Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  Connla sat down on the other couch awkwardly, wincing from the pain in his leg.

  ‘I didn’t send them the wrong way; they went the wrong way. I just didn’t put them straight, is all.’

  Connla opened his eyes as the first glimmer of dawn pressed the walls of the tent. Ewan hadn’t stirred yet. Imogen lay beside him, huddled in the warmth of her sleeping bag, thumb in her mouth and blanky stuffed under her nose. He looked down at her and smiled. Ewan moved on the other side of him, opened his eyes and squinted. ‘Is it morning yet?’

  Connla lifted a finger to his lips and nodded towards Imogen. ‘Don’t wake her.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna. I don’t want her tagging along.’ Ewan grabbed his jeans and jacket and they crawled out of the tent.

  He led the way, as always, striding down the trail, through pine trees that scraped at the sky overhead. Connla followed as always; it wasn’t as if you got any choice with Ewan. He did everything first, led everything, was captain of everything. Connla had got used to it. They came to the clearing, beyond which their fathers had told them not to go. ‘You wanna fish some more or hunt for Indian stuff?’ Ewan said.

  ‘We don’t got no fishing poles.’

  ‘Not with poles. We’ll make ourselves some spears. Spear fish like the Indians did in the old days.

  You seen the movies, Connla. It ain’t difficult.’

  ‘Sharpen up a coupla lengths of pine, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Whatever. I don’t care.’

  Ewan nodded, lips twisted in a line. ‘Let’s head on down to the water and see what we can find. If there ain’t no poles we’ll just dig for arrowheads or something. There’re always arrowheads near a creek.’

  Connla watched as Ewan strode off again, shoulders back, head high, chin jutting out at the world. Ewan Munro, Jackson City’s finest son. He walked with a swagger and a swing to his shoulders and Connla wondered why nobody else seemed able to see the Ewan he could see. Maybe he was the one who had got it wrong. Maybe he was just jealous.

  They got deeper and deeper into the forest, well beyond the point of no return, and Connla was in awe of the way the mountains encroached on the trail. The trees were thick-trunked and grew close together, but all of a sudden the density would be broken by a great sandy cliff, red and brown and orange in places, where the sun picked out the hollows. Ewan looked back at him. ‘Imagine what this place was like when the Nez Perce Indians were hunting here.’

  ‘I figure they’d be Shoshone, Ewan. Not Nez Perce.’

  Ewan stopped and looked back. ‘You do, huh? Well I figure they’d be Nez Perce.’ Connla shook his head. ‘Nez Perce was north of here. I seen it on a map.’

  ‘No you didn’t. Well, if you did, the map was wrong. Nez Perce was right here.’ Ewan pointed at the ground with his forefinger.

  ‘How the hell would you know? You ain’t even American.’

  ‘I’m as American as you are.’

  ‘No you ain’t. You weren’t born here.’

  ‘What’s it matter where I was born? I can hit a baseball harder’n you, I can throw a football better and I can run faster any day of the week.’ Ewan swaggered in front of him. ‘Who’s leading the trail, huh? Who always leads the trail?’ He stepped closer. ‘Who catches the most fish? Come on, Connla. How many steelhead you catch? Heck, the Twaggle Tail caught more’n you did.’ He pushed him then, stiff-fingered, in the chest so that Connla had to step backwards.

  ‘It don’t matter,’ he muttered. ‘You weren’t born here. You ain’t American.’ It was the only thing he could ever say, because Ewan had an answer for everything else. And it galled. It stuck right in Ewan’s throat, because deep down he knew Connla was right and there was nothing he could do about it. Ewan balled a fist, his face going red as it always did when he started to get mad. ‘I oughta punch you out.’

  Connla took another pace backwards. He didn’t want to fight: fights were another thing Ewan always won.

  Ewan laughed at him then, seeing the fear in his face, and, turning on his heel, he strode on down the path. Connla tagged along behind and they could both hear the rushing sound of the Salmon River growing steadily louder. ‘Like to canoe me this river one day,’ Ewan said.

  ‘You’d drown.’

  ‘The hell I would.’

  Connla shrugged and walked on.

  They had been gone maybe an hour when the trail started to climb, the cliff walls rising jagged and sheer on their left, the forest falling away on their right. They went through a kind of tunnel and then the ground flattened and opened out and they could see the Sawtooth mountains, capped with snow in the distance. Before that the world dropped away and they glimpsed the rising spray from the river.

  ‘Oh, man.’ Ewan stood with his hands on his hips, then darted to the edge of the bluff. ‘Hey, Connla. Come look at this.’

  Connla was more hesitant, wary. He recalled his father’s words about not going beyond the clearing on their own. He recalled the tone of his voice and the expression on his face. He’d tasted his belt on too many occasions and he didn’t want to again. ‘Hey, Ewan,’ he called. ‘You figure maybe we oughta head back? We shouldn’t have come this far.’

  ‘The hell we shouldn’t. Who knows we’re here?’ Ewan smirked over his shoulder at him. ‘We’ll just tell ’em we never went farther than the first clearing.’ He beckoned. ‘Come on and look.’

  Connla walked over, not getting too close, but close enough to see the racing, swirling river, choking white foam sucking at rocks and fallen trees and tearing lumps from the bank. ‘Sure runs fast,’ he murmured.

  Ewan suddenly grabbed him from behind. ‘Saved your life!’

  Connla nearly jumped out of his skin and Ewan darted away, laughing. Connla stood a moment longer, gathering himself. The drop was perhaps twenty-five feet into a whirlpool that would suck him to his death in seconds.

  Looking back, he saw Ewan standing with his hands on his hips. Halfway up the cliff, fastened to a ledge in a tangle of interwoven twigs and willow sticks, was a red-tailed hawk’s nest.

  ‘Eagle’s nest up there. Look.’ Ewan pointed.

  Connla went up to him. ‘It ain’t an eagle, Ewan. Eagles don’t nest this far down.’

  ‘Sure they do. What the hell do you know about it?’

  ‘It’s a red tail’s nest. I seen one before.’

  Ewan had stripped off his jacket and was already rubbing dirt into the palms of his hands, looking up and gauging the height of the climb.

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘I bet there’s eggs up there.’

  ‘Ah, leave ’em be, will you.’

  ‘Leave ’em be yourself.’ Ewan pushed him hard and he sprawled in the dirt, bruising his elbow and upper arm. When he got up he saw his shirt was torn. ‘Now look what you done. My mom’s gonna kill me.’

  Ewan was already climbing, though, hand over hand, feet scrabbling for holds. Connla watched him, jealous all at once of his skill. He sat down where he was, close to the bottom of the wall, with Ewan sweating above him. He hoped the nest was an old nest and that it was empty. That would serve him right. He could feel the blood oozing from his elbow and he looked again at where the rough skin was chafed and split. Then something caught his eye, something in the rock, like part of the wall and yet not part of it. He crawled forward and looked closer. The dust on one part of the cliff was loose and what looked like a tiny piece of wood was poking out.

  He worked at the patch of dust, ignoring Ewan above him, rubbing at the rock and loose stones. As he worked, more of the wood was exposed. It wasn’t very big, no more than an inch or so, but was smooth and shaped like a carving. Connla’s excitement grew and he worked faster and faster. He had to get it out before Ewan spotted him, before he jumped down and claimed whatever it was for his own.

  ‘Ah, hell.’ Ewan’s voice rang out from above him. ‘There ain’t no eggs. Must be an old nest.’ He looked down, saw Connla and called out to him.
‘Hey, Connla, there’s no eggs up here. Hey, what you doing?’

  Connla didn’t answer, he just worked more feverishly, picking and scrabbling at the dirt. He could hear Ewan descending as he worked faster and faster. Ewan dropped beside him just as Connla freed the last of the dust and pulled out a carved wooden figure. He moved away as Ewan’s breath pumped over his shoulder. ‘What you got there?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Ewan made a grab for it.

  Connla was too quick, though, and he rolled back and stood up in one movement. There were three paces between them. He looked again at what he held: a beautifully carved Indian in leggings and a shirt, dancing, his head back, arms above his head and two feathers pointed at the sky. He had no idea what it meant, but it was Indian and he had found it.

  ‘Let me see.’ Ewan was in his face almost. Connla stepped back, one arm out to keep him away. ‘OK. But don’t touch it. It’s old and it’s probably fragile. And I found it, Ewan. You got that? I found it.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. Let me look, will ya.’

  Ewan moved alongside him and Connla stepped away again, not trusting him, knowing what he was like. He moved closer to the river, unwittingly, unknowingly, concentrating on his prize and the possible theft to come.

  ‘Come on. Let me see.’ Ewan made a grab for it, but Connla stepped back again, and then the two of them were scrabbling, tousling in the dirt. Connla held on to the figure, but Ewan was fighting him for it. ‘Just let me look at it!’

  ‘OK. OK.’ Connla stood up straight, hand behind his back, the other trying to keep Ewan off. ‘You can look. But I told ya, Ewan, you ain’t holding it.’

  He held out his hand and, as he did so, Ewan made another grab for it, but Connla was ready and he stepped away sharply. Ewan, coming forward, tripped over his feet, staggered, then toppled onto his hands and knees. He rested there for a moment, then all at once he whacked Connla on the back of his legs and they were both in the dirt again, fighting hard now, rolling over and over. Connla lost all sense of direction, still keeping one hand on the Indian. He felt something snap and he cursed. He got up. Ewan got up and went for him again. Connla pushed him off—hard this time, with all the strength he could muster. Ewan stumbled back, then took another pace to steady himself. The river was behind him now. They glared at one another, sweating and panting. Connla looked at his prize and saw that one of the feathers had broken off at the stem.

  ‘Now you’ve gone and ruined it,’ he yelled.

  Ewan suddenly leered at him, pivoted, and then lunged for him again. The ground broke from under his feet and he fell.

  Connla saw his eyes ball, heard the cry, short and high-pitched, then nothing. No splash, no scream, just the roaring of the river in his ears. He stood there for a moment, not quite believing any of it. And all he could think of was his father’s last words. Don’t go farther than that clearing. You hear me, boy? The clearing. He looked at the wooden carving he held in his hand and the Indian looked back at him. He stood there, breathing hard, then he saw Ewan’s jacket lying on the ground where he had discarded it. All at once he dropped the little Indian, snatched up the fallen jacket and ran back up the trail.

  He spoke as if to the empty fireplace. ‘I guess I musta dropped the jacket in the clearing. I don’t remember. I came back to camp and you know the rest.’ His voice sounded distant, lost. ‘I was ten years old, Imogen. All I could think about was my old man and what he said about that clearing.’

  ‘So you lied to everybody.’

  He made an open-handed gesture. ‘I guess. I don’t know why. I was scared, I suppose. I didn’t know what was gonna happen.’

  ‘But you let them go off in the wrong direction, for Christ’s sake—the sheriff, the rescue team. Why on earth did you do that? Why didn’t you just say that Ewan went to the river?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Didn’t you want them to find him?’

  Still he said nothing. He sat with his hands by his sides and stared at the remnants of their candle, now just a twist of old wax on the hearthstone.

  Imogen was quiet for a long time, just watching him. Then she got up, paced to the window and gazed across the loch. ‘You pushed him, didn’t you.’

  Connla stared at her back. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why else would you lie?’

  ‘Imogen, I didn’t push him. We fought and he fell. That’s what happened.’

  She turned towards him then. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Totally. That’s exactly what happened. I know. I was there.’

  She laughed then, a hollow sound in her throat. ‘Of course. You were there. That says it all. Get a life, Connla. You waltz in here after thirty years, lie to me about who you are and then just expect me to believe your explanation when I already know you sent them the wrong way. You were scared; no other reason than that.’ She snorted. ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because I’m not lying.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘But you lied that day. You told everybody you didn’t know what happened, but you did. And in the meantime my brother was drowning.’

  Connla didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say. She was right. He just sat on the couch, only too aware of his helplessness. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. Imogen snorted again and shook her head. ‘Sorry! Good God, you’re pathetic.’

  She took another cigarette from the pack and turned to the window once more. She stood and smoked for a few silent minutes, the wind off the loch rattling the glass.

  Connla sat forward and clasped his hands together. ‘I don’t know why I let them go the wrong way, Imogen. Honestly I don’t. I guess I figured Ewan would be all right. I guess I figured he was fooling around maybe. I was just a kid. I had no idea he was dead, or hurt even.’ He shook his head then. ‘I was just plain scared. We’d had a fight and he went over the bluff. How was that gonna look? Nobody’d ever believe it was an accident. They’d figure I was jealous and that somehow I meant to do it. Just like you do now.’ He looked up at her again. ‘I don’t know what went through my mind. I’ve been over it every day for the last thirty years. I was scared, I guess. Just plain scared.’

  Imogen wasn’t looking at him; she was watching the waves crest on the surface of the loch, remembering the waters of the Salmon, and the rushing sound filled her head like a memory. Ewan’s white face, glassy-eyed, just beneath the surface.

  Then she turned, and she and Connla looked at one another for a long time, the weight of thirty years of silence balanced between them. Connla pushed himself to his feet, biting down on his lip. ‘I’m sorry. I really am sorry. I thought this thing was dead and buried, too, then I walked into a store in Scotland and there was a picture of the ghost dancer I’d found in Idaho.’ He moved to the window sill. ‘It was unbelievable. I felt like somebody had opened up my grave.’

  She was still staring at him, the familiar darkness in her eyes, and her voice cut like a knife. ‘So why did you lie to me? Why couldn’t you just be honest? I mean, you looked me up. You went to the trouble of contacting my publisher. Why? What did you want to do? Just see me again? See how I’d changed? Gloat maybe?’

  ‘No.’ He held up both hands, palms outwards. ‘Of course not. No, Imogen, I …’

  ‘What? Still couldn’t handle it, so you lied. Is that what you’re telling me, Connla? You just decided to make it easier on yourself and who cares what I felt. Or maybe you just lied because you fancied your chances of getting into my knickers after all these years.’

  ‘No. You know that’s not how it was.’ He snapped at her then. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Do I?’ She stepped up close to him.

  ‘Yes. In your heart, you do. I know you do.’ Connla shook his head. ‘I was gonna tell you everything. I saw that carving, and after I got over the initial shock I figured, at last, the chance to put the record straight and tell you how it was. But then I saw you, and somehow I just co
uldn’t do it. I guess I remembered how you looked at me that day in Idaho. You were only a kid, but God you looked right through me. Somehow you knew. I don’t know how but you did.’

  Imogen was numb now, the memory burned into her mind like a branding mark. ‘You should just’ve told me the truth. You should’ve told them the truth. Back then in Idaho, when it mattered. That’s all there is to it. There’s no excuse. I don’t care how old you were or how bloody scared. A boy’s life was at stake—my brother’s life. And he died.’

  Connla felt the weight of tears behind his eyes. He clamped his jaw together. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything: for that day, for now. I should’ve told them, and I should’ve told you the first minute I saw you.’

  ‘Stop saying you’re sorry.’ She clenched her fists. ‘Sorry’s got nothing to do with it. Sorry doesn’t make it any better. Connla, has it ever really occurred to you that if you’d told the truth Ewan might not be dead?’

  Connla looked lost. His voice was weak. ‘Of course it’s occurred to me. Every day of my life it’s occurred to me.’ He sat down again, his leg stiff in front of him. ‘I can’t explain it. I just shut down. I was scared. I mean, plain terrified. I panicked, Imogen. I was a kid, just a kid. Sometimes you do stupid things when you’re a kid.’ And then his face hardened, biting down on his teeth so the muscles stood out against his jaw. ‘You can blame me all you like and you’re right it was my fault. But there was nothing I could have done any differently. It’s been thirty years and I still haven’t come to terms with it. Ewan fell and I reacted like I did. I can’t change it. It’s happened.’ He looked up at her then. ‘And d’you know what, I reckon if you wound the clock back now it’d be the same all over again.’

  Imogen sat on the other couch. ‘Maybe you wanted him dead, Connla. Did you ever think of that? He was only friends with you so he could bully you, so he could push you around. That was obvious to me and I was only eight. Ewan was a little bastard. I knew that. What I couldn’t understand was why you were friends with him in the first place.’