The Healer

by Daniel P. Mannix

  Billy bent over the tracks. Even though there was quite a bit of wind, the tracks were clearly etched, with no trace of drifted snow. They were probably not more than an hour old. Billy called Wasser over, hoping that he could tell from the hound's actions how fresh the tracks were, but the cold was so intense that Wasser could pick up no scent, and tracks without scent meant nothing to him. Ahead, Billy could see where the tracks had left the run and turned into the orchard. Wolf and his companion, the female dog, had also been looking for rabbits.

  The snow was turning purple now where the shadows of the trees lay on it, and visibility was perfect—better than it would be after the sun had fully risen and there was a glare off the snow. Ahead, the dead white was broken by dunes of brown clump grass that lay in sweeping patterns, tracing the path of the wind gusts that had carried the seeds. The sun, blood-red and a perfect sphere, was just clear of the horizon, and in the west the mottled dish of the moon was fading. The clump grass was so exactly the same color as the coyote that once when the wind made a tuft move, Billy started, thinking that Wolf was there.

  Judging from the tracks, the dog had stayed in the orchard, digging either for mice or windfalls, while Wolf had gone to a fence row where the frost had left filigree work around the mouths of the rabbit holes. He had tested each hole with his nose—the imprint of his muzzle could be seen—but had apparently decided that the frozen ground was too hard for digging. He had gone back to get the dog and the two of them had left the orchard and headed for the distant woods.

  Billy knew he would also have to go to the woods, both for the bark and because only in the shelter of the trees could Dracula fly. The owl was growing restless and had jumped off his fist several times, only to swing back again with a flirt of his great, soft wings. There might be pheasants lying-up in the honeysuckle tangles and Dracula could take these fairly easily, as the startled birds rocketed up. Billy headed for the woods with Wasser struggling after him.

  It was turning out to be a mother-of-pearl day. The sun gleamed on the glazed surface. At every step, Billy broke through the crust into the soft snow beneath, and the hard edges of the ice crust hit his boots until his ankles were sore. Wasser slid helplessly on the crust, now breaking through until he was bogged down and then skating over the slick surface. The boy could see where Wolf, in some surprising manner, had walked easily on the crust, but his companion, the dog, had clearly had as hard a time as Wasser; her trail was a series of skid marks alternating with holes where she had gone through the crust and wallowed in the snow. Billy began to wonder if he might overtake them, and if he did what would happen.

  They came to a plowed road which the animals had followed, probably with as much relief as did Billy and Wasser. Judging from the tracks, they had even started to lope here, for puffs of snow had leaped from their paws and their strides were longer. They had followed the road for perhaps a quarter of a mile and then turned off it to follow the path of a power line toward the woods.

  Here Wasser mutinied. The prospect of fighting his way through any more snow fields was too much for him. No matter how Billy called and begged, the dog refused to follow; whining, with his tail down, he crawled toward the boy, only to slide away when Billy tried to catch him. At last Billy gave up.

  "All right, you go home, chicken!" he called angrily. "I'll go on with Dracula."

  He started manfully up the steep hill that led to the woods. For a while Wasser watched him, but when the boy was half way up, the old hound turned and trotted off toward the farm. Billy saw him go regretfully. True, in the deep snow the hound was of no use to him, but he wanted Wasser for company. The boy was a little apprehensive as to what might happen if he met Wolf and the wild dog in the woods. With the men beside him and a pack of dogs, the wild canines had not seemed dangerous; but here, alone, they might turn out to be different animals.

  Billy kept on until he reached the edge of the forest. In autumn, the border trees had been thick with poison ivy and honeysuckle that made an almost impenetrable barrier. Now the barrier was gone. He slid under the weighted branches, sheaves of sparkling powder slipping from the firs and drifting glittering in the cold air to settle on the drifts as he passed. He had to walk nearly doubled up to get under the fir branches, shielding Dracula with his other arm from twigs, but ahead the white trunks of the beeches shone like friendly ghosts, and when he reached them, he could straighten up. He was out of the worst of the wind now, yet the forest seemed to close in around him, muffling all sounds and seeming still and ominous.

  Billy hesitated, looking ahead into the crosshatching of shadows. Ahead he could see blackberry and honeysuckle tangles where pheasants might well be lying. Again he wondered where Wolf and the dog had gone. The animals might be waiting for him in ambush. They might attack, and he had no gun. Abe Zook, he knew, was afraid of Wolf, and Zook was a grown man. He thought of the bloody sheep at the fence angle.

  Always before when Billy had gone into one of his trance states, it had come as an effort of will and he had had to be completely relaxed, either sitting or lying down. Now for the first time he felt himself slipping into his dream world, although he was tired and cold and had not willed it. Even as he glided into that pleasant other world, he knew why it was happening. This was a true adventure, as thrilling as braving a child-eating witch or entering an ogre's castle. But it was not imaginary; it was real. There was danger, but not great danger. He did not really think that the animals would attack him, yet they might be werewolffen, and it was scary in the woods alone. His head began to swim as it did at the beginning of a trance, and he longed for some companion. Suddenly he knew that his companion was Wolf and Wolf was himself. Like himself, Wolf had been abandoned by someone who had no use for him. Like himself, Wolf had been pursued by a gang of enemies. Wolf was someone who could understand him, perhaps the only living thing that could. Yet with it all, Wolf was still a menace; he had to be or the story would have no meaning. Billy had always had a deep sympathy with the menace in fairy tales, especially if the menace was an animal. He grieved over dragons slain by knights and eagles shot down with arrows, even if the eagles were agents of an evil wizard. Wolf, then, had to play the part of the menace as another boy might have. Yet Wolf understood, and Wolf certainly could not be killed—that would be to kill Billy himself. To Billy it all seemed quite clear. Wolf and he were one; but Wolf was also the friend he had never had who would play make-believe with him, and yet the animal was an unpredictable danger who might do anything. Then Dracula shook himself and clicked his beak. Billy roused himself from his trance and looked ahead at the somber, silent trees. He felt as though something was waiting for him there.

  At least he could go in a little ways. He plodded on under the beeches to the first tangle.

  He kicked it with his foot but nothing came out. There was nothing in the second or third. Dracula had shown sudden interest when he had begun kicking, but now the owl was growing restless again. It was too bad to disappoint him.

  He passed branches cemented to the snow with ice and found a few starling feathers. The bird had probably died of cold during the night, and something had eaten it. There was a little wind now and the twigs tinkled in their sheaths of ice as the breeze stirred them. The sound gave him confidence. The utter silence had begun to smother him.

  Ahead was a thicket of hobblebush. There might be something there. He went toward it.

  Suddenly the hobblebush seemed to explode. Two big-eared animals burst from it and fled away, their tiny toes barely seeming to touch the snow as they leaped high in the air. They bounced off as though they had springs in their feet. There was a flash of white rumps and then they were gone.

  "Deer!" gasped Billy. He had read about deer, but this was the first time he had seen any wild ones. To him they looked as big as horses.

  As the deer vanished, something burst like a bomb in front of the boy and swept away among the trees, turning and twisting as it threaded its way between the trunks. For an instant B
illy thought it was a pheasant. Then he realized it must be a grouse, He flung off the owl.

  Dracula was not a fast flier, and the grouse had a long start. The owl seemed to float rather than fly after the game bird, with the grouse steadily gaining. Billy watched, expecting to see Dracula light on a branch, and had even started to feel in his pocket for a piece of meat to call the bird down, but to his surprise, Dracula kept on. Usually Dracula made no attempt to pursue quarry far; once he saw that he was outdistanced he gave up, yet this time he persisted, drifting through the trees on his soundless wings and gaining speed with every flap. Both birds disappeared among the trees. Just before they vanished Billy saw that the owl was rising to fly clear of the woods. He had seen Dracula do that before. Most game birds were fast but had little staying power. If Dracula could keep the grouse in sight until the game bird came down, the owl could drop through the branches and pin him on the ground. Billy had no idea how far a grouse could fly. Pheasants usually came down within a quarter of a mile from where they were flushed. Much depended on whether the grouse knew that Dracula was after him. In any case, it would be a long flight.

  Reluctantly, Billy started after the two birds. If Dracula killed and gorged on the grouse, he would be lost for good unless Billy could find him before he flew off.

  He would not deliberately avoid the boy, but neither would he come to him. If he missed his quarry, he would alight in a tree and sit there for a while to rest. Then, if Billy did not call him down with some food, he would fly off and go hunting for himself. Either way, the boy had to find him as soon as possible.

  He had gone well over a quarter of a mile and there was still no sign of Dracula. Of course, the grouse might have turned off to the right or left; there was no way of telling. Still, the ground was dropping here and Billy felt that the grouse would have kept downhill, especially if he had any idea that an owl was after him. Perhaps he had set his wings and glided. Tired birds often did that. Billy kept on.

  Ahead lay a cedar swamp, many of the trees warped out of shape by the weight of the snow on them. The swamp was about a hundred yards in diameter and lay in a pocket of the ridge, protected by steeply rising ground from the worst of the storm. In the swamp itself were only a few inches of snow, while on the slopes around it, the snow lay two feet deep. The edge was blanketed with laurel, still green in spite of the fierce frost. Billy walked along the laurel screen; if the grouse had been dropping low he might have landed among the bushes.

  Billy came on some bullet-shaped deer droppings. Here again were the prints of Wolf and the dog; he could see where Wolf had turned aside to sniff the droppings. Struck by a sudden idea, Billy looked up. The browse line on the cedars, where the starving deer had reared up to pluck the branches, was higher than his head; yes, only the tallest bucks could now reach high enough to snatch even a mouthful. In the bottom of the depression there must be a small herd of deer, yarded up from the storm. The snow around the depression was so deep that only by a supreme effort could the deer, with their sharp hoofs, wade through it. Abe Zook had talked a great deal about deer and deer yards, for in the winter, deer were the old man's main source of meat. Zook had said wistfully that if he could only find a yard, he could in a few minutes kill enough venison to last them until summer. According to Abe Zook, killing a few deer under these conditions was really an act of mercy, as most of them would die of starvation before spring.

  The boy hesitated. The idea of such slaughter revolted him and yet he knew how much it would mean to the old man. They were running low on meat and Billy was getting tired of a steady diet of mutton and chicken. He had never eaten venison but it sounded good. While he hesitated, he heard an old buck whistle an alarm and stamp. The deer must have winded him, even though there was hardly a whisper of air stirring in the hollow.

  That took the decision out of his hands. Now that the deer knew he was there, they would break out of the yard in spite of the snow. Even while he listened, he could hear them begin to mill about nervously. He pushed through the wall of laurel and saw the deer in the depression below him. As he watched he heard an excited yelp, and a dark shape charged out of the cover at the herd.

  It was a dog, soot black, shaggy, and about the same size as Wasser. The deer rushed wildly up the slope until mired in the snow, but the old buck stood his ground. The dog rushed at him, jumping back and forth and barking in an effort to make him run. The buck snorted, the hairs of his neck rising, and made a sweep with his antlers. The dog was at a disadvantage in the snow and the buck instantly realized it. He lunged forward, stabbing down with his daggerlike fore hooves. Before the dog could get free of the clinging snow, the buck had slashed open his enemy's side. In another moment, he would have trampled the now terrified dog to death.

  Billy slipped the basket off his back and grabbed the hatchet. He stumbled forward to the edge of the depression, but before he could free himself from the laurel, Wolf suddenly appeared. He cut from behind at the buck's hind leg in the hopes of hamstringing him, forcing the buck to turn and face him. The black dog limped hurriedly away, frightened and hurt. Billy realized she must be the wild female who lived with Wolf.

  The buck followed Wolf, walking with slow, deliberate steps, pausing to stamp and shake his head. The coyote kept away from him. He obviously had no intention of trying to pull down the 150-pound deer armed with antlers, and Billy felt that left to himself, Wolf would never have launched this all-out attack. It was the dog's fault. Billy had never seen her before, but now he thought of her as Blackie. The sight of the deer had been too much for her and she had rushed in blindly.

  Once Wolf saw that Blackie had gotten clear, he left the buck and turned his attention to the rest of the herd. They ran before him in mad hysteria, none of the other bucks daring to turn and fight. Around and around the swamp they went, Wolf running and snapping at their heels, but he could not. make them bolt out of the swamp. Blackie was watching timidly from the shelter of the cedars, and now Wolf raised his voice in a yelping call, full of angry exasperation. Billy knew perfectly well what the coyote was saying, for the tone of the resentful yell was not unlike the irate shout of a boy who feels his friends have let him down. It was an order, as definite an order as one he might have shouted at Wasser, and Blackie clearly recognized it as such. In spite of her wound, she ran forward, carefully avoiding the embattled buck, and joined Wolf.

  As soon as Blackie had come up, Wolf cut across the swamp to turn the herd. Caught between the two canines, the deer piled up as the foremost turned to avoid the coyote. Wolf made no attempt to plunge into the melee even though the deer were now clearly helpless, and Blackie, limping, also held back.

  A few minutes before, the cedar swamp had been a peaceful place, shrouded in the soft blanket of snow, and so quiet that a man walking past would have supposed that nothing alive could be found there. Now it was an inferno of terrified, plunging deer, yelping hunters, racing shapes, the snow tramped into mush and streaked with blood stains from Blackie's cut.

  Billy saw that while Blackie was merely chasing the deer without a plan, Wolf was constantly swinging around to head them off. A few broke between their tormentors, but finally most of the herd were driven up the slope into the snowdrifts. At once Wolf dropped back and Blackie, in spite of her excitement, stayed with him, clearly still fearful of attacking the herd alone. The coyote watched the deer as they plunged through the deeper snow. A half-grown fawn began to lag behind the others. With his short legs and in his weakened state from the poor browsing, he could not make it uphill against the drifts. He stopped and bleated. His mother heard and made a half-hearted effort to return, but Wolf had instantly bounded up the slope and came between them. The fawn turned and stumbled downhill with the coyote after him. Billy felt torn between sympathy for the canines, who looked half starved, and sorrow for the fawn. The fawn slipped and stumbled, coming down on his knees. The sight was too much for Blackie, who sprang on him, growling and worrying the helpless creature. The fawn's suffer
ings were soon over; Wolf rushed in and killed him with a well-placed bite behind the ears.

  The rest of the herd had fought their way out of the hollow and were gone. Crows, attracted by the noise, came drifting in through the trees like black snowflakes and took up positions, waiting until the hunters were through. Neither Blackie nor Wolf paid any attention to them, although when some of the boldest alighted on the snow and minced forward, hoping to snatch up stray scraps, they snarled at the thieves.

  Suddenly some of the soaring crows began to scream with a special pitch and intensity. Immediately almost all the flock took to the air, and the canines stopped eating and raised their heads, automatically testing the wind. Billy glanced upward. The crows had seen him and were circling the spot where he stood.

  Both canines' muzzles were plastered with blood. They looked terrifying. Billy realized that the fawn was nearly as big as he was. He began to back away. As he did so, he felt the cake of snow crack beneath his feet. He made a wild effort to balance himself and then went cascading in a small avalanche of snow down the steep slope. He landed on his back a dozen yards from the two predators.

  In an eye's flicker, both animals had sprung back, yet they did not run. They watched the boy struggle to his feet, their nostrils extended, sniffing in his scent. Billy did not realize it, but he was giving off a strong odor of fear. That, together with his small size, encouraged the animals. The coyote, with his inherent dread of man, held back, but Blackie came forward, snarling. She was obviously starving and desperate. At that moment she was a very dangerous animal.

  Billy retreated until he could get his back against a cedar tree and lifted the hatchet. Luckily he had clung to it during his fall. The coyote turned and ran, but when he was a safe distance away, halted. He began to circle, coming closer to the fawn.