Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  “Look!” Corrie shouted toward shore. “Look what Galen has found.”

  .

  THE MAP ROCK

  The vagabonds spent another night and day at the Twin Waterfalls, eating, resting, and debating the map rock. The map covered most of the top of the rock that made it difficult to study. Galen insisted everyone stay on the fringes to prevent any damage to the delicate lines. They crept around the edges, their tails dangling over the rock’s side.

  After studying it, they shouted speculations above the waterfall’s dull roar. The map showed forests and major landmarks.

  “The Eagle’s Nest is here.” Blaze hopped onto a series of circles. At Galen’s warning glare, she flapped off to the edge. “Easy to find.”

  “No, not easy,” Corrie said reasonably. “If this is a Turi map, then it’s so old, things have changed. Even if we find an eagle’s nest, other landmarks could be long gone.”

  “That’s the question,” Galen agreed. “Can we trust this map?” His earlier euphoria was replaced with caution.

  Victor wagged his head. “I’ve never seen such a confusing map rock. Our maps at home show our Colony’s dens, along with rivers, creeks or streams. This has no dens and only one river. What is that round thing?” His disgust was obvious. “This map—if it is a map—is worthless.”

  Corrie paced the rock’s perimeter, forcing the others to shift around. She studied the lines from every angle. “Not worthless. That round thing is probably a mountain. Here on the frontier, we put in geographic landmarks, not dens. Waterways, yes, but also hills, or anything that can help you find your way through a wilderness. We just have to account for the difference in years. For instance, what is that squiggle? A creek or a warning?”

  “By tradition, this map rock should show the location of another map rock, but it doesn’t. Does that means we’re close?” Galen’s neck was stiff from looking at the map

  “That’s the other thing,” Corrie said. “We don’t know what distances are represented. Is the mountain a day’s journey or a month’s journey away?”

  Galen asked Blaze, “Do you understand these major landmarks? That mountain, the river, this map rock? By flying overhead, can you keep us going the right direction, even if some things have changed?”

  Blaze tilted her heart-shaped face. “I scout. I know what to do.”

  Galen pointed to a tangle of lines that matched his own confusion. “This eagle’s nest, if that’s what it is, is close to the mountain. How long to find the mountain and nest?”

  “A week or two? Who knows?” Blaze said. “Corrie’s right. Map is confusing.”

  Victor made the decision. “We have no choice. We’ll try to follow the map. Tomorrow at dusk, we’ll leave. This is a good feeding area, so we’ll eat first, then try to make good time.”

  After the decision was made, the others had swum to shore, Galen paced the rock’s perimeter. He twisted his head right, then left, trying to ease his neck ache. Maps had to do with large ideas, big events, vast spaces. Nothing about his early life—his first den, for example—would ever be marked on any map. It was strange to let an uncertain map determine the direction of their quest. The map was old, but surely, landmarks like mountains and rivers would be the same. Or would they?

  Hope in the Turi’s map carried them through that first night and several after that. But the late June days were lengthening; nights were shorter, limiting their travel time unless they started in daylight. And the heat was building, making early evenings almost unbearable.

  Galen worried about Corrie’s moods which were as variable as the moon. One night, she was cheerful; the next, glum. The only thing Galen or Victor knew to do was to travel as fast and as far as they could each night. Even Blaze caught the air of urgency and cooperated by scouting more efficiently each night, then leading them deeper and deeper into the Ozarks. After a week, they entered a more rugged region with higher hills, deeper valleys. Large cliffs were bare since foliage couldn’t grow on solid rock. The July heat grew more and more intense. No rain had fallen since early June and watering holes were drying up, creeks narrowing and springs running slower. The armadillos were forced to follow streams more closely to have drinking water. Through the dreary nights of trekking, Corrie ignored both Victor and Galen.

  To make things worse, Galen worried constantly about their direction. If they had understood the Turi’s map rock, they should reach the mountain within a week or so.

  That night, Galen argued with Blaze about their path.

  “North, we must go north,” Blaze said. “On the map, the mountain was north.”

  “Are you sure?” Galen asked.

  Blaze clicked her beak rapidly. “No.”

  Galen’s insides felt hollow. They were only guessing at the right path. The map rock was too old, too vague. But they couldn’t make a mistake. Corrie was better, but still worried about her father. Galen longed to speed things up somehow.

  The next night, Blaze returned from scouting and reported to Victor. “North. A path runs north.”

  North would take them away from the river which had begun to angle west. Victor turned over a rock, and his sticky tongue snatched up the exposed night crawler. “What about water?” he asked as he chewed. “If we get too far from a river, we’ll have to find a spring.”

  With brash confidence, Blaze strutted: “I scout. Find water each night.”

  “Then, lead on,” Victor said.

  Though Galen disagreed, they turned due north and ran along a deer track, instead of the creek. After a night without clues, Galen and Blaze argued about what they remembered.

  Wearily, Galen said, “The map showed a mountain beside a river or creek.” He was hot, hot, hot. Fortunately, Rafael had found a small den under a large white oak and was enlarging it for their day’s rest. Galen was glad Rafael didn’t have to dig a new den because the heat tired the blind armadillo.

  “No,” Blaze snapped. “Mountains all around us now. Must find special one. Mountain with eagle’s nest. The Turi map won’t help us.”

  “You could fly and look for eagles,” Galen suggested patiently.

  “No need,” Blaze said, stubbornly. Her voice was suddenly lower, deeper. “I know how to scout.”

  “Have you specifically looked for eagles?” Galen insisted.

  Blaze turned her white face away. “No need. I know what the map showed.”

  “Stubborn,” Galen said. “If I had wings, I’d show you I’m right.” He rose on his hind legs and flapped his forelegs.

  “You mock me?” Blaze clicked her beak angrily.

  Victor stepped between them. “Stop. I don’t know where the mountain and eagle’s nests are, or even if they exist. But I do know this: we should have reached them.”

  Blaze nodded so solemnly, that for a moment Galen was drawn in. But Blaze couldn’t stop herself. “I know map and mountain.”

  Victor continued, “The map must be false, or we interpreted it wrong.”

  “No,” Corrie interrupted. “That can’t be.” She squinted in the early morning light.

  They were all tired, but her eyes were bloodshot: Galen worried that the strain was building in her again.

  “We’ll start backtracking tonight,” Victor decided.

  “No—” Galen started to say, but stopped himself. He looked from Corrie to Victor to Blaze: uncertainty was evident in the drooping wings, sagging armor. At last, Galen nodded. “He’s right. We don’t understand the map rock.”

  Corrie’s eyes filled. “I know. It’s just—”

  “Corrie, your home is ready.” Rafael’s face popped out of the tunnel. He shook his head vigorously and a dirt clod went flying. Then he disappeared.

  A discouraged trio followed him into the den to sleep.

  .

  THE FESTIVAL

  “Let the festival begin.”

  El Garro’s cry evoked a roar of approval.

  The wide oval of the Great Clearing was filled with golden moonlight that s
himmered in and on and around the armadillos. They wove about greeting and being greeted. Any armadillo within a week’s travel was here. In the frontier, where the population was thinly spread, a festival honoring a family leader and choosing the next leader was dear to the hearts.

  Somehow, the sight lifted El Garro’s spirits. He had arrived late to hide his sadness, but the clusters of friends mingling in the dazzle of light soothed his ache.

  The first two nights of festival would be storytelling and boxing. El Garro would listen and watch and try to choose a new leader. He carefully stepped off the map rock and allowed Nalda to take his place as the announcer for the storytelling.

  Her piercing yet sweet voice called the armadillos to the first storyteller. “From the south.”

  “From the north,” the crowd replied in one voice.

  “From the east,” Nalda called.

  “From the west,” the crowd responded.

  “Let the story come!”

  “Let it come!”

  The first young armadillo stepped onto the map rock and began his telling.

  While the first two storytellers spoke, El Garro beamed at anyone who looked his way, conscious that this gathering of armadillos was the result, partly, of his life.

  Nalda called for the next storyteller and he came through the crowd. Juan had flat brown armor with deep ridges along his back, a short tail and large ears. He hopped confidently on the map rock and surveyed the crowd with kindly eyes. Beginning slow and drawing strength from his listeners, he told about El Carlos, the first armadillo to cross the Rio Grande River from Mexico into the United States.

  Watching and listening, it wasn’t the story Juan had chosen, but how he drew on the strength of his audience that touched El Garro. Talking to Juan alone, the young armadillo wasn’t impressive, but put him in front of the Colony and he came alive.

  Two other armadillos caught El Garro’s attention that first night. When Felix, Galen’s quad-brother, started a story about his parents, the crowd cheered. And Kemen charmed them with his voice. It was strong and rich, sounding as if the earth itself rolled out words.

  Drawing strength from the presence of armadillos, from the example of family, or from the stability of the land—those were the choices, El Garro thought. He slept little that day; instead, the crickets sang while he weighed the merits of Juan, Kemen and Felix. Who would best serve the Colony as its next leader?

  An hour after sunset the next night, the boxing began. Thirty-six armadillos entered the Great Clearing while the observers crouched or lay under the trees around the edges. The boxers represented every variation within the nine-banded armadillos. Armor ranged from amber, to pale tan, to deep umber; some armadillos were the size of a baby raccoon while others were nearer the size of the largest raccoon. Knowing these armadillos had been El Garro’s life. He knew each name, each family history, and the location of each one’s den. His devotion to the Colony wasn’t due to his ignorance of their failings; it was in spite of such intimate knowledge that he loved them. But this was no time for nostalgia.

  Lying upon the map rock, El Garro alone stayed in the Clearing with the boxers to act as referee. It was his job to declare when a boxer must retire.

  It began with a melee among the younger armadillos. The weather was dry; dust puffed up around them, until a fine cloud obscured the center of the Clearing. Through a series of sneezes, El Garro watched.

  During a lull, El Garro sent two-thirds to the sidelines. With only ten left to fight, El Garro’s excitement grew. He was pleased that Felix, Juan and Kemen remained. They played an avoidance game and let the other six battle it out until only Tomas, an armadillo with massive forelegs, remained to face them.

  Juan took on Tomas while Felix and Kemen boxed. The cheerful babble rose above them, with armadillos calling out their favorite and commenting on the boxing stances, the jabs, the balance and quickness of each boxer. El Garro watched carefully, but he saw no grounds for disqualifying any of the four; these last few fights would be long.

  When they took the boxer’s stance—standing on hind legs and using their tail for balance—Juan was half a head taller than Tomas, but Tomas was heavier.

  Juan jabbed, connecting with Tomas’ long nose in a bitter thump. Using his strong forelegs, Tomas charged, rammed his head into Juan’s belly and heaved. Juan staggered, and then tumbled backward, landing upside down, with his feet batting at air.

  “Bravo!” El Garro cried. He exulted in the whole festival: his friends and family, the events and the competition. It had been several years since he enjoyed an evening this much. “Tomas wins the round!”

  Now the attention turned to Felix and Kemen. Both were caked with dust; only around their eyes had the dust cracked, leaving a jagged outline and an oddly comical face.

  “Let’s fight,” Kemen called.

  Felix rose on his back legs, ready to fight, but Kemen’s claws darted toward Felix’s belly. Felix dodged, barely escaping. While Felix was off-balance, Kemen darted forward. But Felix leapt into the air and used his hind legs to send Kemen rolling sideways. Twisting frantically in midair, Felix managed to land almost upright and was instantly ready for what might come next. Dust floated around him as a golden aura.

  “Ho! Ho!” El Garro called. “Felix wins!”

  Silently, Tomas and Felix, the last two fighters, squared off. Overhead, white clouds scooted across the moon’s face, leaving the Great Clearing in shifting shadows. The fighter’s faces were intent, focused.

  With a groan of longing, El Garro recalled the many times when he had been the fighter, when the exhilaration had surged through his limbs.

  Panting slightly, both rose on hind legs, as if someone had given a signal. A flurry of jabs from both sides left them in a stalemate, but allowed them to test each other; they were evenly balanced and neither had an apparent advantage.

  “Charge! Take the fight to him!” El Garro yelled, though, he wasn’t sure which fighter he was yelling at. His voice was lost in the crowd’s roar.

  Felix charged so fast he managed to get his front claws past Tomas’ guard. He grasped Tomas’ armor and wrenched, trying to jerk Tomas off balance. Tomas’ powerful forelegs, though, got inside Felix’s protection, and he clawed Felix’s stomach. Felix howled in pain, but maintained enough control to pivot hard and throw Tomas over: he landed on his feet.

  The fighting had kicked up more dust, and suddenly, Felix started coughing. He backed away. Felix shook his head like he was trying to rid himself of a mosquito’s buzz. He rose on his back feet, ready for another bout.

  Tomas lowered his head and charged, hitting Felix near the bottom of his belly. Felix’s body flipped over three armadillos and landed with a resounding crack, like rock hitting rock, in the middle of the crowd.

  El Garro stood. From his position on the map rock, he could see that Felix was dazed. “Tomas wins!”

  When the roar of approval died down, El Garro called for silence. Suddenly solemn, El Garro looked around at his friends and family. “Tomorrow night,” he said, “four armadillos will destroy my den and dig dens of their own. Tomas.”

  Tomas shook dust from his massive limbs and climbed onto the map rock beside El Garro.

  “Felix.”

  Eyes wide with surprise, Felix joined Tomas. He was half a head shorter than Tomas, but they bumped armor gently, as if to say they were still friends.

  “Kemen.”

  Kemen, from the back of the crowd, broke into a short song and timed it perfectly so when he stepped onto the map rock, he sang the last note.

  “Juan.”

  Watching the smaller armadillo move through the crowd, El Garro was amazed again at how Juan fed off others, growing larger, more animated until he seemed the largest on the map rock.

  El Garro studied the four. One would replace him as Colony leader. “Tomorrow night,” he said, “you four will dig dens.”

  .

  THE SCOUT

  Galen woke suddenly and fou
nd himself alone. “Corrie? Victor? Rafael?”

  It was dark, at least an hour past sunset. Suddenly, Galen heard someone crawling through the tunnel heading outside. He scrambled after the noise and found his brother.

  “There you are. Where are the others?”

  Rafael just shook his head without answering.

  Galen stretched under the white oak and yawned. For once, he had wakened slowly, irritably. It didn’t help that Corrie and Victor were nowhere in sight.

  Hunger drove him—as usual. Galen herded Rafael in front of him, following the smell of the other armadillos. A sassafras tree caught Galen’s attention and he dug—his mouth watering—for roots. He bit off a small piece, releasing the pungent smell, reminding him of Number Four’s fondness for sassafras. He swallowed it whole and tried to shake off the longing to see the Sisters again.

  They rounded a corner and saw Victor and Corrie sharing a bright orange mushroom. A tree stump was broken off jagged with small pieces of wood sticking up like a miniature forest. Within grew a mass of orange mushrooms that spread out about twice the length of Corrie. Various size mushrooms grew in tiers, with the largest as big as Corrie’s face, the smallest the size of her front claw. Oddly, growing at the stump’s base was a single white mushroom. Nearby a tiny spring gurgled; water trickled down a rock to create a pool of water.

  “Here you are,” Galen grouched. “We didn’t know where you had gone.”

  Rafael followed and found the spring by smell.

  “I found breakfast, as usual.” Victor sounded even grouchier than usual at breakfast. “I knew you’d find us when you got hungry.”

  As usual, Corrie concentrated on eating and would say little until after she ate.

  Ignoring Victor’s bad temper, Galen guided Rafael from the spring to stand before the mushrooms. “Eat while I wash.”