Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  In the lead, Galen felt his way as fast as possible to the top of the White Cliffs. By instinct, he located a large pine with a thicket at its base. The weary, waterlogged armadillos pushed into the bushes and huddled in the relatively dry refuge. Although night creatures, the afternoon’s trek had tired them so much they slept soundly for nearly five hours.

  Galen woke sometime near dawn. From the midst of the thicket, he only heard water dripping. He slunk from the bushes. His right foreleg hurt; it was probably black and blue from the branches that hit him while crossing the river. He stretched upright in the open air, trying to ease sore muscles. The storm had passed. The moon glowed and clouds staggered north on the warm spring winds. Galen sniffed, searching for food, but found only old pine cones. Hunger forced him to range farther. He found an animal track and followed it, winding through pines that rustled in the wind and sprayed him with water droplets.

  The path ended on the north side of the cliff, with still no food located. Galen almost turned away, but the landscape stopped him. The White Cliffs were the foothills of the Ozarks. Before him lay solemn dark valleys tucked between steep hillsides of oak and hickory forests. Their path would be deep —owls roundabout said the mountains aren’t very tall, it’s the valleys that are deep—then up again to where the sharp ridges met the night sky. To Galen’s poor eyesight, the rolling hills loomed as vague giants. The smells were rich and fragrant with a hint of spring flowers. The enormity of the forest, stretching miles and miles as far as he could see, overwhelmed him. His heart hammered. Somewhere within those hills were his brothers and the handful of other trekkers. Perhaps the hills also hid the Faralone Falls, the answer to the ancient riddle: why were his people vagabonds in the land?

  .

  THE TREK

  Waking late the next afternoon, Victor stretched and winced at sore muscles. They were bruised from branches in the river yesterday. But he also wondered if the curse was settling into his bones, his muscles, making him ache constantly. He was glad he had wakened before the others. As leader, he needed to be ready for the day. If the others woke first and got the jump on him, he would be reacting all day, instead of leading.

  He tried to tiptoe around Corrie, but she stretched and her eyes opened.

  “Oh. Is it nighttime already?” she asked. Dim light filtered through their thicket. The ground was damp, but not soaked.

  Victor managed a curt, “Yes. Time to get going.” He struggled to throw off his irritable mood: tonight was the first test of his leadership, and he wanted a good start.

  Corrie rolled toward Galen.

  “Wait—” Victor didn’t want everyone awake yet.

  But Corrie had already given Galen a gentle shove.

  Victor tried to stifle a big yawn. Some evenings, waking up was so hard.

  “Come on, “ Corrie shoved Galen harder. “It’s time.”

  Instantly, Galen was on his feet. “What? Where are we?”

  “We’re about to look for breakfast,” Victor said.

  “Oh, I know where we can find mushrooms,” Galen said. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I took a walk.” He pushed out of the shrubs and trotted off without looking back.

  Corrie followed.

  Wincing, Victor followed them both. It rankled that Galen had already found food. No, what really irritated was that Galen woke up and was instantly cheerful. How did he do it?

  Down a short path to the south, Victor found Corrie sharing mushrooms with Galen. It was a large fragrant patch of white-capped mushrooms.

  “I found this early this morning,” Galen said. “I looked all along that trail to the north and found nothing. Then looked south. I could’ve eaten it all; I was so hungry. But I saved most of it for our breakfast. I worried, though. This would barely feed the Four Sisters, and I didn’t know how much you eat for breakfast.”

  “Breakfast should be silent,” Corrie groaned.

  Galen laughed. “I used to think that, too. But the Four Sisters—” Corrie rolled her eyes, so Galen stopped short. “OK, I’ll be quiet.” He concentrated on the mushrooms.

  Victor waited for Corrie to offer him a spot beside her. When she ignored him, he grumpily stomped to a different, fresh mushroom and ripped off a bite. He ate with closed eyes and only felt better when his belly was full.

  Blaze swooped in at dusk and landed with a flurry. With her pale body held almost horizontal, she raced rapidly to Victor.

  She’s full of herself, he thought scornfully.

  “Zzzz!” Blaze gave a throaty snore-like call that Victor was learning meant, “Here I am. Pay attention to me.”

  Victor rustled his armor and sighed at his discomfort. Instead of his usual grace, he moved with an awkward gait. He turned away from Blaze’s demand for attention and asked Galen, “Did you study the map rock?”

  Galen echoed, “Study?”

  Victor said, “That’s OK. Ah studied it.” At Galen’s stare, he added, “Ah spent one afternoon looking at it with El Garro showing me things.”

  “Things?” Galen mocked.

  “Places,” Victor snapped. With effort, he met Galen’s glare and refused to look away. But he spoke to the owl, who was just visible in his peripheral vision. “Blaze, do you know how to get to Long Pool? The trekkers headed there first.”

  Blaze clicked her tongue rapidly; the noise startled Victor, and he snapped his head up and around to stare at the barn owl.

  Blaze’s eyes gleamed, as if she had meant to startle him. Victor grimaced. He wouldn’t let the owl bother him again. Leaders needed to get along with everyone.

  “Hooooo! Long Pool! This way.” Blaze flapped off.

  Victor threw Galen a look of triumph, but Galen just turned to follow Blaze.

  It was a bad start, Victor realized. Galen had found the food, Blaze was going to lead the way, and no one cared that Victor was tired and irritable. This wasn’t the group Victor would have chosen for such an important trek. But he had listened to enough ballads to understand one thing: great deeds are often accomplished by normal folks who refuse to give up. In spite of his bumbling, they were moving forward, and that was hopeful.

  The owl led them swiftly northward for a week. The rain which swelled the creek to overflowing also caused wild flowers to burst into bloom, leaves to unfurl, birds to court and build nests. That first week was a blur of spring unfolding set against nights of wearying travel. But as the moon waned, so did the early euphoria of the group.

  Each morning at dawn, Victor threw himself down—often on open ground, but more often inside a thicket, and only once that first week in a real den which he had found abandoned—and fell into an exhausted sleep, devoid of dreams. He wanted dreams of his grandfather singing a ballad about Victor’s adventures. Perhaps it would even be a ballad about Victor finding the Faralone Falls. It would make the effort of struggling northward against the first-born curse easier to bear. Instead, he slept dreamless and woke to the difficult task of finding food for his followers.

  Yet, though it all, Victor wanted to be a strong leader. At sunset, Victor roused the others and led them to whatever breakfast he had found. The daily trials of traveling inevitably led to aggravations. Corrie munched on a snail and murmured longingly about the large night crawlers along the streams back home. Galen stretched his legs and moaned, clenching his claws together, then loosing them, trying to work out the aches in his feet.

  So Victor gently prodded and cajoled. And Galen and Corrie responded: with a solid breakfast in their bellies, they shook off the minor discomforts and discussed the path they would take for the night, often deferring to Victor. Tramping along forest trails, the small group chatted, joked, and reveled in the land unfolding before them. Victor kept them moving at a fast, steady pace.

  Seeing his success, Victor forgot about dreams of glory and thought with surprise, I am good at leading.

  But as each night wore on, Victor’s contentment faded. He decided it would be easier to lead a quadruplet of baby armadillos
than leading Galen, Corrie and Blaze. Victor wore himself out running to the front to consult with Blaze, who flew overhead with no consideration for the trail below, and then back to Corrie, who stopped to look at odd things. There was the constant aggravation of competing with Galen, who was best at digging dens, and best at spotting that glossy black beetle that Corrie loved. These were little things, but they wore on Victor. He battled his own sore muscles and his fears of failure. By the end of each night’s trek, he was too exhausted to think about how well he was leading the group. All he could do was hum bits of El Julio’s ballads and fall asleep. As the nights passed and the moon shrank, Victor found it harder and harder to be a strong leader.

  One evening, after the dark night of no moon, they all awoke angry. Their bed that day had been a scrawny shrub. All day, as the sun moved, they had fought over scraps of shade. No one slept much. Tempers were short.

  When Blaze finally flew in, she clutched a mouse. She settled onto a branch, standing rather knock-kneed, ready for her meal.

  Galen and Corrie half dozed in a dusty patch of ground, but Victor paced under Blaze. He growled, “Hurry up.” Then, he yawned.

  Blaze didn’t even glance in Victor’s direction. Her talons kneaded the mouse.

  “Come on!” Victor grouched. “Someone needs to light a blaze under you.”

  Corrie ignored them, but Galen looked up in surprise. Victor didn’t care. Galen coddled the owl, and Victor wasn’t going to stand for it. If Blaze was their scout, she needed to learn who was in charge. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Suddenly, Blaze gulped the mouse, head first, with the tail wiggling as it went down. Blaze gave an odd chirp to punctuate its disappearance.

  Victor felt a fury grow: it both scared and excited him.

  When El Julio, his grandfather, got angry, everyone cleared out of the way. The Marcus family leader was known for his blinding rages. El Julio always said, “Time is power. Make them wait. Then they understand, then they respect, then you can lead.”

  Nothing infuriated Victor more than to wait for Blaze. She should wait for him.

  Her breakfast finished, Blaze spread her wings and dropped to the ground near Victor.

  Galen backed away, but Victor glared at Blaze. “Finally? Where do we go tonight?”

  Blaze charged straight at him and leapt, claws aiming for his eyes. Victor curled his head under just in time. When he peeked out a moment later, the owl was perched on the branch again, using her middle claw like a comb to groom her face mask.

  Victor opened his mouth, and then shut it. Corrie and Galen gaped.

  Frustration froze him in place. Each pass of Blaze’s claw over her face was like pouring more oil on the fire. Victor’s anger flamed higher. He wanted to shout at Blaze, to let the fury within him loose. But she was in the tree—unreachable. His anger bore the fruit of cunning, which told him to swallow the momentary defeat and choose a better time.

  Blaze, in her own time, called, “This way.”

  She flew into the woods and Galen followed.

  Corrie looked at Victor, blinked twice, then glanced after the owl.

  Victor realized that she was embarrassed for him! Humiliation flooded through him: that bird would pay.

  “If that vulture of a bird is ready,” he told Corrie, “then let’s follow.”

  Progress was slow. After a scant hour’s travel, Blaze stopped. “Rest,” she called.

  Though she tucked her head under her wing, Victor knew she was faking a nap to make him mad. To keep his anger in check, he ripped up a patch of moss.

  Five minutes later, Blaze called, “Let’s go.”

  Victor gritted his peg teeth. “Lead on.”

  The second time this happened, Galen suggested, “Why don’t we stop for the night? The ground here is soft, and we could take the time to dig a proper den. A good night’s sleep—”

  Victor snarled, “If Ah want your advice, Ah’ll ask for it. Lead on, bird.”

  “Hooooo.” Blaze’s voice sounded like a wail. She hovered a moment, then sped away.

  Victor raced after her. To keep up, Corrie and Galen ran at near full speed for fifteen or twenty minutes. Then, maddeningly, Blaze perched above them and groomed herself while ignoring them. Victor’s anger built, like a thundercloud climbing into the sky’s upper reaches.

  Again, Blaze bolted away, and the armadillos were forced to follow at breakneck speed.

  Corrie stumbled and rolled down a slight incline. She rose, looked around wildly, and tried to chase Victor again.

  Galen called, “Victor, wait. Corrie needs to rest.”

  But Victor couldn’t ask Blaze to stop; that would mean she had won.

  They raced on until Blaze again decided to eat. She swooped and struck. Something hopped away; she had missed. Blaze stood on the ground snapping her beak in frustration.

  Recognizing an opportunity, Victor attacked her from behind. He charged, catching Blaze’s backside, sending her tumbling. Her right wing wasn’t folded down properly and it slammed the ground, feathers flying. Blaze screamed a volley of high-pitched whistles.

  Behind them, Victor heard Galen gasp and Corrie cry out. But his attention stayed on Blaze, who stood and tested the wing.

  “Fool. Find your own guide.” Blaze beat her wings, with obvious effort. Her right wing faltered, but then caught, and she soared away into the night.

  He hadn’t done this for revenge, Victor reasoned, so much as for showing who was leader. No, that wasn’t it. Though he could have, he hadn’t wanted to control his anger because El Julio never restrained his anger. Victor groaned. He was still trying to become his grandfather; even here on the frontier, on the most momentous trek of their people, he was still longing for his grandfather’s approval. Not revenge. He was looking for love from the one armadillo who would never give it.

  Corrie came beside Victor, asking anxiously. “Are you all right?” Then her voice took on urgency, “What have you done? We need Blaze. How else will we know where we’re heading? We don’t know where Long Pool is any more than we know how to find the Faralone Falls.”

  Victor was flushed, scared by the force of his longing for El Julio’s approval. It was hard to focus on Corrie, and he was unsure how to respond. Should he be angry at her accusation or touched by her concern? He hovered between rage and pleasure. Corrie’s ears, flattened to her skull by fear, decided him. “Thanks. Ah’m fine.” He took a deep breath, and his anger deflated.

  Galen was beside them now, just staring at Victor as if to intimidate him.

  But confidence filled Victor: they would find the missing armadillos without Blaze’s help. The ballad about his adventures would be so glorious that even El Julio would be impressed.

  Galen said, “How will you find the way without Blaze? How? Tell me right now: which direction is Long Pool?” Galen’s armor gently bumped Corrie away, so Victor had to look Galen in the face. “Why should we trust you? Where are we? Do you even know that?”

  He’s jealous, thought Victor triumphantly. He wants to be leader. The Texan locked eyes with Corrie again and smiled. He knew exactly how to get to Long Pool, and he could lead without relying on that bird.

  .

  THE FIRST CLUE

  Be silent. Blaze winged back to the armadillos. The pine branch dipped when she landed. Quick. Sidestep. Sidestep. The deep shadows by the trunk hid her white plumage.

  Below, Victor leaned forward and whispered loudly to Corrie. “We don’t need Blaze.”

  Blaze closed her beak tight. Angry. But no sound. Silent.

  Victor continued, “Ah can find the way without that trouble maker. Let’s rest a bit, then travel another hour or so tonight.”

  Corrie’s belly sank to the ground in a sign of submission.

  Blaze hissed—softly—in disgust. She wanted to help the armadillos. As a chick, she had hated foggy nights. She hated being left alone in the hollow tree, a nest large enough for a dozen chicks. Their tree had been near a swamp and full of drif
ting mists. Blaze had hated not knowing where her parents had flown in search of food, had hated the night her father returned without her mother. Lost, he said, somewhere in the swamp. And they never learned of her fate.

  To Blaze, the armadillo trekkers were lost in a fog, too. So few here—though, she knew there were many clans to the south. But here, the place they called the frontier, their armadillo trekkers were lost in a vast forest. The forest was so big that no one could keep track of the trekkers. Lost in a fog of green. Lost. She wanted to help find the missing trekkers.

  But how? That Victor was trouble.

  A pain gnawed at her gizzard. She thrust off the pine. Wings flapped once then held steady. Blaze flew north through the large oaks.

  Her gizzard cramped. She aimed for and caught a large branch. Blaze blinked. Miserable. Wait, wait. She shook her head from side to side. Acid filled her mouth. The pellet of mouse fur and bones came up. She spit it out. Ah, better. She clicked her tongue gently to herself. Empty stomach: time to eat.

  Fly low and listen. Blaze listened for small sounds on the forest floor. Maybe she could find a mouse gnawing on a dry stem of grass. Perhaps it would be a baby bird.

  She heard a large creature. Too big to eat.

  Listen for small, small sounds. There. She swooped, aiming at the sound, and grabbed. Up. In her right talon, a frog squirmed.

  “Shrrreee!” she called in triumph. Lunch. All this flying made her hungry. She liked flying, exploring. Her nest-mates liked to stay home, to keep other owls out of their territory. Boring. She liked armadillos. They traveled. She liked their stories. Bernardo and Isidoro. The Faralone Falls. Stories of power and comfort. But Victor needed to learn respect.

  An oak loomed close. Blaze landed. She bent and studied the squirming frog. A good lunch!

  Leaves rustled. Her head popped up. What was that noise? She turned toward the main trunk. A dark spot was too quiet. The frog tried to jump. Blaze shoved it against the branch. “Whhhhoooo?” she called.