Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  .

  MISSING

  By the time Galen returned to the cedar, he was muddy, cold and frustrated. He had found no empty dens. He found a couple places where he considered digging, but he could imagine Corrie being dissatisfied with each location for one reason or another. He knew what sort of place he liked for a den, but he was unsure about what Corrie liked. Sometimes, he thought he knew her well, but other times, well, she surprised him. He would show her the possibilities; or maybe, she’d found a likely place.

  Thick clouds and a steady rain hid the moon and stars, making the black night rich and deep. He was very close to the cedar before he saw it. “Corrie. Rafael,” he called.

  Corrie raced toward him. “He’s gone.”

  “Rafael? He can’t be.” Weariness stopped him in his tracks. “No.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve left him before, and it’s been fine,” Galen said dully. “We’ll have to search.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’ve looked, but it’s so dark I can’t see. I can’t even find footprints. How do you want to search?”

  Galen tried to think. Where would Rafael go? All his brother cared about was the Faralone Falls and the Turi’s cave, and that meant heading back to the river. While there, they could check the bodark den. Then a thought occurred. The rain had Rafael so disoriented he might’ve gone east into the forest, thinking he was going west. “I’ll search the bodark den and the riverbanks,” he said. “Can you look east, toward the den by the spring?”

  “How will we know if the other finds him? We could meet at this cedar.”

  “Good idea,” Galen said. “Meet here at dawn, at the latest.”

  Corrie hesitated. “Are you sure it’s wise to separate?”

  “No. But I don’t know what else to do. Rafael is still weak from being sick.”

  “He’ll be OK,” Corrie whispered.

  “Thanks,” Galen said. She understood his worry more than he did. He shook himself gently, careful not to spatter mud on Corrie, though she was as muddy as he was. “I’ll see you in two hours.”

  “Two hours,” she agreed.

  Before she had taken three steps, the black night swallowed her.

  Galen turned toward the river and tried to negotiate the meadow in the dark. A gentle drizzle still fell, which washed the mud off the top of his armor, but every step he took splashed more until his belly itched from the bits of trash that clung to it. Though it seemed the meadow was one big puddle, there were high spots—in the deep grass, away from the path—that Galen sought out. But the going was so slow there, he gave up and slogged down the flooded path, alone in the gloom.

  Galen followed the trail to the riverbank north of the bodark. The river was full from bank to bank. On the east side where Galen was, water rolled in sheets off the meadow. Where there was a low spot, it had become a swift creek that fed into the main river. Galen waded across, clinging to grass clumps to keep his footing. The water was so cold on his belly, he started shivering. The only good thing, he thought wryly, was that his belly no longer itched.

  He made it to the bodark and checked the den. Its floor was already puddled from water running down the tunnel. As the banks became waterlogged, water would come up from below, too. What a foolish site for a den.

  Galen climbed back out and followed the river north, searching all the while for Rafael. He passed the path that led across the meadow. Hope kept him calling, “Rafael! Rafael!”

  The rain and darkness still limited his visibility, but not as much. The clouds had thinned enough to let a soft glow through, and he could see about twenty feet ahead.

  Suddenly, he stopped short. A sycamore, the tallest tree along here, had been uprooted. The white trunk stretched away into the darkness across the river. Its branches must have stuck on the other side, because it remained almost flat creating a bridge over the swift water. Four or five feet under the trunk, the waves snatched at the sycamore’s branches, but the tree didn’t roll. The trunk must be wedged into the rocks on the other side.

  Galen edged around a gaping hole, the small crater left by the roots’ upheaval. It must look like this after an earthquake, he thought. Exposed and naked. A bit of earth gave way beneath his claw. He jerked back while his heart suddenly thumped. He was too close to the hole.

  Galen decided to climb the trunk in hopes he could see something from that height. He walked around the hole until he was next to the roots. Galen leapt upward and hung from a tiny root by his front claws. His hind legs scrambled for a hold on a larger root and finally found one to shove against. Again, he reached as high as he could and scrambled inelegantly upward until he could creep around the roots and onto the broad trunk.

  From this vantage, Galen peered around the riverbanks, in search of Rafael. The drizzle still beat a steady rhythm. A strange noise made him turn. An armadillo climbed out on top of the sycamore’s trunk.

  “Rafael!” Galen called. He raced forward. “Rafael!”

  The armadillo didn’t look up or answer.

  Suddenly, Galen realized who it was. “Victor?”

  The armadillo turned and Galen saw he was right. The Texan was so muddy that only his long tail had given him away.

  “Victor! Where’ve you been? We thought you went on northward. Corrie is worried. Have you seen Rafael?”

  Victor looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging. His ears lay flat and his gait was uneven.

  Galen shivered at how much Victor had changed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Where is she?” Victor asked.

  “Rafael is lost again. She’s looking for him.”

  Victor nodded slowly. “You know, she likes you better. She left me on that peak. I was dying of thirst, and she came back to find you.”

  “What?” Was Victor jealous? He looked slightly crazed; this trip had taken a heavy toll on him. Reasonably, Galen said, “She was thirsty and had to find water.”

  “That’s not why she left me,” Victor said just as reasonably. Judging by their voices, they could have been discussing the best place to catch snails. “You have everything—from Corrie to the leadership of your family to adoring sisters. Why couldn’t you let me find the Faralone Falls first? It’s all Ah need. We’re on the same side.”

  “We’ve never been on the same side,” Galen said. His chest felt tight, for he knew it was true. Oh, they were both looking for the Falls, but not for the same reason. “All you care about is yourself.”

  “You’re so righteous,” Victor sneered. “All you care about is babysitting; you’d be back there if you could.”

  Victor was right: Galen did care about his Sisters, his brother, his family, his people. Simply finding the Faralone Falls and the Turis wasn’t enough; their people had to know why they had been banished from the southern jungles, why they had trekked for decades, why the curse had compelled them and given them no choice, and why so many had fallen in their quest northward. Without answers, the journey from the southern continent was meaningless.

  Why? He wanted to tell Victor that finding the Falls wasn’t enough; they had to end the curse and find the blessing, if there was one. And he hoped the generations hadn’t been spent on nothing but a curse. If Victor found the Faralone Falls and the Turi’s Cave, he wouldn’t understand anything; he only cared about his own glory. Resolve hardened in Galen. Victor must not find Faralone Falls by himself, their people deserved answers.

  “Move out of my way,” Galen said. “Let me off this tree to search for Rafael. Then we can talk about Faralone Falls.”

  Victor said. “Go. I’ll cross over to search for the Falls by myself.”

  “No. Come back with me to find Corrie and Rafael. We’ll all cross tomorrow night and search together.” Even now, if he would stop this crazy talk, Victor had the choice to join them. Galen didn’t want or need Victor as an enemy, but as a friend.

  Victor said, “Move out of your way? Sure.”

  He stepped aside, so Galen moved forward. J
ust as Galen pushed past him, Victor shoved. Galen’s claws slipped on the wet trunk—trying to catch hold—but he slid sideways. Victor had miscalculated the force of his shove and his momentum carried him sideways, too. Galen’s claws rasped against the trunk, but he slipped farther. In slow motion, he glided along the trunk’s curve, then fell. Thump! Fortunately, he had fallen onto the bank and not into the river. Before he could move—Thump!—Victor landed on top of him. Victor’s body was slack for a moment, then he kicked wildly and fell off Galen. They rolled away from each other and slowly stood. Victor faced him with a fighting stance.

  This was it, Galen thought. They would finally finish the fight El Garro had interrupted so many weeks before.

  Covered with mud, they were indistinguishable except for Victor’s larger armor. They rose on hind legs and sprang toward each other.

  Victor jabbed at Galen’s face. Galen sidestepped, tripped, and landed heavily on his side. Victor pounced and smashed Galen’s nose into the mud so hard Galen couldn’t breathe. He thrust hard with his legs, forcing his shoulders up. Shaking vigorously, he freed himself. He spat mud while keeping an eye on Victor.

  Galen wondered if Isidoro and Bernardo fought like this. Somehow, he liked the idea that he and Victor were acting out the old feud. Victor might be a nine-banded armadillo, but he searched for the Falls with a three-banded armadillo’s heart.

  As if they had agreed on it, both rose on hind legs again. Galen thrust right. Victor deflected it, then jabbed Galen’s nose. Indignant, Galen retreated and breathed through his mouth. His nose was taking too much punishment.

  Victor didn’t wait for Galen to catch his breath. He dropped to all fours, raced forward and head-butted Galen’s stomach.

  Galen gasped, but no air came into his lungs. Stunned, he lay there heaving his chest upward, trying to fill his lungs with air, but still, he couldn’t breathe. The small insults of the journey came back to him: Victor always making sure he had Corrie’s ear, Victor cutting in front of him on the trail, Victor monopolizing the talk with his tall tales while refusing to listen to Galen’s tales. Anger prickled him.

  Victor turned away and scrambled up the sycamore roots toward the trunk bridge.

  Galen managed to take a rattly breath. He rolled to his feet and struggled over to the roots. Still gasping, he climbed slowly. Too slowly.

  Coming out onto the trunk, he saw Victor’s dark form outlined against the white trunk, halfway across the river.

  Galen called, “Coward! You started this. Come and finish it.”

  “Catch me!”

  Anger exploded in Galen, giving him the strength to take a deep, deep breath, which tapped into a deeper anger which had been smoldering ever since they had first fought. Since the success of the group depended on working together, he had been silent and passive, but he had put up with enough; it was time to fight. He welcomed the anger, recognizing that it gave him strength.

  Galen surged forward. Nothing would stop the fight this time.

  Victor was racing across the trunk, but suddenly a large branch appeared, sticking straight into the air and blocking his way. He stopped abruptly. Before Victor could find a way around, Galen put on a burst of speed and caught up.

  Victor swung around to face Galen, who feinted left, then slammed right, letting his full body weight crash into Victor. The reverberation was lost in the roar of the water below them. Galen backed away to draw another deep breath to reinforce his anger.

  Dazed for a moment, Victor shook his head.

  Carried by anger, Galen pressed his advantage: he charged. At the last moment, Victor simply lay over on his side making Galen miss contact. Momentum carried him forward and he found himself sailing over Victor, over the trunk, and into the raging water.

  Rage! Galen fell into the floodwaters with a plop! The water sucked him down. Deep. But it couldn’t suck away his anger. He kicked upward with an unnatural calm, a calm created from an anger so deep it permeated his body, channeling every movement, every thought into the need to get back to fight Victor.

  The water swirled, pushing him deeper. His legs pumped harder. His nose broke the surface. He sucked air. I’ll make it, Galen thought.

  The treacherous water swept him under again. Rhythmically, his legs churned. He fought the river with all the anger inside him.

  His head broke the surface again. His lungs filled. I have to make it, he thought.

  Bam! Something hit the back of his skull. Galen’s face slammed into the water. Momentum carried him head over heels. His lungs burned. His legs and tail flailed. He spun wildly out of control.

  Head over heels. Spinning.

  He was flotsam. The river toyed with him.

  The thought came: Victor has won.

  No! He can’t win.

  Lungs burning. Anger pulsing.

  Kick upward. Kick!

  Air. He needed air.

  .

  MUD

  Victor stared at the frothy water thundering beneath the trunk. In less than a second, Galen was swept out of sight downstream. He couldn’t survive the floodwaters. This was much worse than the North Fork River had been when they foolishly crossed it. He swallowed hard. Somehow, his mouth was full of mud. It washed off his face and into his mouth. He should be glad his competition was gone, but he would have preferred a fair fight to this. Someday, there would be ballads written in memory of this trek to find the Faralone Falls. Victor would make sure that Galen’s name was given a small part. It was all he could do for him.

  Victor had just fought for the right to start an immediate search of the mountains west of the river. But for some reason, he was reluctant to start. More than anything, he was tired. Like every part of his body and spirit was broken. He had pushed himself hard, day and night, trying to catch up with Corrie, so he wouldn’t be alone. He wanted to rest, to sleep, to eat. Not to struggle to climb rocks in the rain.

  Nasty mud. He spat again. Laboriously, he climbed down the jagged roots and searched for a clear pool of water to wash out his mouth.

  Where was Galen? Was he—?

  Victor shrank from that thought. He drank from a rivulet running into the hole left by the roots. Mud. Everything tasted like mud.

  Galen and Corrie had agreed to meet under the cedar at dawn. If Victor went there and helped Corrie find Rafael, then maybe he could wash away this taste. Besides, he thought, Corrie and Rafael should be with him as witnesses when he found the Faralone Falls.

  He scraped his tongue against his teeth, then spat again. Nasty, nasty mud.

  With his decision made, he turned away from the river, away from thoughts of Galen, and trotted toward the cedar to find Corrie.

  .

  TOUCHWOOD

  Everywhere, water drip, drip, dripped. The summer night wasn’t cold, but the drumming of water was eerie enough to make Corrie shiver. She considered their position. Since Galen had seen eagles, she hoped Faralone Falls was close. The thought sent another shiver of uncertainty down her spine to the tip of her tail.

  “Rafael,” she called. Why did he pick this time to get lost? Why did the Father of Souls choose this time to send thunderstorms? It was time to move forward, not wait for flash floods to recede or to go looking for blind, mad armadillos who wouldn’t stay put.

  “Rafael.”

  She stifled a yawn. In the few hours since she’d found the bodark den, they had survived a storm, looked for a dry den, and Rafael had gotten lost. She was tired. But that irritated her, too. “We’re close to the Falls,” she whispered. “We’re close to the Falls,” she shouted. She spun crazily, celebrating, shaking herself to a wide-awake state.

  “Rafael,” she called.

  Under the leaf canopy, it was dark and humid, which meant there was no possibility of footprints or a scent trail. There was little hope of finding him until the rain stopped.

  Without stars or moon visible, time was hard to gauge. Had she been gone half an hour or an entire hour? She turned back to the west, intending
to abandon the search. She hesitated.

  Victor’s argument on top of the mountain came back to her. “The eagle’s nest first.”

  Victor had put the quest above everything, even his own life. Wasn’t she making the same mistake of valuing the quest over an armadillo? Her own proclamation came back to her: the closeness of my father’s death makes me more aware of the intense preciousness of life.

  Rafael, a precious life, could be somewhere in the woods behind her. How could she turn her back on him?

  Resolutely, Corrie turned east again. She would search for Rafael until dawn.

  “Rafael!” Corrie stopped and listened. There was the insistent dripping and the thump of her own heartbeat sounding in her ears. Nothing else.

  Wait. Off to the left was a glow of some kind. What was it? A light. It disappeared.

  Far away, she heard a faint hum of music. Or did she? Corrie closed her eyes and tilted her head right, then left, trying to listen, but the music was gone—as if it hadn’t been there at all. She decided to look for the light. At least, it gave a direction to her search.

  Corrie noted that she stood under a sweet gum tree, so she could find her way back. She left the path and worked her way through the damp undergrowth. She wondered if Galen had already found Rafael. It had been luck that she found their den under the bodark. If Rafael hadn’t been outside singing—with his peculiar variations in volume—she would’ve missed them. She had been so glad to see Galen. After Victor’s raving on the mountain, she was glad to see a calm, rational armadillo.

  She stopped and looked around but saw nothing. Perhaps she should turn back.

  Where was the sweet gum?

  With a start, she realized she couldn’t see it. It didn’t matter, she reassured herself. I can find my way back to the trail.

  Corrie turned and headed back. After fifteen minutes or so, she realized she should’ve hit the trail by now. Where was it? She pushed on another five minutes, but still found nothing.