Boris nodded. “Bet it was. Those look like drag marks, like someone was practicing a fire drag.” Alexi had never heard of such a thing, but Boris sounded confident, and since he’d been right thus far, the others took his word for it. The boys scouted for a few more minutes but didn’t see any more deer tracks or scat, so they proceeded on. They found bear tracks but no scat or other signs of large animals.

  “Too bad,” Toby grumbled as they walked back from the waterfall. “A bear would be so cool.”

  Alexi had a terrible vision of explaining to Toby and Martin’s mother how her sons came to be eaten by a bear.

  Ahead of him, Boris snorted. “You sure that’s a good idea? You’re the slowest runner in the group, and you might become one with nature, like that crazy dude up in Alaska.”

  “The one who thought he could pet bears? Yeah, he was stupid,” and Paul twirled one finger at his temple.

  “I’m not the slowest. Mr. Z is the slowest,” Toby retorted.

  “I just look slow. I’m almost as fast as Chuck Norris,” Alexi informed the guys. “Especially when there’s a bear behind me.” Although he’d rather have the bear in front of him, while he was sitting behind the gun on top of a Bradley armored vehicle, but the Forest Service probably frowned on that. Hunting bears with Bradleys was probably on Skippy’s List, come to think of it.

  After a few more minutes, Paul spoke up. “It looks dark up there.” He pointed to the northwest.

  Alexi checked his watch: fifteen hundred local time. “Probably one of the storms the ranger was warning us about yesterday.”

  “They don’t get tornadoes up here, do they, Mr. Z?” Toby sounded concerned.

  “No, just cold rain, hail, and lightning. It’s too steep for tornadoes.” Alexi didn’t know if it was true or not, but it sounded right.

  “Oh good.” The boys relaxed, but they also kept moving. Pretty soon Alexi could see the storm as it built north of them. Maybe it would stay north, at least until they got back to camp. He didn’t care to get caught in a mountain thunderstorm in the trees.

  For once Alexi’s luck held. They not only reached camp, but also got supper cooked before the grumbling turned to rumbling and then roaring. The adults triple-checked everyone’s tents and then the group hunkered down as the squall swept the campground. The trees moaned and the storm roar seemed to echo from the mountains around them. Dang, but he’d forgotten how loud thunder was up close and in the open. A second wave, not as strong as the first, came in a little later, followed by a third batch. Then it went still and Alexi ventured out. Paul emerged as well and they walked to an open area where they could see better.

  Alexi crossed himself. Something loomed in the storm to their east. Something blue-grey-purple, churning, flashing sickly yellow-green, as if blinking glowing eyes. Mr. Maloof’s voice came from behind them. “Ugh, I bet the sirens are sounding in Denver.”

  At Alexi’s elbow, Paul asked, “Mr. Z, what’s that?”

  “I hope it’s a hail core. They can look green.” Dear Lord of heaven, how he hoped that was a hail core. But his heart knew that it wasn’t. He watched the Black God, Chernobog, churning and riding the storm, and cursed once more the fools who had brought the evil spirit with them from the Old Country.

  Alexi turned to back to the campsite. “Hey!” a stranger’s voice called. Alexi and Paul both turned as a frazzled looking, rain drenched man in boxers and a flannel shirt hurried toward them. “Have you got a cell phone that works? We’ve got a problem and I need to call a ranger.”

  “Negative on the phone, but what’s wrong, sir?”

  “Tree fell on our tent. The kids are OK but we can’t get them out without heavy equipment or a helicopter or something.”

  “I’ll get Father Anthony,” an
d Paul disappeared, running at full speed, throwing up mud clods as he went.

  “I think we can help without needing heavy equipment, sir,” Alexi explained.

  “It’s a big tree. You’re sure you don’t have a cell phone?”

  “Father Anthony has one, and some other things. In fact,” Alexi glanced back over his shoulder as the entire group, minus Boris, came down the trail with axes, hatchets, ropes, lanterns, and probably eight first aid kits, led by Fr. Anthony. “We’re the scout group from St. John’s Church. Which way to your campsite, sir?”

  Mr. Maloof whistled with awe as they rounded the curve and saw the problem. “Did the tree come down with the first storm?”

  “No, the second one.” The man pointed to the base of the tree. “There was lightning and thunder, the rain started to let up a little, then a big wind gust and we heard a ripping sound. Then whump.”

  “What did you say your name was, sir?” Alexi asked as he studied the big pine.

  “Chuck. Caitlin, Chris, and Rhody are in the tent. I tried to cut through it, but all my tools are in my car and the keys are in with the kids.”

  Fr. Anthony waved from beside a tangle of branches and nylon. “Alexander, come here. Paul, wrap this around those two branches there. Fred, help Paul and get ready to pull the rope. That’s right Toby, you get that branch.” As the boys moved broken branches and limbs out of the way, and the men cut more branches away to clear more room around the tent, Fr. Anthony and Alexi looked at the problem. Chuck talked to his kids, keeping them calm and telling them what was going on.

  The metal framework of the tent had formed a cage, partly protecting the children but also trapping them. The tent, a very sturdy, thick cut-resistant nylon, had collapsed with the tree blocking the exit. Alexi tried cutting the material with his knife and could not make much headway. He was impressed and frustrated both. “We need to lift the trunk enough to move the tent, or to roll the trunk out of the way.” Fr. Anthony talked as he looked at the problem. “No, if we can lift the trunk a few inches, they can pull the tent out from under it, expose the opening, and let the kids out.”

  “That sounds easiest, sir.” The others had already cleared a goodly amount of material, and Alexi waved. “Cut some of these limbs here, so we can rock it over this way.” Maloof, Andropolis, and Daniel set to work with the axes and saw, and had the limbs off faster than Alexi would have thought.

  “Half the branches are dead and dry or rotting,” Mr. Maloof said, holding up a piece. “No wonder it fell over.”

  Fr. Anthony directed the boys to be ready, had the adults take the ropes holding the limbs back, and he and Alexi got onto ropes they’d run around the trunk. The priest and Alexi took solid holds on the rope. “On three. One, two, three!” The men heaved, leaning their weight into the pull. The tree moved, then moved more. The boys darted in and began pulling the tent out from under the tree. It took some hard tugs, but they managed to pull everything out and back, away from the big pine. “Let it down easy” the priest called through gritted teeth. “One, two, three.” The men walked the tree forward. Alexi’s hands hurt a little from the strain and Fr. Anthony panted.

  “Dad, dad!” Two smaller kids and an older girl emerged from the remains of the tent. Chuck hugged the little ones, then stood and held the girl as she shivered. One of the scouts had brought a rain jacket and handed it to Chuck, who draped it over Rhody. Mission accomplished, the boys started moving the cut wood out of the way while the men held the lanterns and flashlights so the family could salvage the tent’s contents. Chuck found his keys under one of the bedrolls, and his pants. Alexi, watching the scouts work, imagined what had happened. Dad had left the tent to see what was going on, or to answer nature’s call, and the wind gust had hit. The dying tree had fallen over onto the tent’s long “snoot” vestibule, trapping the kids and locking Dad out. Truly the Lord had been with them, he realized. Otherwise Dad would have been crushed, based on where the bedrolls had been. He crossed himself. Who needed Old Country spirits when weather and gravity were out to get you?

  It was ten o’clock before everyone got back to camp. Boris glared as the other boys related the story. Alexi sat next to him. “Hey, ease up, Boris. If looks could kill you’d be a felon.”

  “It’s not fair. They got to rescue people.” The older boy poked the wet ground with a stick.

  “And what if we’d come back and discovered bears had gotten into the tents? Or another storm had come up, and no one had been here to re-secure everything? The guys on the front line count on the support troops to keep everything running.”

  “You mean the REMFs?”

  “No, those are the ones who show up, get their photo taken and then disappear, or hang around and get underfoot.” Alexi wondered where Boris had picked up that little term. “The real support troops are the ones who keep everyone else armed and fed, and patched up.” After a moment he added, “And keep the bad guys from infiltrating our camps.”

  That seemed to help. Boris yawned, Alexi followed, and pretty soon everyone was sound asleep, except Alexi. He stared at the inside of the tent, feeling the storm rain on his face and watching the black cloud boiling up over central Kansas when Chernobog had escaped, or been released by the tornado’s winds, from the false church that had held him. The god of swamps and darkness had seen Alexi. Now, nine months later, Alexi crossed himself and touched his St. George medallion, and wondered how the demon had come to be in the mountains. Then he fell asleep.

  The sun rose in a white sky. Alexi felt prickly from the moment he opened his eyes, as if someone were watching, and he caught himself glancing up into the trees, looking for snipers. Was it the storm? No, that had passed, and the cool air sighed through the trees. A few puffy clouds passed overhead, above the birds, serene and creamy white. Mr. Maloof seemed twitchy as well. The observation helped Alexi calm down: if another adult sensed something, maybe it wasn’t his battle rattle acting up.

  Half the boys went hiking that morning while the others worked on camp-craft badge tests. Alexi’s discomfort grew and he noticed that Toby and David kept peering into the woods along the trail, or staring up into the trees around them. Alexi heaved a sigh of relief when they reached their goal, a large meadow almost on the tree line. The boys started identifying plants and looking for animal sign, or trying to sort out what kind of rock poked up through the thin soil. Alexi had borrowed Mr. Andropolis’s binoculars and studied the peaks and ridges around them, back into Rocky Mountain National Park. He caught a glimpse of the large dark bird just before it slid down into a valley and out of sight. As he looked, he spotted a hazy white area near the crest of a ridge to the south and stopped, lowered the glasses and looked, then raised the binoculars and focused on that area. The haze wasn’t a cloud. Which way was the wind from? The south, although Alexi knew that would change a little as the wind started rising out of the valleys. Should he tell the boys? No, it looked a good distance away, and no doubt the spotters had reported it already.

  An hour passed as the scouts cataloged plants and rocks, scared a marmot or two and some ground squirrels, and debated over a possible mountain lion track. Alexi suspected it was from someone’s dog, but tracking animals wasn’t his thing, so he just mediated. He did let them drink from the spring, since it came from between some rocks and Alexi’s map showed it as being potable. The water, so cold it almost hurt to drink, tasted of minerals. It seemed really high up on the mountain, but apparently the geology was right. “Can we count this as finding water, Mr. Z?” Paul asked.

  Alexi pointed to the little metal marker on the rock above the water. “I don’t think so. You didn’t track it back to the source, did you?”

  “No, we just found it by accident,” Toby said.

  “The book says you have to be looking for water. Sorry.” They hadn’t been using the map to locate the spring, either, so no map-reading points. Everyone but Daniel had gotten plenty of points already, and Daniel had every badge test passed and wasn’t real
ly trying on this trip. Alexi decided that they’d spent enough time and started rounding boys back up and aiming them at the trail.

  David stopped and pointed south. “That’s a fire.”

  Indeed it was, and Alexi thought he could see what looked like a helicopter flying over the smoke. “We need to get back to the campground, gents.”

  The sky grew darker as they made their way downhill, and they didn’t meet any other hikers. The shadows faded along with the sun and the boys picked up the pace. Alexi, in the middle of the group, kept looking and listening for trouble, sniffing the air for smoke or other warning smells. He wanted to hurry. No, he reminded himself, if they rushed and one of the boys tripped and got hurt, he’d be responsible and they’d be slower. The trail had some wash outs and rough places, roots sticking up that could catch a foot. Alexi stayed quiet, letting the boys set the pace.

  They still reached the campground in time to find Ranger Pagonis talking with Fr. Anthony. Instead of ranger green, she wore a bright yellow shirt and heavy brown trousers, and had fire-fighting tools on her backpack, with a hard hat hanging from her belt. “I’m sorry to cut off your stay, but we need everyone to evacuate. We’re going to stage here if the fire spreads, and the road is too narrow to have our trucks and tankers coming in as everyone else is trying to get out.”

  Most of the guys had already started tearing down the tents. Alexi counted his group, stopped, and counted again. “Toby, where are Daniel and Paul?”

  “They’re behind me, Mr. Z.”

  Oh no. A dreadful feeling swept over Alexi. He stopped by his tent long enough to grab his car keys and the larger aid kit that he’d left there. Then he caught Fr. Anthony’s attention. “Daniel and Paul are still on the trail. I’ll get them.”

  “There’s Daniel.” Fr. Anthony frowned as Daniel came charging into the campground, panting and looking over his shoulder. “Where’s Paul?”

  Daniel skidded to a stop. “I,” he panted a little more. “I don’t know, Father. Paul said he saw tracks and wanted to follow them, I told him not to and he said OK, but he didn’t keep up and I thought I heard a bear.”