Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  Heart pounding rapidly and thinking he was a fool, Galen crawled out of the water, charged to the skunk kit, and shoved it toward the water. The mother raced toward them. A hornet stung Galen’s ear. He squealed and pushed the kit harder, until it was in the water. Realizing the kit couldn’t swim, Galen gulped air and sank beneath it, letting it stand on his back. Balancing carefully, Galen dug his claws into the gravel and inched deeper, hoping the kit would have enough sense to keep its nose above water. Galen remained submerged until the kit began to shiver. He waded ashore and dumped the baby onto the gravel. Its mother was there to nudge it up and away to join the rest of her babies.

  Surely the hornets had buzzed angrily away, looking for a new target.

  Skunk stench permeated the air, making Galen gag. He quickly retreated to the water until only his eyes and nose remained exposed. Galen watched the skunks leave. His last glimpse was of five tails waving back and forth until they were hidden behind a drooping coneflower. The crooked tail, bedraggled and wet, disappeared last. It pleased him immensely that the crooked-tail kit was safe. Funny, he had never paid attention to the story of his Sister’s broken tail. He wondered if the others had indeed stepped on it. A longing filled him to see his Sisters.

  Seeing that all was clear, Galen drug out onto shore and joined the other armadillos.

  “That smell!” Corrie rubbed her nose with a foreleg and backed away from Victor.

  Victor boxed Galen’s ears, “Are you crazy, helping that skunk?”

  Corrie’s eyes grew wide. “You did what?”

  Galen realized she’d been underwater the whole time. “I just—”

  Suddenly, Victor’s hackles rose. “What do you want?”

  Gillett ambled toward them and stopped in front of Galen. “Ye be strangers in these here, our woods. Yet, ye helped the striped one. Why?”

  Galen’s eyes filled with tears. “The mother was too far away. Besides, they remind me of my baby Sisters.”

  The raccoon’s bright eyes inspected him. “Ye be friend. I know not of this twin waterfalls. But the owl asked about the Turis. So, I asked our oldest storytellers, and there be no tales of others who wear shells like turtles. But some of the oldest stories begin like this: ‘Once, along a stream, where the giant Turis lived.’ The stories be not about the Turis, but about this raccoon or that raccoon.”

  “You’ve heard of the Turis?” Galen shivered in excitement.

  “Aye. Turis. The stories be old, so old we know not if they be true. All begin with this: Turis be near the rivers. Follow the rivers. That be all I know.” He turned and ambled back toward the willow.

  Galen wanted Corrie to ask again what had happened. He wanted to tell about the skunk kit and watch her eyes grow wide in admiration. But he couldn’t bring it up himself; it would seem like bragging.

  From the nearby woods, Blaze flew over their heads and landed with a flourish.

  Galen was elated with the new clue. “Blaze, can we follow the rivers north, into the mountains?”

  “North?” Blaze chirped. “Yes. As always.”

  A hornet buzzed around Corrie’s tail. The swarm was returning. “Let’s go!” she cried.

  And turning north, the armadillos fled.

  .

  JUNE

  As the month of June slowly passed, the vagabonds made steady progress northward. Aches and pains of the first week had given way to strong, well-used muscles. Even Rafael was growing stronger, though his behavior was still odd.

  Their lives fell into a routine. Victor always rose first and searched for likely places to forage. Corrie was the next awake, always anxious to get moving, and then Rafael. Galen, who could come fully awake immediately, was always the last to wake. Victor led the armadillos to whatever food he had found, and Blaze usually found them and consulted with Galen about the night’s route. Once they started, they traveled most of the night, slowing only the last hour before dawn to let Rafael dig a den for the day’s sleep.

  After two weeks, a nagging doubt grew in Galen. They were traveling far with only scraps of information. All they learned at Long Pool was to travel north along the rivers. It confirmed their general direction, but by now—surely, by now—they should be narrowing the search. Nothing Victor did as a leader helped.

  Despite his worry, there was an optimistic quality to the green of this country in this season. Galen reveled in the deep greens of oak leaves, the gray-greens of lichens, the yellow-greens of wild flowers, and the blue-green of streams alive with algae and watercress. The Ozarks suited him. He rejoiced that, if he must trek, he was given these hills to travel. Here, solemn valleys were tucked inside amiable hillsides, which unfolded before them like a singer trying variations on a particularly lovely melody. For now, hope sustained him and he was content to travel.

  .

  NEWS FROM HOME

  One dawn, as they were deciding where to bed for the day, Corrie heard a tremulous wail, “EEE-ah-o.”

  “Hide!” she yelled.

  They all dove for safety, except Blaze, who demanded brashly, “Who are you?”

  A tiny grey screech owl flew to Blaze’s tree. “Greetings, sister,” he said in a scratchy voice.

  “News? What news?” Blaze snapped her bills together in anticipation of gossip.

  “El Garro says all is well with the Colony. He asks what progress you’ve made.”

  The armadillos crowded the messenger, anxious for news from home. Corrie hung back, waiting until she could question the owl privately about her father’s health. She rejoiced with Galen when the screech owl reported the Four Sisters were growing, and the oldest was already interested in a male. Besides caring for the Four Sisters, Nalda and Felix expected their own babies soon.

  “Any news from my family in Texas?” Victor rose on the tip of his claws.

  “No,” the screech owl said.

  Victor lowered his head a fraction. “Oh.”

  Corrie turned, embarrassed for the proud Texan. She wondered what family Victor had left behind. He rarely talked about home.

  When the excited chatter died down, she nervously drew the screech owl aside. She wasn’t one to hide from the truth, but this time, she feared it. “Tell me about El Garro.”

  The owl’s voice was hushed, mournful. “Very sick. Leprosy in both front feet. Seldom leaves his den. His time draws near.”

  “Not yet!” Corrie’s voice rose. Looking around, she saw the others staring. “Come.” She led the owl deeper into the woods.

  “How bad is the leprosy? Does he eat?”

  With each question, each answer, Corrie’s anger and frustration grew, her despair and desperation deepened.

  When the screech owl left, she returned to the others, but barely paid them any attention.

  The band had found no abandoned dens to sleep in that morning. The deeper into the Ozarks they traveled, the harsher the hills. Shallow topsoil and solid bedrock made it hard for even Rafael to dig—though, he tried. At last, Victor, Galen and Rafael found dense bushes and slept.

  Corrie paced. As El Garro’s daughter, she had learned to put everyone else first. The old-timers, the babies, the trekkers, the quest. El Garro patiently addressed all needs—including Corrie’s—until Corrie wanted to scream, to protest, to run away. Just for an hour, she wished the weight of being El Garro’s daughter would fall away and she could be totally self-centered. She longed for freedom from the curse, freedom from her father’s expectations. She wanted to be free to come or to go, to linger or to race ahead, to stay or to flee. She dreamed of the day her people would be free of the curse—so she could have dreams of her own.

  Still, she was her father’s daughter, and the habit of putting others first took over. Questions whirled in her mind. How much time before her father died? Not enough. What clues to the whereabouts of the Turi did they have? Not enough. How many miles did they travel each night? Not enough.

  Galen roused about midday and tried to talk to Corrie, but her throat was so tight,
words were impossible. She shook her head and turned away. Reluctantly, he left her alone. Victor tried later, but again, she refused to talk.

  The soil under her feet became soft and dusty from her pacing. An hour before sunset, she could wait no longer. She woke them. “Let’s get going.”

  Victor offered her a grub while Galen offered her a beetle. Corrie felt cold toward both. She couldn’t share the screech owl’s news because, well, because if she said it out loud, it was too real. The only thing that mattered was finding the Faralone Falls. And they must find it before El Garro died and they must have enough time to get back and let him know they had succeeded. Leprosy in both front legs! “Hurry,” she called.

  Corrie pushed the group at a terrific pace all night. The next morning, she was so exhausted she let herself sleep. From then on, she was a taskmaster, starting early, ending late and driving them hard.

  When Blaze refused to hurry with her nightly reports, Corrie fumed. She knew her fury was unfair. But it was unfair for her father to die alone, without knowing the curse was gone. “What’s wrong with you?” she stormed at Blaze. “Speed up!” She knew that if she was mad at all, she should be mad at everyone, but Blaze’s casual attitude focused her anger. And she was glad for a target.

  Her words just made Blaze dawdle all the more, and the banter between Blaze and Corrie became ugly.

  “Rat eater!”

  “Hole digger!”

  From deep inside the cocoon which buffered her feelings, Corrie knew Galen and Victor were trying to help. Galen tried the first night to defuse the females’ argument; Victor, the next night. But the feud between Corrie and Blaze grew more intense as the week pressed on.

  After ten days of little sleep and a furious pace, Corrie woke on the eleventh night feeling as heavy as a rock. Was El Garro’s condition worsening? Did he realize how sick he was? Where were her sisters? If she found them soon, could they get back in time to see their father? If only El Garro hadn’t wanted her on the quest, she could be home with him. Not knowing was the worst, was the thing that made her so very, very heavy with sorrow.

  She tottered down to the stream to drink and to splash her face. Gazing into a stream, she saw an armadillo with bloodshot eyes, slack, yellowish skin, and dull, dirty armor. Looking around, she saw everyone was tired: dust-caked armor, drooping heads, sluggish movement. They needed a break, but they didn’t have the inner demons to push them like she did. She must find Faralone Falls for El Garro. Determination rang out in her voice. “Let’s go!”

  But her legs were heavy, so heavy. She took a step and stopped, closed her eyes and waited for strength to move the next leg. Laboriously, she dragged her hind legs up to meet her forelegs. She closed her eyes and rested. Clambering up the riverbank, she slowed. Slower. Until, at the top, she collapsed in a stupor.

  .

  TWIN WATERFALLS

  When Corrie dropped, Galen leapt to her side, reaching her the same instant as Victor.

  Galen voiced the frustration they all felt: “She needs rest.”

  While Victor stood guard over her, Rafael dug a den. Blaze roosted in a nearby tree.

  Galen slumped beside Corrie. Small, but courageous—he admired her largeness of spirit. She lay completely limp, except eyelids that fluttered. She looked utterly defeated. Victor shouldn’t have allowed her to reach this state. Reproachfully, Galen said, “We’ve got to help her. It must be about El Garro’s health.”

  Corrie’s shallow breathing deepened as sleep took hold.

  Victor sank to the ground. “You’re right. Maybe we need to go home for the summer and try again next year. We’ve found Rafael and he has information that could help. We’ve waited so many decades to find the Faralone Falls, what difference does one more year make?”

  At that, Galen protested, “I’m not abandoning the search. You go on. Take Rafael home. Take Corrie home. I’ll find the Turi’s home myself.”

  Rafael was humming to himself and digging at a ferocious rate.

  “It’s dangerous to continue,” Victor insisted. “I’m being a realist. If Corrie keeps pushing this hard, she’ll become sick.”

  Galen agreed, but what could they do? “Going back won’t help El Garro.”

  Victor sighed. “No one will be going home.”

  Rafael stopped humming. “The den is ready.”

  Victor, Rafael and Galen gathered around the exhausted Corrie. They woke her long enough to guide her into the den, where she collapsed. When Blaze returned, she found all the armadillos sound asleep.

  The next day was hot with bright white clouds floating in a deep blue sky. They slept near Corrie’s solitary den. Everyone but Corrie woke at dusk as usual.

  “We won’t wake her,” Victor announced. “Corrie needs to regain her strength.”

  No one, not even Blaze, argued.

  Galen’s stomach grumbled.

  “Let’s find food,” Rafael said. He lifted his head and sniffed, then trotted off through the woods as if he was following a clear trail of smells. He led them to a clearing where a spring seeped from the ground, and water slowly found its way through a marshy area to a stream below. Here were watercress, water insects, grasses and small rodents. The armadillos feasted. The moon rose—almost full again—and a dappled light played across the pools. Galen, finally feeling less hungry, followed the moonbeams down the hillside to the stream.

  They had been traveling roughly northward, following streams and rivers as the raccoon had suggested. The river was full, which was normal for early summer. Downstream, water tumbled over a small twenty-foot cliff. About fifty yards before it reached the waterfall, the river split around a massive chunk of rock, causing two falls.

  “Blaze,” he called. “Look at this. Are these the twin waterfalls like in Rafael’s ballad?”

  In one graceful movement, Blaze leapt, floated on wide wings, and settled beside Galen. Seeing this, Victor raced downhill to stand at the water’s edge, too.

  Victor shook his head. “They look too small. Why mention such small waterfalls?”

  Galen agreed. “They’re small. Blaze, can you fly around and look for anything unusual?”

  Blaze turned her head in a half-circle, looking first upstream, then downstream. “Shrubs, trees, this marsh—not much here. I fly. I look.”

  She soared over the river for half a mile in both directions. She returned to report what she had predicted. “Nothing strange.”

  With his hunger and curiosity satisfied, Galen returned to the shallow den and stood guard over Corrie. When she woke, about midnight, he was napping.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked. “We’ve wasted half the night.”

  Galen yawned, revealing his peg teeth. Corrie had a fresher look, especially around the eyes. “We all needed a night’s rest. You were half dead. I bet you’re hungry.”

  Corrie brightened even more at the prospect of a meal and set to foraging in the marshy area with more energy than Galen had expected. He watched her catch a small toad, then started crunching a thick stemmed grass himself.

  “Hiss!”

  A shadow—Blaze!—passed overhead, and Galen ducked.

  “Thief! That was mine. Give it back!” Corrie half-raced, half-tumbled down the hill at a terrific clip, chasing after Blaze.

  “What’s going on?” Galen demanded.

  From above, Victor called, “Blaze stole Corrie’s toad.”

  Blaze alighted on the rock in the middle of the falls. Corrie dashed headlong into the water and swam for the rock with powerful strokes.

  Galen sighed, then took after her, hesitating at the water’s edge to watch Corrie pull herself onto a rock ledge. She climbed to the top, only to have Blaze leap into the air, toad dangling from her bill. Corrie collapsed in frustration. Galen heaved himself onto the rock ledge and climbed up to Corrie, determined to have some answers.

  “Tell me what’s wrong? Is it El Garro?”

  At his voice, Corrie started. She spun wildly, searching the
air for Blaze. Seeing nothing, she subsided and settled down beside Galen. “Papa is dying,” she whispered.

  “You knew that when you decided to join this quest.” Galen wished he could find words of comfort.

  “Yes, but—” Her voice caught. “The leprosy has spread to another foot. He barely leaves his den. We must find the Valley, so we can return home and bring him news that we succeeded. We must!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  From shore, Victor called, “Corrie, do you need me?”

  Galen wanted to shout that, no, Corrie didn’t need help; instead, he waited for Corrie to answer. He took a half step backward and focused on a scratch in the rock’s surface. Idly, he followed the scratch with one claw.

  Corrie stood on her hind legs to see Victor and yelled over the soft waterfall roar, “We’re coming.”

  She turned to Galen, her dark eyes brimmed with tears. “We are traveling blind; we need to know if we’re on the right track. Can’t you do anything to make this go faster?”

  Galen paid her no attention. He slowly backed away until he stood at the far end studying the fine lines that crisscrossed the rock. He swallowed hard and barely managed to gasp: “Look.” One claw waved wildly over the lines.

  Corrie glanced at the rock, then back at Galen. “What?”

  “A map rock,” Galen squeaked. He coughed, clearing his throat. His voice was triumphant: “And not just any map rock. I think, yes, look at the drawing here—” Galen gently touched a scratched drawing, faint and worn, but definitely an armadillo shape.

  A map. A Turi map. Blood drained out of Galen’s face, and his stomach churned like the waters around him, with a sudden queasiness. It was true? Turis had walked these hills. These hills!

  Somehow, he had always doubted it. The curse pulled north, yes. Their whole society was built around the search for the Faralone Falls, yes. But he hadn’t really believed that his generation—that he —might find answers. Was this ancient map a step in that direction?

  Fiercely, he blinked back tears. “It’s like the ballad says: ancient Turis tell of the lands where they once did dwell. It’s a map rock left by the Turis. These are the twin waterfalls of the ballad.”