Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  Neither Daddy nor Casey was speaking. Casey was expressionless, his eyes still scanning a far off horizon of his own imagining. Daddy actually looked a little sheepish, like a child who has broken his friend’s toy out of spite and is waiting to see if the friend will laugh or cry about it. But Tad knew that this respite was only temporary. “Will you yield?” Daddy asked, almost timidly. Tad took advantage of the lull in the action to turn and flee.

  He ran without looking back, in the direction of the Willow Road. He ran with terror and despair lending him speed, but with each impact of his feet meeting the ground, fresh jolts of pain sang out from his arm and shoulder, and fresh nausea filled his entire body. The shoulder just felt wrong; the urge was to hold it in toward his chest so it could not swing freely, and he lost some mobility by doing so. He didn’t know where he running. He was in self preservation mode. He felt like the desperate animal who has escaped the trap by gnawing off a limb. But he knew without looking back that the hunters would be on his trail.

  He came to the Willow Road, crossing over its sun baked surface, running diagonally in the general direction of downtown Feral. On his right he could see Casey running flat out, flanking him. They’re trying to keep me away from downtown, where there’s less likely to be people around. It was a sound strategy, and he didn’t think there was much he could do about it. He couldn’t outdistance Casey. But he found that a part of him didn’t mind keeping things private, away from spectators. He supposed that it was his pride. He’d gotten himself into this. It was his responsibility to get out of it, and his alone. But even as he thought these things he cursed himself for his stubbornness. Pride goeth before the fall, he thought grimly. But I haven’t fallen yet.

  The field that he was running across looked familiar, and he realized that he’d been here a short time before. This was where the pavilion was put up and the fireworks held each year on the fourth of July. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw that Daddy was now between himself and the Willow Road, while Casey on his right had slowed to a trot, knowing that he was between Tad and any likely help. An old dusty Chevy rattled by, heading toward town, and Tad raised his undamaged left arm over his head and shouted, doing his best to attract its attention. The driver didn’t notice. Already he was too far from the road.

  He turned, panting, keeping both Casey and Daddy in his sight, moving steadily backward. An animal at bay. He was drenched in sweat. His shirt was soaked in it. If he wanted to avoid confronting the tandem that was advancing on him (slowly now, and Daddy with the grin back on his face), he had only two options- either turn back and run parallel to the tree line and the Willow Road, away from town, or plunge straight into the woods. It wasn’t much of a choice, really. If he ran along the Willow Road, Casey would catch up to him within seconds. At least in the woods maybe he had a chance to lose them. The decision made, he acted on it without another thought, turning to the green wall and its welcome shade and running to it as fast as his legs would carry him, his arm cradled to his chest like a sleeping infant, a chorus of birdsong rising about him, nature, perhaps, showing its neutrality and unconcern for his troubles. But well he remembered Stitch’s words- he knows these woods like the back of his hand, and they obey him; when you are among them, you must always assume that he has the upper hand. There was no alternative.

  There were some scraggly looking bushes that had taken root beyond the edge of the woods itself; these he rushed past, dodging a few fallen tree limbs. Birds chirruped in alarm and flew from the path of his mad flight. The trees offered but little relief from the heat, and he was slowed down significantly by the lack of mobility in the arm. If he even let it swing down toward its normal position the slightest bit, another stab of pain ran through him. He hurtled a fallen log, making his way over fairly even ground. Chancing a look back, he could no longer see Daddy, but he could hear his ranting somewhere close, and he caught a glimpse of Casey, his head lowered, mouth open, looking for all the world like a hunting wolf hot on the heels of its quarry. His eyes were no longer vacant, but shone with the single-minded ferocity that he kept in reserve for the football field and which was always near to him, in his everyday swagger and attitude, a barely controlled rage. Tad was frightened by this combination, Daddy and his brother. Of all the “master manipulator’s” considerable weapons, all that might have been lacking was physical formidability. Now he had Casey to provide him that, and whether Casey was acting voluntarily or not was irrelevant. Tad would not be able to reach him.

  To outdistance them, break the line of sight, and go to ground was his only hope. There was a stitch in his side now, and he knew he could not go much further. He heard the whistle blowing again, once, twice. He could not tell from where. The ground had become rockier, and it was gradually heading downhill; looking back again he stumbled and almost went down. As he righted himself a figure sprang nimbly onto a small boulder directly in front of him. “That’s a fifteen yard penalty!” Daddy shouted, pointing a finger at him. Tad took a hard right, streaking away, swearing. How had Daddy gotten in front of him? He knows these woods like the back of his hand, that’s how. He’s going to run you down like a dog and let your brother pick the bones. They’re going to eat you alive in there. Eat you alive…

  “Shut up!” He sped up, trying to put all he had left into one more burst. Abruptly, the ground fell away in front of him and he heard the noise of water. He did not have time to stop but instead went skidding down the slope. For slope it was, luckily, and not cliff. He knew where he was now, more or less. He had been here before, or close to here, on the fourth of July, and under similar circumstances, fleeing from his brother. He came to rest crouched on his knees, as a shower of stones he’d dislodged on the way down rattled on the streambed about him. He glanced about quickly. To his right the banks of the stream narrowed, but were not very steep. To his left they widened and became those cliffs that were nearly impossible to scale. And he knew what else lay in that direction- the bowl shaped canyon where the meager trickle of water ended. He had managed to hide there before. He could not count on being so lucky again. He turned to his right, and halted in his tracks.

  From around a curve in the streambed a few hundred yards away, Casey jogged into view. He was sweating, but he did not look fatigued. That look in his eyes again of seeing but not seeing. Though the strength for flight had largely left Tad, he gathered himself for another push anyhow. But even as he did so a flash of movement from the top of the slope that he had just descended, and the devil in the referee outfit was there. Crouched over, his hands on his hips. His options thus restricted, Tad made a move for the opposite bank, but instantly Casey leapt forward and onto the rise of the slope to cut him off should he flee again. Only then did he see the full scope of the plan, as it was coming together. They lured me here. My flight was not as random as I thought. They knew where I would go. And now the trap was sprung. Casey was moving forward, taking his time now, and Daddy was coming down from above. It sickened Tad to look at them, and he turned away for the last weary sprint.

  He could do no more than jog, his arm held to his chest, and he did, going along the streambed toward the bottleneck, keeping mainly to the larger rocks. He did not care when his feet splashed through the sad trickle of water that was all that had survived the long months of drought. The banks widened, becoming cliffs, as the way back was now well and truly barred. Casey and Daddy moving together now, calmly, like a couple out for a Sunday stroll in the park, keeping a watchful eye on the explorations of their offspring a ways ahead. “Where does he think he’s going?” Daddy asked.

  “I don’t know, Coach,” Casey responded dreamily. Indeed, to Tad the whole thing had begun to have the feeling of a dream, one of those nightmares where you are chased by what you most fear and it dogs you no matter how far or how fast you run. His limbs had become heavy, and he thought that the pain had nearly taken physical form. It walked alongside him, as much there as the two other actors in this drama, taking place out in the
wild with no one to see. The only spectator the orb of fire overhead, whose sight nothing escaped. He thought suddenly of Daisy, and he smiled, the image of her up in her nest with her head bowed, reading, like a drink of cold, clear water to a man who has been wandering in the desert. At least you will be safe now, he thought. But they had parted with harsh words, and he wished now that he’d been able to set things right, before this. Before the end.

  For now he was coming to the end of the stream, where it disappeared through the cracks into the earth. He turned and looked back, standing at the edge of the drop off, behind him the wide expanse of the basin cast in the rock with the stunted trees clinging to its side. The fall looked farther than he remembered. He could see, though, that now he was in an exposed position again, Casey was twitching to finish the job. His muscles quivered and jerked, his fingers were shaking in anticipation of the charge. He only waited for the signal from his handler. “Ha!” Daddy snorted, breaking the silence. “Are we ready then? Hmm, yes. I think we are.” He licked his lips, raising the whistle to them dramatically. He fairly reeked of glee. Self satisfaction.

  Tad did not do him the courtesy of waiting for the signal. He turned and made an ungainly leap, without really looking to see if he had a clear landing spot. He landed not on the actual rock face but on the side of one of the boulders scattered below; it was a good sized chunk of gray shale, weighing probably not less than half a ton. It was sloping down at an angle, and he did not land on it flush, but instead banged his right knee into it while finding a more or less secure purchase with his left. Then he slid down it and dropped off to land on his tail bone. The pain from the new injury to his knee was not instantaneous. It took a few seconds to register, like the moments after one stubs a toe, but even then he largely ignored it. He was much more concerned by the fresh pain in his shoulder, for when he’d fallen off the rock he’d instinctually put his hands out behind him to break his fall. The impact had been almost enough to make him pass out. But he ignored it as best he could, and scrambled away from the overhang, looking up for the faces that he knew would be looking over the side.

  They weren’t there. In a panic he spun around, in one direction, then another. He moved further back, so that he could take in more of the ledge above the drop off. Then he saw them. They had each taken a different way. Daddy was over on the far left, at one of the spots where the drop from one level to the other was the shortest distance, and Casey was over to the right, moving with the effortless grace of a prowling jungle cat. His expression that curious combination of intense yet distant. There was something about their movements that seemed rehearsed, choreographed. As if they had done this dance before, and knew the steps. A strange inevitability to it all. In the past months there had been moments and days that seemed to have all been competing for worst of his life. This was the new winner in both categories. He tried to remember if there had good moments to temper the bad. He thought maybe there were. The heady exhilaration that comes not only with the making of new friends and depth of experience so outside the realm of what is known, but also the realization of presences in the world, and not just out there somewhere, but so remarkably close by. In my own back yard. But nothing is ever what it seems, is it, and what a harsh way to learn that lesson! Unimaginable. Just a few short weeks ago. For I won’t have the opportunity to ever use that knowledge, will I? He pawed the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his good arm. Who said life was fair? another voice said. He snarled in reply. A new curse, now, to have all the rhetorical questions one asks answered for you. But maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with it for too much longer.

  Time was getting funny, he thought, although maybe he was just imagining it. He thought he could feel the natural world around the three of them, everything that lately he’d become hypersensitive to, tensing itself. The trees, the branches moving just slightly within the curvature of the rock walls, some zephyr trapped down here like he was. The birds that he could see, watchful in the branches but silent. The very rock under his feet. Awaiting what was to come.

  He felt a complete and total weariness that went far beyond the physical. All thoughts of bravery and heroics had evaporated. What he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and let whatever was going to happen, happen. It no longer needed his permission, or participation. And it was as he was thinking this that he glanced up and happened to see the crevice, over to his left, partially blocked by leaves, the sliver in the rock where he’d hidden before, not so long ago, on the fourth of July. Without pausing to think, he limped over to it, thrust aside the branches, and squeezed in. He led with his injured shoulder, maneuvering as carefully as he could, like a caterpillar wriggling his way along a tree limb. It was every bit as tight as he remembered, barely big enough for him to fit his body. He went back into it as far as he could go. And then he leaned forward, resting his head on the cool rock wall, sweating, heart pounding, body screaming pain messages. And he closed his eyes.

  He didn’t have long to wait. He heard an ugly snigger, partially muffled, and Casey saying something. Then he could make out Daddy speaking, in a high pitched, excited way. The litany went on for some time. Tad couldn’t tell much of what was said, but he could hear Casey responding at the appropriate moments. Then he heard footsteps scrabbling on the rock. He didn’t know if they’d found him or not, and he was just beginning to entertain notions that he’d given them the slip. But he should have known better. “He’s here, Coach!” Casey called gruffly. Tad opened his eyes and turned his head toward the front of his hiding place. His brother stood there with his body blocking out most of the light. He could see Casey’s shoulders heaving, the hands vibrating with the thoughts of crushing and rending. Then Casey took a step backward to allow his bug-eyed taskmaster to look in. Daddy was sweating unpleasantly; it looked like his face was oozing, but the expression on it was of the utmost delight.

  “Hum!” he said, and clapped his hands. “Ha! Yes! There you are! Snug as a bug in a rug! But why are you squirreling yourself away, hem hup! Don’t you want to play any longer? Don’t you love us anymore?” Tad did not respond. He had closed his eyes and turned his head away, determined to completely disengage himself from the situation. He had run as far as he could go. He was at his limit. There was nothing more to be done. Daddy put his hands on his hips and nibbled at his lower lip. “You!” he said presently. “Blunt instrument. Get him out of there.”

  Instantly Casey sprang forward, turning his shoulder and trying to squeeze through the opening. He managed to get his left arm inside the crack, but he couldn’t go any further. It was narrow enough so that only a desperate squirm by Tad had gained him entry; he’d needed to wriggle like a worm on a hook. Casey couldn’t do it. His frame was simply too broad. He could get either arm in up to the shoulder, and that was all. Tad, as far back as he could possibly go, was just beyond his reach, and there he remained, his eyes tightly shut. His mind was traveling away again, away from the pain and each one of his senses that screamed at him. Mercifully, he was approaching a state that, if not unconsciousness, was something close enough. He thought himself lying on the floor of the shower again, the hot water forming that protective, soothing cocoon, or maybe even back further than that, in the warm and welcome confines of the womb. He did not need to stand. The rock held him in place. The voices in his head had become a gentle murmur. The drone of bees pollinating flowers or waves breaking against the shore at low tide.

  Casey continued straining, seeing his prey so close but unreachable. “Stop that!” Daddy ordered, and Casey reluctantly stepped aside, baring his teeth. Daddy stepped up to the crack and tilted his head sideways like a curious spaniel. “You know, you’ll never make the team that way,” he said. “What we need are young men with pluck! Ahem! Initiative! We don’t need any skulkers or back sliders, and we certainly don’t want any cave dwellers! Ahem!” Tad didn’t so much as twitch, and Daddy scuffed the soles of his shoes against the rock. The plan had worked perfectly, up until this moment, but this
was an eventuality the master manipulator hadn’t counted on. As Tad had already discovered for himself, nothing upset James Crawley more than when things didn’t go his way, in particular when it applied to unexpected problems in the physical world that couldn’t be solved through his considerable mental acumen. He’d worked all this out, and now in his current state, with his prize so close, the idea that he might be thwarted by something as simple as a crack in the rock was incomprehensible to him. He stood there simply staring at Tad’s hiding place, expressions of disgust and displeasure flitting across his face. Casey stood near, watching him tensely. “Get him out!” Daddy cried finally. “Tear the rock apart!”

  Casey snarled in answer and launched a new assault. He reached one arm in and clawed at his brother, then withdrew it and tried the other. He pressed his body against the unyielding surface, but to no avail. Tad was out of reach. “Pull him out!” Daddy screeched again. He put the whistle to his lips and blew it twice as hard as he had before, sending piercing blasts that echoed and reechoed across the canyon. The birds sitting on the leaning trees around the rim did not stir. Perhaps they were enthralled by the proceedings. All was quiet, but for Casey’s grunting and Daddy’s tirade, for now he took the whistle from his mouth and unleashed a string of foul names at both Surrey brothers. Casey was, in fact, tearing at the rock face now, but for all his strength, he caused not a dent or a chink. Daddy was dancing like a prize fighter, now dashing back and forth, now hopping up and down like a spectator in the cheap seats at the Roman Coliseum. “Pull him out!” he shouted again. “Yank him out! Drag him out! Extricate! Eliminate! Eradicate!” Casey’s hands were bruised and scored, the fingers bloody, but that hadn’t slowed him down. He continued to scratch and claw, his eyes still that same combination of intense and vacant. But it was doing no good, and Daddy could see that was so. And James Crawley’s face darkened, like the portent of a threatening summer thundershower of the kind that the thirsting countryside so desperately needed. He tore the whistle from his neck and hurtled it to the ground. Then he raised his arms to the level of his midsection and extended all of his fingers at once toward Casey, like a conductor signaling part of the orchestra. Casey, in the act of scrabbling at the rock, stopped at once, like a dog who has heard the command of its master.