Vagabonds

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Vagabonds Page 4

by Darcy Pattison


  Victor hunched his armor in warning.

  Galen arched his armor and flexed his claws.

  Victor could not back down—the leadership was at stake. This was too important. He flared his nostrils, breathed deep, and then sprang at Galen’s face.

  He hit Galen full on, and they both flipped head over tail, bouncing into the crowd, who quickly backed up, leaving the fighters in the center of an excited mob.

  “A fight!”

  “Make room!”

  A tingle shot through Victor: this mob could be led by a bit of flashy action.

  Victor leaped over Galen, raking strong claws across Galen’s nose. First blood!

  “Ouch!” Galen cried.

  The scratch was disappointingly small. Victor flexed his claws, ready for the next leap.

  But Galen reared on his back legs and balanced on his tail.

  Good defense, Victor thought begrudgingly. Still, it wouldn’t prolong things much. He reared into a boxing stance, too. Above the crowd’s roar, Victor heard Corrie, “Be careful—”

  He turned to catch her eye, but the crowd was jostling for the best positions to watch, armor clunking against armor. She was turned away. Victor didn’t know if the caution was meant for him or Galen. Either way, he thought smugly, Corrie is watching me at my best.

  Victor turned back to the fight. Enough wasting time. He charged and was surprised when Galen attacked at the same time. Victor twisted away from Galen’s claws, while his own claws stretched, reaching, trying to scratch at Galen’s soft underbelly: neither scored blood.

  After the flurry, Galen backed up, breathing hard.

  Though panting himself, Victor taunted loudly, “You see? He backs away. A coward! You want this coward to lead the search for our lost trekkers?’

  From the corner of his eye, Victor saw El Garro limping toward them. That’s what this fight was about—impressing El Garro. Victor growled, then pounced, forcing Galen to withdraw.

  Galen crouched low.

  He was submitting! This was too easy. “Coward!” Victor gloated. He wished he could flatten the oaks enclosing the Clearing and let all the forest folks see this moment. He towered above Galen, threw out his chest with a slight swagger, and clawed the air triumphantly.

  Galen vaulted straight up, three feet into the air. He hit Victor on the lower jaw, rattling the bones of his entire head and making his ears ring. The blow flipped Victor into the air backwards, and he skidded off the armor of several other armadillos. Victor sprang up, embarrassed. He stood in the shadow of a tall oak, sheltered somewhat from the crowd’s relentless glare.

  Up to this point, he had been working off pure tension. But now, his claws tightened grimly: it was time to get rid of this rustic. He stomped forward, out of the shadows.

  The onlookers squealed, perhaps sensing Victor’s new intensity.

  “Ho, ho,” El Garro chuckled. “You’re up against our best boxer, Victor. Takes after his father, who even defeated me once.”

  Victor was taken aback. At home, he was acknowledged as the best fighter, and no one dared challenge him. He had expected El Garro to stop the fight so Galen wouldn’t get hurt; instead, even El Garro expected Galen to win. Suddenly Victor hated every single armadillo in this Clearing. Hated all those pointed ears that heard El Garro warn him. Hated the heads that nodded agreement.

  Victor had to prove himself, right here, right now. Desperate, he charged Galen.

  El Garro intercepted him, using long yellow claws to sweep Victor off his feet. Victor’s nose smashed into soft dirt; El Garro’s claw pricked the soft spots between his armor and his neck, and held his head down. Victor’s instinct was to bowl over the older armadillo, but with tremendous effort, he stilled his muscles: frigid caution made him wait. Instead, he just railed, “Let me fight! He’s a coward!” Dirt tasted bitter in Victor’s mouth.

  “Foolish Southerner,” Galen said.

  His voice held a contempt which infuriated Victor. He clamped his jaw shut. Wait, he told himself. See what El Garro says. But he jabbed his claws deeper into the dirt and glared icily at Galen.

  Galen continued, “The first rule of trekking is to stay alive. I don’t care if you call me coward, or if you fight better. Our only pleasures here on the frontier are simple: it’s called survival.”

  “Do you understand what he’s saying?” El Garro murmured in Victor’s ear.

  Victor managed to shrug gently, and El Garro removed his claw. Still stiff with anger, Victor stood, spun away from the sight of Galen and violently shook the dust from his armor.

  “Victor, you are the son of a Colony leader.” El Garro spoke so all could hear. “You’re trained to lead. You’ve journeyed successfully from the southern Colonies: obviously, you’re a good trekker.”

  Ironic, thought Victor, that El Garro considered him a trekker. He had been wise to keep his birth order a secret since first-borns were never called trekkers.

  El Garro spoke to Victor, but watched the crowd while he did so. “Will you lead the search?”

  Galen stamped his front legs in disapproval, but the crowd murmured approval. El Garro nodded his satisfaction at the Colony’s decision.

  A thrill of victory shot through Victor! His caution had paid off. This was the first step towards glory. “Thank—”

  But El Garro had already turned to Corrie. “And you must join the search.”

  Corrie stood opposite him on the map rock, tracing the scratches delicately with her claws. The crowd shifted to watch the new discussion. Her voice was firm. “My place is with you.”

  The fierce warrior from a moment ago was gone: El Garro’s lined face was frail. “I’m asking you. For our people. For your quad-sisters. As first-born, you don’t have to trek. But you accompanied me on many trips to gather information; you heard the great barn owl; you helped me draw this map from what little we learned. You may remember something important. We must find our trekkers this summer.”

  El Garro’s head drooped as he watched Corrie trace the map’s lines. Emotions battled across his face.

  Corrie’s jaw twitched. “You’re right,” she said tightly. “I may remember something. Since you won’t go, I should.”

  Victor protested. “There’s no reason to send Corrie into such danger. Surely, others could go.” She was first-born, and if she traveled, she would suffer from the curse like he did. Victor shuddered. He had told no one of his restless, empty days, haunted by the compulsion to go home. Corrie needed to stay here.

  Surprisingly, support came from Galen. “Don’t send Corrie! You need her with you.”

  Swinging from side to side, El Garro heaved himself back onto the rock.

  Victor expected an argument between Galen and El Garro. When it didn’t come, Victor scratched the dirt and eyed Galen. They still had a fight to finish. He would have charged Galen again but for El Garro’s rumble.

  This was no time to fight, Victor realized. He had already won the position he wanted. Abruptly, he turned his back on Galen and bowed to El Garro. “I would be honored to lead the search party.”

  El Garro nodded. “We’ll send a messenger to your family to let them know you won’t be back this year.”

  Corrie’s eyes glowed, and she said approvingly, “You’re a good fighter, and we’ll need that.”

  “I will go, too.” Galen’s voice was too loud in the quiet Clearing.

  Victor growled and spun back to the smaller armadillo.

  El Garro stopped him with an upraised claw. He edged toward them, weariness now in every movement. But with a surprising strength of will, he locked Galen’s eyes in a stare. “I called you—especially—because you are the best fighter in our family and the only trekker still here. I expected you to join the quest. I’ll allow you to go because only the Father of Souls and his son, Hoefon, know what the search party will face. It may need your strength. You are a trekker, but you are young and untried. Victor is the leader. Do you understand?”

  Galen shrugged up h
is armor, and then let it fall. “Victor is leader.”

  And Ah’ll make sure he remembers that, Victor promised himself.

  “Good,” El Garro said. He collapsed into the soft lichen. “That’s Victor, Galen, Corrie and Blaze. Your group is complete. You leave tomorrow at dusk.’

  Tails thumped, armor clanked, and a chant rose: “To find our trekkers!”

  Victor joined the chant with glee. Fate had placed him as leader of the most important search party in the history of his people. If his dream came true, Victor thought, the Ballad of Victor the Brave would begin this night. Glory was within his grasp.

  .

  SISTERS

  Soon, very soon, Galen thought with relief, he would be able to stop thinking. When they trekked, he wouldn’t have to plan ahead or worry about when or if something would happen. He would be in the moment: walking, eating, searching, reacting, and moving on. Action. Not thinking. The endless thinking, standing outside the situation and evaluating it, made him so very weary.

  But, sadly, the decision to send a search party had to be discussed, dissected and put back together. Some retreated to the edge of the Great Clearing to gossip while others gathered on the south side and milled about, talking with loud bravado. Here and there, yearlings rose on hind legs and sparred. Curious armadillos inspected the map rock.

  Galen’s thoughts were as jumbled as the crowd’s. True, he had taken an instant dislike to Victor and doubted Victor could lead effectively. And Corrie shouldn’t be making this journey, either. But Galen ground his teeth in a fierce excitement: he would be part of an important search; he was a trekker.

  In the middle of the Clearing, Victor drew Corrie into a circle of armadillos telling about their missing relatives. The Texan’s long tail forced everyone to give them a wide space, which drew every eye to them. The large armadillo moved with a grace that surprised Galen. Victor leaned toward a small gray female.

  “Please,” she pleaded, “my sons left a month ago. Find them!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ah will.”

  Even to Galen, Victor’s confidence was soothing.

  Corrie looked up, and for a moment, she stared directly at Galen’s face. She lifted her chin a fraction, and then deliberately looked away. She and Victor moved to the next group.

  Galen squirmed inside his armor. She was angry over El Garro. Would he have to explain why El Garro shouldn’t trek? Surely, Corrie understood the trip would be too hard for her father. She might spurn Galen, but she couldn’t spurn the truth.

  He pivoted away. He didn’t want to talk and talk and talk. Let Victor do that. Instead, Galen stomped over to study the map rock. They needed a good start, and he’d make sure they got it.

  But near the map rock, El Garro was holding court, too, calming fears of those under his care. El Garro waved off his questions about their route. “Tomorrow we’ll plan.”

  With a sigh, Galen abandoned the map. Tomorrow, when El Garro was ready, they would study it together.

  Still sore from the rapid journey the night before, Galen stood at the edge of the Great Clearing. The moon was low in the sky, sending slanting rays across the treetops. Numbly, he watched the armadillos mingling and felt keenly his own loneliness, the loneliness of a trekker. And realized he’d be much more lonely before his trek was done.

  Suddenly, the Four Sisters crowded around him. “We found you!” They chattered on without waiting for him to answer.

  Guiltily, Galen realized he hadn’t taken care of this detail: who would care for the Four Sisters? Surrounded by their good cheer, Galen’s heart lifted. But just as quickly, he turned wistful. He thought of the first time Number One saw a falling star. Her eyes had grown large and luminous, and she listened intently to his explanation. Or, there was the time Number Four accidently scared a tiny brown frog out of the mud by the stream. It hopped away, with Number Four hopping behind it. She was so hungry she caught and ate it almost before Galen knew what was happening.

  How could he leave his Sisters?

  For a moment, there was a babble until Number One called, “Quiet!” When all was calm, she continued, “Galen, are you leaving us?”

  Galen blinked at the beautiful babies. Words failed, and they huddled together, weeping.

  At last, Galen shook his head and appealed to the nomadic moon to explain what he couldn’t. “See the full moon? Our lives have been full with family, and that has been good and right.” He gulped at the four sets of pointed ears aimed at him. “Soon, the moon will wane and become skinny.”

  Number Four still clutched an empty snail shell. She wailed, “You’re really leaving?”

  Galen nodded. “But watch the moon. Just as she comes back full every month, so there will be a day when we’ll be together again, full of friends and family. I promise.”

  “Will we go back to your den? Where will we live?” Number One asked.

  Felix, their oldest brother, stuck his long nose into their midst. “You shall sleep in my den tonight and every night until you are older. Nalda will be glad for female company.”

  Anxiously, Galen peered at Nalda, Felix’s mate: she was small, with a warm brown armor. Galen had met her the night before but hadn’t had time to get acquainted. He warned her, “They eat a lot.”

  Nalda had a direct look and manner. “You’ve done a good job with them.”

  It was the right thing to say. Galen needed that reassurance. Nalda and Felix would care for the Sisters until they were on their own, and that comforted him, too.

  Galen touched noses with each Sister. Each cried, “Brother, don’t leave us.”

  A resolve hardened within him. If he had to trek because of the curse, had to leave his Sisters, then he would make sure he found every missing trekker. For his Sisters’ sake. So, when it was their turn to trek next spring, they could go with confidence. He vowed silently, they would never face bleak woods that swallowed up trekkers.

  .

  A BEGINNING

  Someone shoved Galen, rudely waking him from a deep sleep. He didn’t know how long he had slept, but Felix’s den was filled with a chilling mist. An eerie whistling echoed down the den’s tunnel: the wind was up.

  “Open your eyes! You must go.” El Garro jabbed him again.

  “What’s wrong?” Galen tried to focus on the speaker.

  “A storm!” El Garro disappeared.

  Galen punched Felix and whispered El Garro’s news. Then Galen struggled up the dark tunnel and paused in the opening to stare. The forest was alive with flapping branches and shrieking wind. A lightning bolt rippled across the sky in crazy zigzags. The woods were dark; its trees and paths, when clothed in sheets of rain and puddles jumping with raindrops and the storm’s loud complaints, were unrecognizable. Galen suddenly thought of his mother during a similar storm: she had danced about while her sons watched, entranced. Finally, Galen had asked, “Mother, come in. Do you want to be hit by lightning?”

  “Oh, yes!” Shaking her gray armor, she had splattered her sons with warm raindrops, and then gently shoved them out of the den into the rain.

  And Galen and Felix and Garcia and Rafael had understood her delight in the power of the storm and the joy of abandoning herself to the rain. His mother had been a poetic soul. On another day, Galen might have danced in this rain, too, might have reminded Felix of that other storm. But today, his dreams of trekking were turning into responsibility. And the storm wasn’t a good way to start a trek.

  El Garro was waiting. “Hurry!”

  “It’s mid-afternoon!” Galen cried. “Can’t we wait till the storm passes?”

  “No.” El Garro’s voice was firm. “If the river floods, you won’t cross for days. You must go.”

  “No,” Galen said. “It’s all wrong! We aren’t ready. We need to study the maps, talk to the owls— ”

  Felix scurried behind Galen, pushing him toward the Great Clearing. “El Garro is right. If you delay, you’ll never trek. The North Fork floods badly and goes down slowly.”<
br />
  “The Sisters?” Galen said. His voice quivered with sorrow: it was time to leave them.

  “Nalda will bring the girls.”

  Galen let himself be led to the Great Clearing, for in the storm, he hardly knew where he was. It was finally his time to trek. He wished his instinct would let him snuggle inside his fox’s den with the Four Sisters and come out only when the rain had stopped, or else teach them to dance in the spring storms. But he was the fourth son of a fourth son for ten generations back. He had already resisted the curse’s northward pull for too long. The fourth-born had no home: he was a trekker.

  Rain—cold and insistent—dripped from his pointed nose, and every step splashed mud onto his armor.

  Huddled under the oaks on the fringe of the Great Clearing stood Corrie. She was soon joined by the Four Sisters, Nalda, and a smattering of other armadillos.

  Victor emerged from El Garro’s den. He cleared his throat. “OK, it’s not the start Ah wanted, but we have to be off. Where’s Blaze?”

  “She’ll find you tonight or tomorrow after the rain slacks off,” El Garro said. “For now, you have to get past the river.”

  “That owl gets to sleep through the storm?” Corrie protested.

  “She can fly across the river; you can’t,” El Garro said. “You know that.”

  Corrie nodded reluctantly.

  Galen asked, “Where will we cross?”

  El Garro nodded at Victor. “We’ve talked about that. If you go straight east, you can cross near the White Cliffs, then climb the hillside. That’ll give you high ground to wait out the storm. It’ll also give you a view of the Ozarks and make it easier for Blaze to find you.”

  “Due east?” Galen asked. “That means we’ll cross a Black Road?” His stomach cramped at the thought. “We could go north and then back south to avoid it.” It would be the same trail he had taken with the Sisters.

  “Due east,” El Garro repeated firmly. “It’s the fastest route.”

  Galen had no choice but to shrug and move on.

  Victor took charge. “Right. Galen, you know the way to the river? You take the lead.”

 

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