The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1

by Roy MacGregor

  “We’ve had a great time here,” he said, “no matter whether we win or lose. You all saw that first team we played. No equipment. No gloves. Players had to share equipment. What do you say we leave behind some stuff for them?”

  No one said anything. Perhaps they weren’t listening. But then Nish began to tap his stick on the cement floor, and soon everyone was tapping their sticks. The answer was yes.

  The Screech Owls then played what they would later call their best period ever.

  They couldn’t get by the big defenceman, and they couldn’t get the puck past the Wolverines’ goaltender, but it was the same for the opposition. They attacked, especially Jimmy Whiskeyjack and the big defenceman and Rachel, but they couldn’t get past Nish. He seemed to be everywhere. Travis looked at his friend and knew that he had found his “zone.” He was playing a game that should have been impossible. And if he had wanted to prove a point, he was proving it. No one was calling him Moose Nostrils any more.

  Nish broke up another play and sent Dmitri away with the puck. One of the defencemen had been caught pinching in, and the other fell when Dmitri’s startling speed caught him off guard. The only Wolverine to make it back was the assistant captain, Rachel Highboy. Dmitri tried to take her off into the corner, but she wouldn’t go for the move, so he looped at the blueline and hit Travis coming in.

  It was perfect. If Nish had found his “zone,” then Travis had found his, too. Everything felt absolutely right: the skates like part of his feet, the stick like an extension of his arms. He would try his new play!

  He came as close to Rachel as he dared, and then, just as she was about to poke out, he dropped the puck back into his skates. It hit the left one perfectly. The puck bounced with his stride, heading for the right skate–but it never arrived!

  He dug in, falling as he turned. Rachel Highboy, with the puck, was moving fast up the ice. She hit Jimmy Whiskeyjack at the blueline, and Jimmy fed it back to her along the boards. She put a pass back, and he one-timed the shot, the puck just clearing a falling, desperate Nish and passing under the blocker arm of Chantal.

  Wolverines 2, Screech Owls 1.

  In the dying minutes, Nish gave everything he had. He rushed the puck. He shot. He set up plays. He broke up plays. After Muck pulled Chantal for an extra attacker in the final minute, he even stopped a couple of sure goals. But he couldn’t do enough.

  The Screech Owls had lost.

  The horn blew, and the place went wild. It wasn’t just the cheering, which was deafening–standing and cheering was not enough. The stands emptied! The crowd poured onto the ice and lifted Rachel and Jimmy Whiskeyjack and the big defenceman and the goaltender onto their shoulders. They sang and cheered and the loudspeakers rumbled with the Wolverines’ theme song.

  We will,

  We will,

  ROCK YOU!

  Travis couldn’t feel bad. The Owls had played well. He had made a mistake, but, as Muck often said, “Hockey is a game of mistakes.” And Rachel Highboy had turned his dumb play to her advantage. The hometown team had won, and Travis knew how much that meant.

  They lined up to shake hands. Travis congratulated everyone, and when he came to Rachel, she laughed and smiled.

  “You shouldn’t have showed me that move on the bay,” she said.

  Travis felt foolish. “I guess not.”

  She smiled again. “You’re a wonderful player.”

  And then she was gone. Travis hurried through the line, feeling as if he’d just won the Stanley Cup. He had never felt so fantastic in his life!

  They lined up at the bluelines. Chief Ottereyes said a few words into a microphone that were lost completely in the echo, but no one was much interested in speeches anyway.

  Then the Chief announced the Most Valuable Players from each team. Now everyone paid attention, and when it turned out to be the cousins, Rachel and Jesse Highboy, both sides cheered.

  They gave Jesse a new hockey stick, and he immediately skated over to the boards where his family was sitting and handed it to his grandfather, who took it with a smile. The people cheered. But maybe only Travis knew what Jesse meant by giving his prize to his grandfather. He had taught Jesse the secrets of the bush that had saved them. And he had found them in the wilderness. What would have happened if he hadn’t come along? Besides, Jesse’s grandfather needed a stick. He couldn’t go on playing forever with a shovel.

  The Chief then announced that there was also a prize for the defensive player of the game. Both sides went quiet so they could hear, but there was never any doubt who would win it.

  “Wayne Nishikawa,” Chief Ottereyes announced.

  Everyone cheered. Both teams slammed their sticks on the ice in appreciation. Nish skated out, saluting the crowd, and took his prize from the Chief.

  It was an Ojibway dream catcher.

  When Rachel Highboy saw, she yelled, “From what I’ve seen, you could really use one!”

  “Moose Nostrils thanks you!” he called back. She laughed, along with several other Wolverines who heard him over the din.

  Back in the dressing room, Muck shook everyone’s hand. He did this only on rare occasions, and this was indeed a rare occasion. No one talked about losing. No one felt as if they had lost.

  “This pile in the centre,” Travis announced, tossing down his stick. “This is what we give to the Mighty Geese.”

  One by one, the Screech Owls tossed in their sticks. Barry, the assistant coach, grabbed the entire rack of extras and dumped them into the growing pile in the centre of the room.

  “They need gloves, too,” said Nish, and tossed his in.

  Travis couldn’t believe it. What would Nish’s mother say? He decided his friend had the right idea, though, and pulled his own gloves off and tossed them onto the pile. Several others followed suit.

  Mr. Dillinger walked over with a handful of the skates he carried in the equipment box for emergencies and dumped them all down without a word.

  Nish then threw his own skates in, the ice still glistening on the blades.

  Not bad, Travis thought, for a guy who wanted to leave the second he got here.

  Travis didn’t want it to come to an end. But it was time to go. The sun was out, the sky as blue as the Maple Leafs’ away jerseys, and the entire village had once again come out to the airstrip–on snowmobiles, in pick-ups, and by foot–to see the Screech Owls. Only this time the Owls were going home.

  There were actually more people there to see them off than had seen them arrive. The Moose Factory Mighty Geese were out in force. The captain had brought Travis’s stick to get it autographed by all the Owls.

  “We’re going to keep this as our good-luck stick,” the captain said.

  “Then you should have taken one of mine,” Nish said.

  No one had changed as much as Nish. He was friendly now. He and the Wolverines’ big defenceman had struck up a friendship at the final-night banquet–where the menu had featured burgers and fries and pizza–and Nish had even promised to come up and visit again. Even more startling, they had brought in some moose nostrils, and, to great cheering, Nish had had his photograph taken eating some.

  “I guess I won’t see you for a while.”

  It was Rachel. She was alone, smiling, but she did not look happy.

  “We’re already talking about inviting the Wolverines down for a return match,” said Travis.

  “That would be nice.”

  They stood staring at each other for a few seconds. It struck Travis that he might not see her again.

  “I’ll send you whatever Mr. Dillinger writes up for the paper,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Travis cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I really like that dream catcher,” he said.

  “Use it,” Rachel said. “It’s specially for you.”

  “Yeah, well…see you.”

  Rachel said nothing. She reached out and touched his lips with the tip of her mitten–then she was gone
.

  “ALLL ABBBOARRRDD!” Mr. Dillinger called out.

  They began climbing the steps to the Dash 8. Travis turned just before the door and looked back. Rachel was standing at the back of the crowd, on a snowbank, alone. She waved.

  Travis turned back and bumped into Nish, who had also stopped at the door to look back.

  “She waved at me,” Nish said.

  Travis started to open his mouth to correct him when Nish gave him a big wink. Chuckling to himself, Nish moved ahead down the aisle and found a seat. Travis joined him. Still laughing to himself, Nish bent down and began removing goodies from his pack: bannock, and wild meat. Travis could see the MVP award, the dream catcher, carefully placed in Nish’s pack.

  Out over the water, the plane hit the first turbulence. It bucked, settled, then bucked again wildly as the pilot tried to rise into smoother air. But all he found was more pockets as the north wind struck the shore of James Bay and rose right over the village. The plane bucked, fell, jacked sideways, and bucked again.

  “I’M GONNA HURL!”

  THE END

  Travis Lindsay shuddered. He couldn’t help himself. He had never seen–or felt–anything quite so frightening, so powerful, so absolutely raw.

  The storm had broken over the lake. The boys in cabin 4–which was known as “Osprey”–had seen it coming all afternoon: big bruised fists of cloud heading straight for the camp, the sky dark as night even before the dinner-bell rang. They had gathered on the steps of the cabin to listen to the growling and rumbling as the storm approached, and watch the far shore flicker from time to time under distant lightning.

  There was a flash, and Nish began counting off the distance: “One steamboat…two steamboat…three steamboat…four steamboat…” A clap of thunder cut him off, the sound growing as it reached them. “Four miles,” Nish announced matter-of-factly. Nish the expert. Nish the Great Outdoorsman ever since the Screech Owls’ trip up North, when he nearly froze to death because of his own stupidity.

  Then came the first overhead burst, and not even Nish dared speak. Directly above them, the sky simply split. It broke apart and emptied, the rain instantly thick and hard as water from a fire hose. The boys scrambled for the safety of the cabin and the comforting slam of the screen door. Travis had his hands over his ears, but it was useless. The second crack, even closer, was like a cannon going off beside them. The air sizzled as if the thunder clap had caused the rain to boil, and the walls of the little cabin bounced in the sudden, brilliant flashes of light that accompanied the explosion.

  Not even a half steamboat, Nish, Travis thought to himself. Not even a row boat between flash and thunder. The storm was right on top of them!

  The six boys in “Osprey” moved to the window. Wayne Nishikawa in front, then Gordie Griffth, Larry “Data” Ulmar, Andy Higgins, Lars “Cherry” Johanssen, and, behind them all, Travis Lindsay, the Screech Owls’ captain. They could barely see in the sudden dark of the storm, but then lightning flashed again, and instantly their world was as bright as if a strobe light had gone off. The streak of lightning seemed to freeze momentarily, like a great fiery crack in the dark windshield of the sky. Again they heard the sizzle of fire. And again thunder struck immediately, the walls bouncing, Travis shaking. He felt cold and frightened.

  Another flash, and they could see, perfectly, as if in a painting, the girls’ camp across the water. Travis wondered if Sarah was watching. Sarah Cuthbertson had been captain of the Owls before Travis, and her new team, the Toronto Junior Aeros, were in six cabins out on the nearest island, along with the three girls–Jennie, Liz, and Chantal–who played for the Owls.

  In the long weeks leading up to the end of the school year and the start of summer hockey camp, Travis thought he had anticipated every part of the upcoming adventure. Swimming…swinging off the rope into the lake…diving from the cliffs…waterskiing and fishing and campfires…even the mosquitoes. But he hadn’t imagined anything like this.

  The storm held over them, the explosions now coming so fast it was impossible to tell which clap of thunder belonged to which flash of lightning. It seemed the world was ending. The light over the lake flickered like a lamp with a short circuit. The rain pounded on the roof. The door rattled in the wind. And Travis shook as if he were standing naked outdoors in winter instead of indoors, in a track suit, in July.

  It wasn’t the cold so much as the feeling of helplessness, the insignificance. Being afraid of the dark was nothing compared to this. He’d gladly trade this unearthly light for pitch black and a thousand snakes and rats and black widow spiders and slimy one-eyed monsters lurking at the foot of his bed back home, where there had never, ever, been a storm like this one…

  KKKKKKRRRRRAAAAACKKKKKKKKK!!

  They saw a flash and heard a snap of thunder–but the sound that followed was new! It was a cracking, followed by a rushing sound, then a crash that made the cabin jump and the boys fall, screaming, to their knees.

  “What the hell?” shouted Nish.

  “The roof blew off!” yelled Data.

  But it wasn’t the roof! They were still dry! Andy Higgins, who was the tallest, was the first to stretch up and look out to see what had happened.

  “Look at that!”

  Now they were all up to see.

  “What happened?”

  “Lemme see!”

  Travis looked out through the rain-dimpled window. One pane of glass was broken, and wind and water were coming in on their faces. Outside, the lawn had vanished. Across the grass, lying right between their cabin and “Loon,” the next cabin over–where Willie Granger and Wilson Kelly and Fahd Noorizadeh and Jesse Highboy were staying–was a huge, shattered hemlock, its trunk split and its wood as white as skin where the bark had been ripped away.

  It had missed both cabins by a matter of inches.

  Travis began to shake even harder.

  “They’re coming to murder us!”

  Travis woke sharply to two screams, one coming from Nish, the other coming from a chainsaw right outside the door.

  There was light–daylight. Travis must have slept while the storm had passed. Nish was sitting straight up in bed, his sleeping bag pulled over his head, his arms wrapped around his pillow, and he was still yelling about murder. Travis shook his head: his friend had watched too many bad horror movies for his own good.

  “They’re cutting up the tree!” Travis shouted over the din.

  Slowly, Nish pulled off his sleeping bag. He blinked in the bright morning light, then smiled sheepishly.

  “I knew that.”

  It was amazing what a few hours had done. The rain and wind and clouds had all vanished. Sunlight was dancing in the wet grass, and the air smelled new and full of fresh-cut wood.

  Two men, wearing hardhats and safety glasses and orange plastic earmuffs, were cutting up the big hemlock. Their chainsaws roared into the wood, the chips flying in a rooster’s tail straight into their chests. The men were beginning to look as if they’d been coated in wet sawdust.

  There were some spectators gathered off to the side. Travis could see Muck, the only one not in shorts. No one had ever seen Muck in shorts. He had a bad leg, with a long scar that Travis and Derek Dillinger had seen the time the three of them had gone wading after the keys that Derek had thrown away during the trip to Lake Placid.

  Travis had trouble imagining Muck in shorts–in fact he had trouble getting used to seeing him in summer at all. Coach Muck Munro went with wintertime. He was at the rink when hockey season began, at the rink when hockey season came to an end. The players rarely, if ever, saw him in the months between.

  It was almost as if Muck was something they pulled out of the equipment box in September and stored away again in April with the sweaters–all washed and folded, in his team jacket, baggy sweatpants, hockey gloves, skates, and whistle.

  Muck was having words with a man standing on the other side of a thick branch of the fallen tree: it was Buddy O’Reilly, who ran the Muskoka Summer
Hockey School, which included both the girls’ camp on the island and boys’ camp on the mainland. Willie Granger, the Owls’ trivia expert, said Buddy had played three NHL games for the Philadelphia Flyers–“No goals, no assists, no points, thirty-two minutes in penalties”–but he carried himself as if he’d won three Stanley Cups. Buddy had on shorts, a tank top, and thongs. He was also wearing neon-purple wraparound sunglasses. And he was chewing gum, fast, using just his front teeth. He was holding a cellular telephone in his right hand, as if waiting for an important call, and had a whistle around his neck. His tank top had the logo of the hockey camp on the back and one word, Coach, stitched over his heart. He seemed to be laughing at Muck.

  Suddenly, both chainsaws quit at once. A red squirrel seemed to be razzing them from the hemlocks that still stood. The workers laid the chainsaws down so they could twist a large branch. In the lull, the conversation between Muck and Buddy drifted through the cabin’s screen door.

  “…irresponsible,” Muck was saying.

  “Nobody got hurt, big guy,” Buddy O’Reilly said through the thin opening between his teeth. He popped his gum. “Nobody got hurt.”

  Muck stared fiercely, trying to find Buddy’s eyes behind the mirror shades. He was very upset. Travis knew Muck would be furious at being called “big guy.”

  “Look at the core of that tree,” Muck said. “It’s rotted right out.”

  “And it’s down now,” Buddy replied impatiently. “It’s down and nobody got hurt.”

  “Lucky for you.”

  “Relax, big guy. It’s summer-vacation time, okay?”

  Muck said nothing. He continued to stare, frustrated by the ridiculous sunglasses.

  Buddy ignored Muck completely. He poked a finger hard into the numbers of his cellphone, then waited impatiently while the number rang.

  “Morley!” Buddy shouted when his call was finally answered. Morley was the gentle, white-haired manager of the girls’ camp. “Morley! Get your butt over here! And find that lazy goof, Roger! We got a tree down between ‘Osprey’ and ‘Loon.’ He’ll have to clear out these branches!”