Mountain Echoes wp-8

by C. E. Murphy

  “Not planning to, no. Will you tell me what happened?”

  I let out a short breath. “Starting with what?”

  “Whatever you want. It’s a long walk.”

  “And I still don’t have any food.” I honestly didn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, besides the shriveled apples. Four hundred years ago, in the valley we’d left behind, maybe. I really needed to start taking better care of myself. With my life, that evidently meant always having a three-course meal in my pocket, which I didn’t see happening, but it was a nice idea. I fell into step beside Dad again, getting into the rhythm of motion before I started at the beginning.

  It was a long walk. Talking helped distract me from climbing over hill and dale, though with Dad’s lead it seemed like we covered a lot more territory than Morrison ann Morrisd I had alone. Still, it was well past noon and I’d gotten most of the way through hunting the wendigo when Dad drew up again, nodding down a narrow holler. “This is your place.”

  I blinked down it, then hiccupped as a particularly gnarly old tree resolved into familiarity. We weren’t that far from our back door now, this little gulley one I’d retreated to often as a teen. I blinked again, then scowled accusingly at Dad. “This isn’t anywhere near Petite.”

  “I know. I’ll drive you back up to her, but I thought you might want to visit this place without…Mike.” He said the name cautiously, like maybe I wouldn’t know who he meant, since I clearly habitually called Morrison, well, Morrison.

  I pushed my hand through my hair, which stood up in sweaty spikes. “You know, Dad, he’s a grown man. If I said I wanted to come up here without him, he’d say, ‘See you later, Walker.’”

  Dad pounced like he’d been waiting for the chance. “Is there a reason you two call each other by your last names?”

  Clearly I hadn’t started early enough with the History Of My Life, As Related By Joanne Walker, since the last names thing was really sort of a way to get in an eternal dig. I mean, most people at the precinct called each other by their last names anyway, but somehow Morrison and I had managed to turn it into a way to avoid referring to each other by our respective, and therefore respectable, ranks. I decided not to try explaining right now and just went with “It’s a work thing.”

  “You don’t work together anymore.”

  “Dad, I just quit, give us some time. The point is he wouldn’t have flipped out if I’d headed into the hills alo…” Okay, under the current circumstances, he might have. “I’m going down there now.”

  Dad crouched, flat-footed on the slanted earth, and wrapped his arms around his knees. I’d seen him sit like that for hours when I was a kid, and didn’t expect him to move again until I came back up from the holler. I slipped and slid my way down grass and dirt, catching branches to keep myself from tumbling, and in a minute or two was at my teen hideaway.

  The old tree hadn’t changed much. There were a few new knots where branches were bursting out like miniature trees of their own, but mostly it was the same crooked old beast it had been. I half closed my eyes, letting memory guide me as I wandered around it, fingers trailing against the bark. There was a particular twist of roots I remembered, almost a braid, that had always been the best place to climb the sloping trunk from. Still only half looking, I found the roots and scrambled upward, guided by my hands and muscle memory. About halfway up there was a dish of a branch, wide enough for my teenage butt to fit into nicely. To my ego’s satisfaction, I still fit. I settled down, back against the trunk, and slid my left hand around the rough bark. My fingers stopped when they found the edge of the hollow there. I’d discovered it this way, sheerly by accident, and had done the same thing then as I did now: scootched around on the branch until I was on my belly, dangling, so I could peer around the tree into the opening.

  God. There were things in there I’d forgotten I’d left. Bleached by weather, but still remarkably intact, given that they’d been stored here for over a decade. I struggled out of my coat and made a sack with it, then gingerly took everything from the hollow. Almost everything: I’d banged a little wooden shelf into place above the hollow’s mouth so my stuff would be more protected, and it had swollen too much to remove. I took everything else, though, and clambered back down ed back to sit among the roots and go through my teenage bounty.

  There was a journal I barely remembered keeping, though as soon as I saw its embossed red leather cover I remembered it vividly. I’d had the presence of mind to put that in a sealed plastic bag, and the seal had held all these years. I picked it up carefully and opened it, then rifled through the journal, astonished that the pages weren’t a pulpy mash. My teenage self’s handwriting looked fatter and loopier than I remembered.

  The last entry was about Lucas. About bringing him up to the holler and my dumb bid to make him like me by having sex with him. There weren’t any graphic details, but when I written it I’d pretty clearly been thrilled, amazed and proud of myself for taking such a big step toward adulthood. But a couple weeks later I’d realized I was pregnant, and I’d never come up here again. I’d stopped keeping a journal, in fact, the date written on the last page my last-ever entry. I closed the book and tucked it into my coat.

  There were other things that made me laugh: a coat pin of Raphael from the original TMNT movie, now so weather-bleached it was recognizable only because I knew what it was. A pair of plastic badger earrings, likewise bleached. Sara had given me those after we’d done her spirit-animal quest, so I’d kept them even though I hadn’t pierced my ears until about three months ago. A handful of photographs that fell from the journal, faces of people I hardly remembered. Nostalgia and memorabilia, that’s what was in the tree.

  That, and a small wooden box, maybe five inches by three, which I had never seen before. It wasn’t weather-worn or swollen from humidity. I let it sit beside me a long time while I went through the other bits and bobs, aware of its presence but not yet ready to open it. Eventually I put everything else aside and looked at the box a long time, wondering if I really even wanted to open it. It could be Pandora’s Box, filled with things I didn’t want to let loose in the world, or more relevantly, in my mind.

  Of course, the thing I’d never understood about Pandora’s Box was that she’d opened it, releasing all evil into the world, but slammed it shut again before hope escaped. That never made any sense to me. I thought she should open the damned box again and let hope escape into the world, too, because it certainly didn’t seem to me like it did any good locked in a box. At least if it was released like evil was, then like evil, it would have the ability to chase through the world on the wind, offering…well, hope.

  With that in mind, it was inevitable that I opened the box.

  There was a photograph in it, nothing else. Me, fifteen and prettier than I’d imagined myself, my short hair spiked with gel and stronger freckles than usual standing out across my nose, leavings from the summer sun. Sara, her own thick blond hair bleached lighter than usual, too, also from the sun, and her skin richly gold from the tan she’d picked up. I’d thought she was beautiful, back then. Looking at her picture, I still did.

  And between us, where he’d always been and always would be, was Lucas. Dark eyes and black hair, a bright grin stretched across his face, and who could blame him? He had his arms around two pretty girls, like he was king of the world and knew it.

  I remembered the day it had been taken, just a few days after school started. Lucas had been in Cherokee for a couple of weeks already. Sara and I had met him at the diner and we were all great friends by the time school started. It would be another few weeks before it all fell apart, but right then, man, we were happy. We were the Three Musketeers, los tres amigos, the good, the bad and the ugly. Right in that moment, we were perfect. We were all vibrant, full of life and laughter. Full of love.

  Full of hope.

  I turned the photograph over and found one word written in pencil on the back: Sorry.

  “Yeah.” I turned it again, brus
hing my thumb over our faces. “Yeah, me too, Lucas. For everything. Rest in peace.”

  I opened my hand, releasing hope.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Friday, March 31, 7:37 p.m.

  Dad didn’t ask, when I came out of the holler, and I went back to telling him about the adventures of the past fifteen months as we worked our way home again. He occasionally interjected with stories about his own past several years, and by the time we got out of the mountains I thought maybe a hatchet had been buried. It felt good, if a little weird, and I ended up saying so just as the sun started slipping over the horizon.

  Dad, watching it, crooked a smile. “And all it took was a day alone. I’m sorry, Jo…anne. For the mistakes I made. I thought I could protect you by keeping you away from your heritage, and for years I watched you heading right down that path anyway. I should have known better.”

  “Probably, but—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I’m not exactly one to throw stones about knowing better.” I hesitated, then offered my hand. “Friends?”

  He looked at my hand, then took it and pulled me into an awkward hug. I grunted and knocked him on the back a couple of times, more overwhelmed than I wanted to admit. Then, very guy-like, we broke apart clearing our throats and pretended none of it had happened. I giggled about that all the way back to town.

  When we got there, it turned out we’d been missed, after all. Half the CDC and all of the military was looking for me, apparently. A red-eyed Sara and patient Morrison were handling the crush when we arrived. The truth was I had no better answers than they did about what had happened, but I had been appointed ringleader in my absence. Sara got out of my sight as soon as she could, and Morrison stood by me as long as he could. After I gave the authorities a series of unsatisfactory answers, they hauled me off for blood testing and a military grilling which eventually led to me flopped in a chair-and-desk unit in a high school classroom with its windows boarded over, repeating, “The car doesn’t fly, General. It’s a car. I’m sure your people are completely reliable, but don’t you think a flying car would have come up on somebody’s radar before now?”

  The general in question, a slender man in his late fifties who looked like he still ran a ten-mile PT course every morning, glowered at me so ferociously I reviewed what I’d said and winced. “I didn’t mean radar like…radar. I wasn’t trying to be clever.”

  “I’m certain of that. Start again from the beginning.”

  I sighed and started again. High-speed chase, yes. Impressive air under the wheels, sure. That happens in a car with a souped-up V-8 engine. But really, flying? I was okay with that party line until they brought Lieutenant Gilmore in. He was the only survivor of the chopper crew who’d seen Petite roar across empty air, and knew perfectly well that she had. Guilt stabbed me, but Gilmore kept a very calm steady voice as he denied their afternoon reports. It had been a mirage, a combination of dust and heat and the strain of awareness that they were working within American borders and were yet also on unfriendly territory. Yes, he knew what the in-flight recorders had them saying, but, permission to speak freely, General, thank you, frankly, sir, didn’t it sound like they were all a little hysterical? Himself included, sir, and no disrespect meant to the dead, but it had been an unusual and stressful situation—

  Gilmore talked the entire military off the cliff, saved Petite from being eviscerated by men trying to figure out how she’d flown, and did it all with only the occasional glance at me that let me know he was absolutely aware he was feeding them a line of bullshit and had no other choice in the matter. When they finally, finally let us go, unsatisfied but unable to come up with any plausible answers to fit the described scenario, I was left alone with Gilmore for a minute or two.

  I stood up, then grabbed the back of my chair as a head-rush slammed me around. He put his hand under my elbow, concerned, and I wobbled a minute, waiting for the dizziness to pass. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten in days. I just wanted to say thank you, and that I’m sorry. And…did they burn the bodies?”

  “Yes, ma’am. All of them.” Concern flickered over his face. “We’ve been unable to locate the source’s body, though.”

  For a few seconds that made no sense. Then clarity came like a knife’s point in my gut. “You mean Danny? You can’t find his body?”

  “Not yet. We will, though.” Gilmore looked determined but not especially convinced.

  I did not want Danny Little Turtle’s Raven-Mocker-infested body out tromping around the world, and had an unpleasant flashback to my little Pandora’s Box scenario earlier. “Let me know either way, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. How will I contact you?”

  I gave him my phone number and checked my phone at the same time, idly surprised to discover it still had a battery charge. There was a voice mail notification on it. I figured it was Morrison, calling sometime earlier in the day to wonder where the hell I was, and slipped it back into my pocket with a mental note to check it later. Gilmore escorted me out of the high school, where we both blinked in tired surprise at the rising sun.

  Wonderful. Now I had neither eaten nor slept for days. My stomach roared and I got dizzy again. “If somebody doesn’t get me some food in the next ten minutes I’m going to start chewing my arm off.”

  Gilmore smiled faintly. “Wish I could help, ma’am, but I have some duties to attend to.”

  “No, it’s fine. I really am sorry, Lieutenant. Call me if you just want to talk, too, okay? It’s been a hell of a couple days.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He left me, and Morrison, who had apparently chosen to wait all night outside the school, came down the walkway looking far more refreshed than I felt.

  I staggered over and flopped against him, much like I’d flopped in the chair earlier. “Oh, God, I’m glad to see you. I’m starving. Do you have a car?”

  “I thought you were getting Petite.”

  “Dad took me on a…thing. Side trip. And I don’t know what happened to the Impala I rented. Forget it, the diner can’t be more than a ten-minute walk.”

  “Nothing’s ever as close on foot as you think it is when you usually drive, Walker. I’ll get us a car.” Morrison left me wson leftondering how he would arrange that. I sat in front of the school and tested my arm for edibility until he came back ten or twelve minutes later with a set of keys. “Your Impala,” he reported. “Les took it off the mountain.”

  “Okay.” I got up, fighting off another dizzy spell. “You drive.”

  Morrison’s jaw fell open. “Walker?”

  I chortled woozily, aware that I would have startled him less by taking my clothes off and marching down the highway starkers. That was fair enough. I wasn’t sure the words you drive had ever passed my lips before in that combination. Just this once, though, I not only said them, but also meant them wholeheartedly. “Seriously, you drive, Morrison. I’m in no shape. I can’t even stand up without nearly passing out. I’m so hungry I’m dangerous.”

  “That diner better be open.”

  “If it’s not I’m breaking down the back door and firing up the grill myself.”

  Fortunately, it was open. Even in a crisis, people need food. Especially in a crisis, maybe. The place was packed, with nobody in any visible hurry to leave. Well, not until some of them saw me, and, angry at my part in the deaths of their elders, got up and left in protest. I would worry about that later. For the moment I took a seat in one of the booths, said, “One of everything,” when the waitress came by, and put my head on the table to wait for food to arrive.

  Morrison said, “I think she means it,” to the waitress, which made me lift my head again. “I do. I want one of everything except coffee, I can’t drink coffee right now, my stomach is too empty. But one of everything else, starting with the breakfast menu. Include the desserts. No, hold off on them, I don’t want the ice cream to melt. Otherwise, one of everything. No, wait, start with a piece of pie, you can bring that right away, right? Apple pie. With ice cream. I don�
��t care if it’s warm. The pie. The ice cream probably shouldn’t be. And then cherry pie if there’s nothing else ready yet. Pie until food. Yes. Please.”

  The waitress stared at me, then looked at Morrison as if expecting rescue. He smiled. “She’s hungry. I’ll have some of hers, and some coffee.” After a few more seconds, the woman shrugged and went to put an order in for one of everything. The apple pie arrived within forty seconds and I ate it in five bites. The cherry pie appeared less than thirty seconds later, and I ate it in five bites, too. Cherry pie was followed by blueberry, and I had an ice-cream headache building by the time a couple fried eggs with bacon showed up.

  I ate that, and pancakes, and scrambled eggs and French toast and an omelet and some waffles and grits and oatmeal and more bacon and lost count of how many glasses of orange juice I drank. Then I burped loudly enough to silence the conversations around me, and started in on more fried eggs and corned beef hash and hash browns and toast and a piece of lemon meringue pie, and by then enough of the edge had left that I started to get picky about my food. I retracted the one-of-everything request and ordered a cheeseburger with bacon and cheese fries.

  Morrison, by that time, was starting to look ill. There were occasional respectful murmurs at the sheer number of empty plates piled at my elbow, which I thought the waitress was leaving there just to see how many I went through before I was done. Somewhere after a chili dog with onions and cheese piled so high there was no actual evidence of a hot dog in the bun, my hands stopped shaking. I ordered a Rueben with potato chips and a milk shake, and by the time I got done with that, people were taking bets on hing betsow much I could eat, and I was feeling nearly human again.

  Humanity demanded greenery, apparently. I ordered three salads with three different kinds of dressing, some proper Southern sweet iced tea, and worked my way through those, finally sighing in contentment. Only then did Morrison dare to speak. “I have never seen anyone eat that much. Ever. Are you all right, Walker?”