The Healer

by Daniel P. Mannix

  "How are you going to get the bees to go into the hive?" asked Billy sceptically.

  "This I now show you. Only a braucher or one who knows much about such things has the secret. See here now!" He produced a device consisting of a frame with a small opening fitted with two springs. "This we put over the entrance to the hive. The bees can go in but they cannot come out again. Now we hitch up the buggy and go to see Martin Hinkle. He has some beehives, and I will be asking him for some frames with day-old brood in them."

  The trip to the Hinkle farm took nearly an hour, and although Martin Hinkle was not home, his wife told them to take two brood frames. Zook put on his hat with veil, started a fire in his box, working its bellows until smoke poured out, and donning his gloves, went to the nearest hive, while Billy stood well back. A few puffs of smoke from the box quieted the bees and Zook removed the top of the hive. Furious bees poured out like black confetti and Billy, who had come closer to watch, was stung on his upper lip and forehead. He ran, batting wildly at the trail of angry insects that followed him, but he was stung twice more before he lost his pursuers. He was still smearing mud on his wounds when Zook joined him with the brood frames.

  "Ah, they caught you. I was wrong not to be bringing some horsetail. That takes the sting out of bee bites."

  "Didn't they get you too?"

  "A few, but I am used to such things. Now we go back to the old house and I show you a trick worth knowing."

  They drove back to the house in the woods where the hive was located. There was a window just below the cupola with a projecting frame. Zook got the hive from the buggy and mounted it outside the window. Then with some ancient wire window screening he had brought, he made a passageway from the hole in the cupola to the hive, fitting the device with the springs at the hive entrance. "Now the bees must go into the hive but they cannot come out again," he said triumphantly to Billy, who had prudently remained on the ground during this process.

  "But you'll have to let them out sometime and then they'll go back to their old hive," protested Billy.

  "For that we get the brood frames. When the bees find that they cannot get back to their old home and old queen, they will start feeding one of the brood bees in the cells royal jelly. That is a special food bees make in their heads, and how they do it not even I know. The brood bee so fed will become a queen who can lay eggs. Only a bee fed with royal jelly becomes a queen; the rest are workers, who although they are females, cannot lay eggs but must work all the time. The young queen will grow and become the ruler in the new colony, and all the bees will obey her. After two weeks, I will let the workers go free. They will fly back to their old hive and take the honey for their new home. In this way I will be getting both the honey and the bees."

  Billy thought it was rather hard on the bees but after his stings, he did not feel much sympathy for them.

  The next afternoon Billy was sent over to check the hive and make sure that the bees were going into it. After seeing that everything was all right, he started back toward the farm. It was a stifling hot day and the heat increased until the air seemed to die of it. A wet blanket of humidity pressed down on the boy until Billy could hardly breathe. Then, slowly, mountains of blue-black clouds stretched themselves over the ridge. Above, they were sugared with a strip of white icing, and a few flamingo feather wisps floated over them where the sinking sun shone behind the storm bank. Inch by inch the darkness crept higher and higher, spreading as it came on with flying skirmishers of scud racing ahead.

  As the tempest strode across the sky, golden cracks splintered across the storm clouds, instantly followed by the roll and paralyzing report of the thunder. Billy could smell the ozone in the air, and it frightened him. The wind had risen to almost hurricane force, the leaves strained against their stalks to be free, and the first drops of rain were flung in the boy's face. Then came the crack of the thunder and the brilliant flash of lightning that suddenly made every twig stand out as though etched in microscopic detail.

  Suddenly Billy heard something howling. He stopped to listen. It was Wolf. He was howling either in sympathy with the thunder or because it hurt his ear drums. He was on the other side of the ridge, probably in a little valley that Billy knew well, and in spite of the threatening storm, Billy started toward the sound.

  The drops increased in number, and then the rain came down in a solid wall that formed sheets where the wind tossed it. It slashed through the trees and struck the ground so hard that it seemed to boil. White claws of foam tore at the red clay slopes. Billy stood under a tree that offered a little protection and waited.

  The storm passed quickly and the air smelled wonderful, washed clean of dust. Billy splashed along the soggy ground to the valley where he had heard Wolf.

  When he came to the edge of the depression, he saw with delight Wolf wriggling out of the ironwood with a half-grown woodchuck in his mouth. Surprisingly, the coyote looked almost dry. Billy guessed that he had been digging the 'chuck out of a hole when the storm struck, and even the cloudburst could not make him abandon his prey.

  Wolf laid down the 'chuck, shook himself, nudged the 'chuck with his nose as if not quite sure that it was dead, and then picked it up and slipped through the ironwood. Billy waited until he was out of sight and then followed. The sun had come out brilliantly after the storm, and Billy was sure that there would be a rainbow on the other side of the ridge if he had time to look for it. He slid into the little valley and easily found Wolf's paw marks in the mud that had been washed down the side of the ridge during the storm. He followed the coyote out of the valley, to where Wolf had cut through a field planted in clover where tracks did not show.

  The sun was low and threw a perfect flat-lighting on the field. Even though there were no tracks, Billy could see where the coyote had knocked off the drops of water that clung to the clover, and so could follow the trail. On the far side of the field there was a gravel pit and here Billy completely lost the trail. He longed for Wasser, but by the time he returned to the farm and got the hound, the line would be cold.

  Climbing out of the pit, the boy made a wide circle, as he had seen the hounds do when they were at fault. The ground was too hard to carry pad marks, but there was tall grass. Billy could see where the coyote had passed through, pushing the stalks to either side and leaving a dim but definable trail, especially when, by shifting around a little, the boy could catch the reflection of the sun on the bent stalks. He lost the trail at the foot of the ridge, for the hillside grass was so tough that it had sprung back into position as soon as the coyote had passed.

  While wondering what to do, Billy looked up and saw Wolf on a little rise, watching him intently.

  Billy called. The coyote dodged back and then slowly stuck his head out again. After studying the boy carefully, he looked away up the slope. When Billy started up the slope toward him, the coyote instantly vanished, but the boy had noticed Wolf's intent expression as he looked up the hill. There was something there of great importance to the animal, of that Billy was sure. He turned and went in the same direction and presently came on a wide fan of brown earth. Here were scattered the dried hides of rabbits, woodchucks, and rats, as well as feathers. Billy took another step forward and saw the black hole leading down into the earth. He had found the den.

  While the boy was trying to see into the narrow, dark entrance, Wolf reappeared, frantic with anxiety. He came so close that several times Billy thought that the coyote was coming right up to him, but Wolf always kept a few yards away. He would cringe, then turn and run a few feet, come back, and take off again. When the boy tried to follow him, making soft, crooning noises and assuring the coyote that he meant no harm, Wolf would slow down until Billy was nearly up to him and then go on, moving so awkwardly that Billy wondered if he might not be injured. At last the boy realized what was going on.

  "You're just trying to lead me on, Wolf," he called. "You want to get me away from the den. I know Blackie's in there and she must have pups. I don't want
to hurt them, I only want to see them."

  Wolf listened intently but came no closer. Billy put his head down close to the den's entrance and listened. There was no sound. Still, this must be the place.

  Billy turned to look down across the valley. It was astonishing that the den had not been found before since the semicircle of brown earth, thrown up by the digging, made a scar on the green side of the hill that must be visible for half a mile. Far below him, he could see a team of five mules dragging a manure spreader with the farmer directing his team from the jolting seat. Yet apparently the man had never bothered to look up at the hillside. Billy wondered why Wolf, usually so clever, had dug the den in such an exposed place. He finally decided that Wolf had picked this location because it gave him a good view over the valley and he could see any danger approaching. The coyote, shrewd as he was, did not realize that if the den was a good vantage point for him it also meant that others could see it equally well. Perhaps this was because Wolf was color-blind and did not realize how sharply the brown earth stood out against the green grass.

  Billy hurried back to the farm, full of his great discovery. On the way, he began to have doubts. For some time now, the game warden had been driving around the district in his jeep, looking for the remnants of the dog pack but more especially for Wolf and Blackie. There was a dirt road, hardly more than a wagon trail, running along the bottom of the hill. Luckily the warden had not as yet driven along it, but he would sooner or later and when he did, he was sure to see the den. That would mean the death of Blackie and the pups and probably Wolf also, for Billy was sure that in his desperation to save his family, the coyote would expose himself. Billy had already seen how accurate the warden was with his rifle.

  Abe Zook would know what to do, but did he dare to tell the braucher about the den? Zook might well be as implacable as the game warden. Even Billy had his doubts of the advisability of letting Wolf and Blackie raise their litter in the heart of the farming country. The coydogs, once they were grown, would be as great a menace to livestock as the dog pack. Billy was still wondering what to do when he heard Wasser's bark and the familiar rattle of the guinea fowl.

  Zook was away digging herbs and did not return until almost dark. In the meanwhile, Billy had milked the cows, fed the horse, and gotten dinner ready. He had found a dead squirrel on the road, killed by a car, which he gave to Dracula; after the owl had finished, Billy allowed Grip to play with the tail. To Billy's great relief, the braucher had had a good day. He proudly laid out his collection of herbs on the table, explaining in great detail the value of each, and Billy pretended an interest he was far from feeling. After they had eaten, Billy broached the vital subject.

  "I found the werewolffen den," he began. Zook started and instinctively looked toward the rifle on the wall. Billy went on hurriedly, "If I tell you where it is, you have to promise not to kill them."

  "And what of the pups?" demanded the old man.

  "You told me I could have a dog, you never said what kind of a dog. Let me have the pups. I'll keep one, and I know plenty of people would like to have them for pets."

  Abe Zook stared at him. "By you is a great foolishness. Such animals you cannot make tame."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know. And of what good are they? They cannot track like a hound; they will not protect a place like a dog, and always they will kill stock."

  Billy saw his last chance slipping away. "You just say these things. You don't know what they can do. Won't you even give them a chance?"

  Abe Zook said nothing. He was wondering if the werewolffen had really put the boy under a hex. Such things had happened. It was a very deep matter. And there was always the chance that the boy might really be a great braucher who could know matters hidden from ordinary people. He decided to move cautiously.

  "We do not take the gun," he said finally. "We take only Wasser and the spades."

  Early the next morning they started out, Wasser bounding eagerly alongside. Within an hour they had reached the den but when Wasser examined the hole, he showed no excitement nor was there any sign of Wolf.

  "We dig still," said Abe Zook. The den was deep and Billy worked harder than he ever had before. When they finally broke into the main chamber, it was empty. Only bones, a few feathers, and the dried entrails of some quarry remained.

  "The wolf was knowing that we would come," said Abe Zook, wiping his sweating face. "He has moved them. Yet with pups they do not go too far. Already we should have been putting Wasser on the trail. We do it now."

  After considerable trouble the hound picked up the trail, but it was cold now and they went slowly. Abe Zook did more of the tracking than Wasser, looking for claw marks, bent grass and dead leaves curling where the fugitives had stepped on them. Wasser finally found a good stretch of damp earth shaded by tall hardwoods where he could track, and he went ahead more confidently while the humans held back so as not to confuse him with their scents. They saw the hound break into a lope and for the first time heard him give tongue. Wasser had gone on a few hundred yards when he suddenly burst into the excited viewing cry.

  "Quick!" snapped Abe Zook and they began to run. Wasser was far ahead now, screaming his head off, and it was impossible to catch up with him. Then they heard the baying stop short, followed by a terrified yelp. Regardless of brambles, Abe Zook tore through the woods with Billy panting in the rear.

  "That's him!" yelled Billy. Wasser was running back past them. In spite of their calls, the hound was too frightened to stop. They followed him as best they could and found Wasser on an open hillside, whimpering and licking a long, clean gash in his shoulder. Billy held him while Abe Zook examined the wound.

  "The wolf," said the old man briefly. "See how he cut once with his long teeth. That is how they are fighting, never taking their grip like a dog. He teased Wasser away from the trail of the female and the pups and then turned on him. He has beaten us still."

  "Will he hide them this time so the warden can't find them?" asked Billy hopefully.

  Abe Zook hesitated before he answered. "That young man is not a fool," he said, and Billy knew it was a wrench for the old braucher to admit that any man in uniform could know something. "We will see."

  To the relief of the farmers, but to Billy's apprehension, Jim Stoltzfoos proved to be far from a fool. He drove along the roads in the evenings with a siren going. Time after time the dogs would howl in response to the wailing sound. They were often bitches with their pups, and the warden would stop the car and mark the approximate spot of the howling. Then he would come back the next morning and look for the den.

  Billy knew that this use of the siren would be a fatally effective trick with Wolf, for even a distant fire siren was enough to start the coyote wailing. A woman had come to Abe Zook with a child who suffered from bladder weakness, and the braucher had taken Billy with him to collect wild strawberry leaves. These leaves, made into a tea, were a sovereign cure for such a complaint—or so Abe Zook believed. They were busy on a hillside when a distant shot sent the crows cawing and a cock pheasant screaming.

  "I've got to go," said Billy and rushed away before Zook could stop him. He tore through the underbrush at top speed, fearful of what he might find, dodging back and forth to avoid the worst tangles, until he was close to the place from whence the shot had come. Then he crawled forward.

  Ahead was a little clearing. Stoltzfoos was walking across it carrying the dead body of a large half Doberman whose swollen udders flapped as she swung to and fro over the man's shoulder. The warden carried her to his jeep, threw her in, and got out a long, thick length of woven wire. He unraveled the end and then went to the den, an enlarged fox earth. Running the wire inside, he felt around. Billy heard an unhappy squealing. The man twisted the wire and then pulled out a pup, his woolly coat entangled in the sharp wires. The man killed the pup with a quick blow back of the ears and ran the wire in again.

  Billy felt that if he had had a gun, he would have shot the murderer.


  The man pulled out six pups, all of whom met the same fate. Then after prolonged probings with the wire, he took his victims to the car and drove away.

  Billy put his face down on the dead leaves and cried. He was still sobbing when Abe Zook came up, moving so softly that the boy did not hear him.

  "He's not going to do that to my coypups," Billy gasped through his tears. "I'll get a gun and kill him first, I mean it."

  Abe Zook lifted him gently. "To the house come. I give you a tea that will make you sleep."

  What was in the tea Billy never knew, but within a few minutes he was asleep. In his sleep he dreamed.

  He was standing on the porch of a great house with fat white pillars, and below him was a terrace that swept away into a formal garden with carefully trimmed hedges, pools full of lily pads, and bright green lawns. Billy started to run down the terrace. He went faster and faster until he was flying. In spite of his speed he could see every detail of the gardens : the way the water hung, suspended around the lily pads, just how the granite stones in the rock garden were chipped, and the precise pattern of the twigs in the privet hedges as he floated over them. The odor of the pollen from the flowers was so strong that it made his head swim, and the hot sun overhead made droplets of sweat rise on his forehead. He could hear the mutter of the bees in the rose garden. Then he swept over an ornamental iron fence and was floating over a field. He recognized the field, for ahead were the three apple trees, including the huge dead tree where he often lay to have his dreams.

  He could slide swiftly over the tops of the weeds like a man on a surfboard rushing toward shore, propelled by invisible waves. Swiftly as he went, he could still see the most exquisite details in the weed-jungle below.

  He could watch the mosaic of the minute field flowers; he could see the sun shining on the armored backs of the beetles; he could count the flutes in the feathers of a field sparrow sitting on her eggs. He was only mildly surprised to observe that the field was also populated by little men.