Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  “What be ye doing in these our woods?”

  Blaze blinked at the gruff voice. “Eating.”

  “Who be ye?”

  Blaze didn’t know if she should answer or fly away. But curiosity got the better of her. “Blaze, the barn owl. Who be ye?”

  “Gillet the Raccoon. Ye be in my woods. Go.”

  This was the large creature she had heard. It had been following her. Why? Blaze held the frog tighter. She hopped closer to the voice. “Wait.” She might not get another chance like this. “Long Pool. How do I get there?”

  A dark figure emerged from the shadows. White belly fur, dark face. “Ye be from out country, from the flatlands, ye not knowing where to find Long Pool.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “What business have ye at Long Pool?”

  “Not me. The armadillos. Long Pool is on their map.”

  “Ah. They be the ones who carry their own armor. Like the turtle-folk. Why be they in these our woods? Do they invade this our forest, or do they come in friendship? I ask fer all the peoples of these here valleys.” The old raccoon crept closer. His head tilted back and forth until it looked like his black mask was seesawing.

  “Friendship,” Blaze answered, and then chittered in a comforting manner. “They seek family and friends. For three years, many have traveled. All have disappeared. Do you know them?”

  “They come. They go. We don’t talk to them.”

  “Long Pool, then,” Blaze repeated. It was the first step of their journey. It would help to get clear directions to this first landmark. “Do you know where Long Pool is?”

  The raccoon sighed. “Westward fly for a time or a time and a half. Ye be finding a stream. Follow that there stream north and ye be finding Long Pool.” He paused. “Ye be bringing the armored ones to the Pool?”

  “Yes.” To herself, Blaze gloated. Tomorrow, I will find Long Pool. Victor will learn respect then. She had thought about abandoning the armadillos entirely. But she liked Galen. And sometimes Corrie. And Victor would have to apologize. Or else he would never find Long Pool.

  The raccoon continued, “What be ye doing with the crazy one?”

  “Crazy one?”

  “Ye be not knowing about the crazy one? An armored one came by here half a moon ago. Now he be in the valley of waters. Before you come to Long Pool, there is a strange place. Smooth humps of rocks rise up, like turtle shells. Creek comes into river there. Follow the creek to the east. Water cuts deep through the turtle rocks. It be falling into a valley that has huge blocks of stone. Water be running there all summer. The armored one, he fell into the valley. No one saw. But there he is. And now, he is crazy. Calls, cries, screams. And digs. He digs and digs, not holes, not dens. Just digging to dig. Crazy.”

  Blaze hopped closer to the old raccoon. “Do you know the name of the crazy one?”

  “He calls for help and says his name. It be Rafael of the Diego family.”

  “Hooooo! Galen’s brother.” Relief swept through her. She felt awful that her relatives had lost track of Galen’s brothers. The failure felt personal, as if her own honor had been at stake. It pleased Blaze that she would bring Galen news of his brother.

  “Ye be taking care of the crazy one?”

  “We be taking care of him,” agreed Blaze. Galen’s excitement would be boundless.

  “Good.” The raccoon turned and ran down the tree trunk.

  Blaze listened to it run for a minute. Then the frog squirmed in her talon. Blaze bent to it. Gulp-chirp. Eat fast, Blaze thought. Fly. Find Galen. Galen would help Rafael.

  In the distance, she heard a barn owl’s hoot. She answered, and the sound came closer. He called her name. How could owls in these woods know her name? It must be news from home.

  .

  A DECISION

  For several hours, the tunnel to El Garro’s den had been pulsing with moonlight and shadow, beckoning to him, making his head throb with the weight of the decision that faced him when he stepped out of the den.

  He turned his back to the unsettling tunnel. With eyes barely open, he listened to the chirps of crickets, who clustered in depressions in the ceiling. A garter snake lay coiled in the deepest corner, where Anabel had always made the babies’ nest. Not for the first time, a surge of emotion swelled: El Garro loved this den. All six litters of quadruplet females were born here, and his beloved Anabel died here. With Anabel gone and all his beautiful daughters gone, the den was empty. Lonely. The garter snake was cold comfort, and the crickets no longer sang of youth and beauty, love and family, triumphs and celebrations.

  He shouldn’t have forced Corrie to join the trek. With her in his den, he could have put off the inevitable a bit longer. But now, it was almost time to destroy this den.

  With a sigh, he rose and started up. Halfway up, where the moonlight dropped a pale shaft of light into the tunnel, he paused and inspected his forelegs. Neither leg hurt. The absence of pain created the horror of leprosy: he could hurt himself and not even know it. Pain, as a means of protection, was lost to him. The sore on his right leg was creeping into his armor. His left leg was weaker than ever. He had probably injured that leg while trying to stop Victor and Galen from fighting. Walking was difficult. When he lifted his leg, his claws drooped, and he couldn’t keep from dragging them along the ground. The leprosy was affecting everything he did.

  “It was worth it,” he thought. To establish Victor’s leadership, El Garro had exerted his own leadership to make Galen submit. Victor wasn’t the kind of armadillo to be content under another’s command. Galen could follow a leader like Victor, though, and still make sure the trek was safe and successful. Both had roles to play, and El Garro was glad he had put them both firmly into the right roles.

  Emerging into the meager light of the crescent moon, he nodded solemnly to the females who were waiting with slugs, a night crawler, and wild strawberries laid out on a strip of bark. The sweet smell reminded him of the first time he led his youngest daughters, including Corrie, to a strawberry patch. Smiling, he remembered their red mouths, red claws and the tight-stretched little stomachs. Where was Corrie tonight? Would she find her sisters?

  Two females served him while two more scurried into his den with fresh leaves for his bed, and reappeared a moment later with the old leaves. With Corrie gone, the family had taken over her duties with a seriousness which made El Garro groan. He would rather be left alone, but he had to do these last things gracefully. There were ballads of aging leaders who ran about like a two-year old trekker, but they were pitiful tales to El Garro’s ears. Regardless of how fearful it was to walk these days, he would be gentle, grateful and fair.

  “Do you need anything else?” asked the smallest of the females.

  El Garro didn’t recognize her, but then he didn’t have to let on. “Thank you, niece. Everything is fine.” He did recall clearly dozens and dozens of armadillos who had gone trekking over the years. Sometimes he remembered them better than the first-borns who stayed with him; sometimes he dreamed of them trekking all alone and the burden of his decisions was almost too much to bear. He drew a deep breath. That was one good thing about the announcement he was planning: he would never again send young ones off on dangerous treks.

  The females waited respectfully, without fidgeting, while he ate. He lingered over his meal as long as he could, but finally, he had to face it.

  He lifted his head, struggled to keep it from trembling, and held them in a steady gaze, despite the effort it took. “Call a meeting for tonight. I will set a time for choosing a new leader.”

  .

  THE OWL’S NEWS

  Victor struggled to stand upright on the steep hillside. In every direction, columns of tree trunks filled his vision. Loose leaves made the footing slippery. He raged at his treacherous sense of direction.

  “Much longer?” Corrie asked in a small voice.

  “No,” he snapped. The air hung heavy and stale under the trees. He scowled at a ti
ny gully that ran straight downhill. “Water runs here and must eventually run into the river.” Even to himself, the statement was too loud, too definite. Suddenly, he rushed down, like a forest fire making a surprise charge.

  “What are you doing?” Galen called after him.

  Halfway down, Victor tripped on a vine. Thump! He landed with a crash, then rolled, picking up speed as he tumbled. Bump! He cried out at the pain in his shoulder, but had no time to focus on it because he kept rolling. Crash! He slammed into a large oak. Heaving to his feet, he looked around wildly. Would daylight never come? Would there be no end to trees and trees and trees?

  “This way, Corrie,” he called unsteadily. “Go slow, so you don’t roll. We’re almost there.” He suspected they were hopelessly lost, but he couldn’t admit that. Leaders don’t admit defeat, lest it undermine their power. It was Blaze’s fault. Or Galen’s. Somehow, before morning came, Victor would find a way to make it Galen’s fault. He knew he was being unreasonable, but fatigue weighed him down. Or was it the curse, slowly driving him mad? He knew if he took a single step backward, toward his home, the pressure within would ease. But he was afraid. If he took even one step in that direction, could he stop himself? Every muscle—even those protected by his armor—ached.

  Corrie crawled down the slope of musty leaves. Victor stopped himself— barely—from urging her to go faster. She stopped at a flat stone and studied the path below. Hurry, Victor wanted to call. She started again and for a moment did fine. Then, she slid on loose leaves and skidded five feet. When she managed to stop, she stood trembling, studying the path again. Victor gritted his teeth and held back words of frustration. Galen had disappeared; Victor didn’t care where he’d gone.

  Corrie deliberated before each step. Finally, she came beside him, panting. “If that’s a trail, it’s a bad one.”

  Victor grimaced and tried to ignore her slender complaint. “This way.” He turned back to the endless vista of tree trunks. The crescent moon, with its tiny bit of light, had come and gone long ago, and it must be near morning. Victor wondered where they could stop for the day.

  Corrie asked, “Where’s Galen?”

  “Here.” Galen ambled toward them from the south. “I found an easier way.”

  Corrie bristled at the criticism. “Victor knows what he’s doing.”

  Galen just shrugged.

  Victor should answer Galen, but he was too tired. With Corrie and Galen following, Victor set a determined pace along an almost invisible track, through woods which grew increasingly thin. Eventually, they came to an open field where a hot breeze made it hard to breathe. Victor skirted the field of long, shaggy bluestem grasses. He refused to let anyone stop and hunt for food, forcing them instead to speed along until they came out to the end of the field.

  “Not far now,” Victor encouraged Corrie.

  He muscled wearily through a brush patch, branches catching at his armor. Corrie followed close behind. At the edge of the bushes, he peered out. It wasn’t the river he had hoped to find, but a Black Road. He groaned. Where were they?

  The Black Road was narrower than some Victor had crossed, but just the thought of another Black Road, especially when he was so tired, made his stomach queasy. Crossing was dangerous and should only be done when absolutely necessary. And Victor didn’t know if it was necessary or not. He had no idea where they were or in what direction Long Pool lay.

  Standing beside him and looking out—a Road Machine whizzed by in a gusty stench—Galen asked with a calm, even voice, “Are we lost without Blaze?”

  A dark shape landed on the bush above them, making dry leaves shower down over the armadillos. “Whoo! Good question.”

  “Blaze!” Corrie exclaimed. “Where have you been? I worried you wouldn’t come back.”

  “Exploring,” Blaze answered. “Met another barn owl. Messages from home.”

  “Oh! How is my father?”

  Blaze flew to the open field, and Corrie hurried to her side, while keeping an eye on Victor. The large armadillo glared at Blaze, but for the moment, remained still.

  Blaze said, “El Garro is sick. Stays in his den.”

  “No,” Corrie whispered. “Not yet. We haven’t found the trekkers. He can’t—” She whirled around to face Victor. “My father is dying. Do you know where we are and how to find Long Pool? Answer me. Do you know where we are?” Her voice rose, almost hysterically.

  Swishing his long tail back and forth, Victor debated his answer. If he said yes, he knew where they were, she would expect to find Long Pool tomorrow night. Further failure would undermine his leadership more than a temporary failure now. Especially if Blaze really knew something.

  The words had to be forced out Victor’s dry mouth. “We’re lost.”

  Blaze called, “Hoo, hoo!”

  Was there a note of triumph in her call? Or was she laughing at him? Victor was tired and hungry and sleepy and humiliated and angry. Oh, he didn’t like himself this grouchy! Still, his anger burned.

  “You need me?” Blaze asked.

  Blaze was forcing Victor to apologize. That’s how it would be: at every turn, Blaze and Galen would take advantage of his inexperience in trekking. So be it. But there would come a time when he didn’t need that bird. “Yes, Blaze, we need you to help us navigate.” There. That was done nicely, and without an unnecessary apology.

  “Whoo!” She clicked her tongue in satisfaction. “Whoo!” Then, she jumped to a sturdy branch on a bush. Her weight made it dip, then bounce up and down, up and down. “We go find Rafael, first.”

  Galen pushed past Corrie. “Rafael?” His voice rose. “Rafael?”

  Victor wondered why Galen was so eager.

  “Talked with old raccoon,” Blaze said. “Says there is a crazy ‘dillo in the valley of waters. Name of Rafael from the Diego family.”

  “Where? We must find him!” Galen’s voice crackled with excitement

  Irritably, Victor interrupted, “Who is Rafael?”

  Galen said, “My quad-brother.”

  Ah, Victor thought in relief. Then, as he realized what this meant, a sudden elation swept through him. We’ll soon know the fate of the trekkers. We won’t have to search much longer.

  “Let’s go!” Galen said.

  Even with his sudden excitement, though, Victor realized he and Corrie were too weary for a long trek. Like himself, Corrie was under extra pressure trying to fight the curse which told her to go home. She never mentioned it, but he saw the signs: fatigue, irritability, difficulty concentrating. Did she, too, feel hollow sometimes and about to explode other times? “We had little sleep yesterday, and this has been a tiring night,” he said reasonably. “We’ll rest today and start tomorrow

  Galen’s tail whipping around angrily. “We should go.”

  “No.” Victor’s anger returned. El Garro had put him in charge, not Galen. He pushed out his chest and strutted in front of Corrie and Blaze. “It’s better to arrive at this valley well rested. Who knows what strength we’ll need?”

  At Victor’s bravado, Galen’s excitement seemed to change to resignation. “Tomorrow, then.”

  Galen’s submission eased the angry pulsing in Victor’s head. He was still in control of the search; he could afford to be magnanimous. “Let’s find a place to rest.”

  Brothers

  Hope

  Instead of spending energy digging a den, the armadillo band fanned out to search for an empty den amidst the fragrant grasses. Galen groaned when Victor triumphantly called them to the middle of the bluestems. Under a cedar, he pointed to a tiny den that was only large enough for Corrie, and they were all too tired to enlarge it. Victor insisted on sleeping guard at its entrance.

  Galen scratched out a shallow depression for a bed: dust mingled with the sharp cedar smell, like the fear and excitement mixed in him. He resolved to stay awake until Victor slept; then he’d find Blaze and get more information about Rafael.

  But Victor fidgeted, turning this way, then that way, s
tanding and turning around in circles, before settling down, only to repeat the cycle moments later.

  Galen dozed.

  The hammering of a red-bellied woodpecker woke him just as dawn broke over the distant slopes. Wearily, Galen peered to the west, across the wide valley, at the grey-green hills. The Ozark hills were rounded: rounded tops, scooped out valleys, meandering loopy waterways. Missing were the hard peaks and sheer cliffs of other mountains his people had crossed as they had journeyed from the southern continent. Where among those hills would their trek take them next?

  A noise, like a croaking toad, startled him.

  He started, but realized it was only Victor snoring.

  Studying the sleeping armadillo, Galen snorted in contempt. What had Victor been thinking last night when he made Blaze so mad? This Texan didn’t know the first thing about leading a trek. Galen reminded himself—he had promised El Garro to follow Victor. But how could he follow an incompetent fool? Victor sounded like a toad. Victor, the Toad.

  Grazing on the bluestem were three does and two fawns. Watching the fawns play reminded Galen of how he, Felix, Rafael, and Garcia had played together. Galen had always been hungry and Rafael was the only one who had sympathy. Or, actually, Rafael had enjoyed their game of chasing beetles. He was the spotter: he found a beetle and kept sight of it in the leaf litter. Galen could catch anything his brother spotted. Galen’s stomach had never been full since Rafael left.

  Galen rose quietly and studied Victor. The Toad still snored. Weeks of sleeping in the same den with babies paid off now, as Galen tiptoed, careful not to disturb Victor. Galen slipped out from under the cedar to where he could study the fluid line of the hills. Where was his brother? Was he alive? Injured? What had Blaze meant by “crazy ‘dillo”? Galen scanned the trees until he located where Blaze had flown to roost. Within a few steps, he became invisible except to the eagle soaring overhead: the grass stalks barely rippled to show his passing.