The Apprentice

by Jana Barkley

  “Hi there. I just got home and got your message.”

  Jason closed the door and brought the last groceries to the kitchen.

  “Yes, I’ll hold for the doctor.”

  She and her son exchanged puzzled glances, but Sam shrugged and smiled. “I want to talk to you about something—later,” she whispered.

  “What?” he coaxed, interested.

  She shook her head and pointed to the phone.

  “Yes, Dr. Franco, I’m here.” Sam winked at her boy. It only took a few seconds for the color to drain from her face and she stumbled to the sofa to sit down.

  “Mom?”

  She raised her hand to silence him and turned away. “I see,” she said. Then after several minutes, “Yes, I understand. I can be there on Monday.”

  When she hung up, she let the phone slide onto the sofa.

  “Is it your lab results?” By now he was worried.

  She nodded and turned toward him.

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  Her eyes found his but she couldn’t speak. Mrs. Ward’s voice came again to her mind. It is never too late to start again.

  “Mom—” he insisted.

  She opened her mouth to tell him, but the only words that came out were, “It’s too late.”

  Red-tailed hawk: (Buteo jamaicensis) a large, broad-winged hawk capable of taking a wide variety of game; often an apprentice’s first hawk

  Chapter Three

  Sheridan, Wyoming 1979

  The first time he’d seen that hawk was back in April when snow still clung to the cottonwoods down by the Little Goose River. She was one of three just starting to fledge and he made it a point to watch the young birds every day after school.

  It was simple enough to ride his bike down the deer trail starting behind Bullard’s Garage and stash it behind the large boulders north of Jump Off Rock, where most of the teenagers of Sheridan came every summer to swim where the water was wide. He didn’t worry about anyone seeing him today since it was way past summer and the first hints of autumn had started to announce its arrival in the latent gold and rose hues of afternoon sun. His buddies were practicing football or rushing home to their chores like he should be.

  He tried not to think about his dad laying into him if he knew what kept him from getting home. There were cattle and horses to feed, stalls to be mucked, and always, endless miles of fence to be ridden and mended. Hank swore the miles of fence line needed to be ridden and repaired on a working cattle ranch was as limitless and unending as the great Wyoming sky. He hated that chore more than any other some days, but on others he loved it because it meant he could ride out alone on his horse and be free of his father’s ever-vigilant scrutiny. He knew what irritated the old man about his only son, and he had learned how to hide it pretty well.

  It had all started when he was twelve and had found a book in the school library called Falconry. It was written by a man in England and talked about training a hawk to hunt with you. He’d talked about it to his parents for weeks, months until his father had tried to explain it was something they did over in Europe, not in America. Hank couldn’t believe that and got to work researching falconry at the local library. For four years the ladies at the check-out counter could only smile and shake their heads when they saw him coming to inquire if they had anything new. Finally, heaven arrived in the form of a book written by two falconers, one living in Canada and the other in America who had written about falconry as it was being practiced in North America. Hank checked the book out again, and again, and again until he knew it by heart from cover to cover. He spent late evening hours copying parts of it down word for word since he knew he’d have to give it back eventually.

  Then he’d started watching the wild hawks, learning their seasons for mating up, having young, and flying away when the weather changed with the promise of bitter Wyoming winters. He’d worn his father out with talk of hunting with a hawk but made his mother laugh as he filled her head with facts. His father had finally set down an ultimatum: if Hank didn’t focus on his chores after school like all decent sons should do, he’d have to find another place to live. No son of his was going to live under his roof and while away his life on daydreams about birds when there was serious work to be done.

  Of course Hank knew his father would never kick him out, but he reined in the enthusiasm he felt every time he saw a red tail on the wing soaring above the pastures of the Bar S ranch. His heart was up there with that hawk, but he knew better than to let his dad notice this.

  He’d felt badly about the lie he’d told his dad this year, though it had bought him several hours after school in the fall to sneak down to the river and watch the hawks. He’d never been one to play team sports, though the coach at Sheridan High had always encouraged him to go out for football. He had the size and speed and a pretty good arm when it came to throwing, but it wasn’t for him. The thought of telling his parents he was practicing for the team that early October when he knew the young red tails were getting ready to fly away was too irresistible and worth his father’s wrath should he ever learn the truth.

  Stashing his bike in the brush behind the diving rock, Hank foraged around and found the leather bag he had hidden there a week ago. Next to it was a trap he’d spent several nights making in his bedroom well after his dad had called lights out and he’d had to use a flashlight to see the nooses he was tying. The book had taught him how to make a trap for the juvenile hawk—he had to make sure it was one of the young and had learned how to tell it apart from the adults. Making his way stealthily down to the river and following the faint path he had begun to trace with his daily forays into this wooded paradise, he spotted the tree up ahead and hunkered down in the brush to hide and watch.

  The young birds were bouncing from branch to branch, not quite flying but almost, and squawking like they were dying of hunger.

  He’d trapped a rat in the barn and kept it alive to act as bait, and he pulled it out of the box in his pack and put it in the wire trap he’d made. Then sliding forward on his stomach in the brush, he pushed the trap forward just enough so the young hawks would see it on the edge of the riverbank. Then shinnying back up the bank he pulled out his leather pack and the equipment he’d made from the instructions in the book. He was ready with leather anklets and jesses and leash, as well as a makeshift hood to calm the wild hawk down once he’d caught it, exactly like the book had instructed.

  He was startled from his preparations by a loud crack from the other side of the river. The hawks screamed and flew off in different directions but not before Hank noticed one of the young birds flopping in the brush by the water’s edge. Two young boys, not quite twelve, came bounding forward hollering.

  “I told you it was a chicken hawk!” he squealed in pleasure to his friend.

  Before Hank knew what he was doing, he was wading across the river and yelling until he felt his voice give out. Both boys looked at him like he was crazy and took off running in the other direction. By the time he made it to the other bank, the kids were gone and he knelt down to see what they had done.

  It was one of the larger babies, probably the female he’d been wanting for himself. She was still alive and terrified. He’d been scared to touch his first wild hawk after reading about how a hawk could perforate your hand with its sharp talons and strong feet, but his heart took over and he reached out to bind its splayed wings together and examine it. Surprisingly, it seemed more stunned than anything, though there was a little blood on the end of its wing. As Hank tried to manipulate the wing to check it, the young hawk panicked and tried valiantly to escape, feet flying forward to grab and hurt him. He managed to miss the giant talons and found a way to wedge the bird between his thighs as he examined her.

  It didn’t feel like her wing was broken, but then he didn’t know anything about birds, so he couldn’t be sure. His first thought was the new vet in town, Dr. Smith. Most of the country folk about didn’t waste money on vets let alone have pets.
They practiced country medicine and the animals either survived or they didn’t. But somehow, Hank reasoned, this man might be willing to help a teenage boy with an injured bird as most of the locals still didn’t know him.

  Hank had the bird wrapped up in his hands, back across the river and then wrapped up in a cloth in his leather bag in no time, speeding for town and the vet’s office. He didn’t care if his father found out, as he was certain to do once anyone in town caught sight of Gerard’s boy carrying a hawk into the newcomer’s office. Somehow he’d stepped past what was important to everyone else to honor what was most important to him—he must save this hawk.

  Dr. Smith’s jaw dropped at first when the sixteen-year-old barged into his exam room carrying the wild bird, but sprang into action and told Hank he’d studied birds in school and thought he might be able to help.

  “I’ll do anything to help this bird,” Hank declared. “I don’t have much money, but I’ll work or do anything.”

  Dr. Smith had smiled and stopped him short. “It’s not often I get to work on birds, Hank. Let’s see what we have going on here.”

  They unwrapped the hawk and Dr. Smith warned, “Watch it!” when the young red tail tried to foot the humans.

  “I’ve got her,” Hank reassured the doctor.

  Together they examined the shot to the wing and determined the wing was not broken. Dr. Smith removed remnants of shot from the wound and treated it.

  When he was done, he cleaned up and then sat down to look at Hank, holding the wild hawk in his hands.

  “Now, what are your plans for this bird?”

  Hank shrugged, not wanting to let anyone in on his dream. Doing that meant someone could tell his father and they’d all think he was crazy. But something about the new doctor encouraged him and he suddenly found himself spilling his guts.

  The vet smiled when Hank had reached the end of his tale.

  “You know, I saw a guy flying a falcon once,” he said. “He learned how to do it in England during the war and came home with a bird.” He looked at Hank and added,” You’re going to need a place to keep the hawk if you’re going to learn how to fly it.”

  Hank knew the truth of that, but the reality was his father would never let him keep it at the ranch.

  “Let me show you something,” said Dr. Smith and lead him through the exam room and out a back door. The yard behind the office was fenced and there were several sheds.

  “I don’t keep anything in this small shed,” he said, walking to the nearest one and opening the door. “If you were to clean this out, I suppose I could let you use it to house the hawk while it’s getting better and you’re learning how to work with it.”

  Hank was stunned and thankful. He promised to do chores, work after school, whatever the doctor needed, and the older man laughed.

  “Just promise you’ll come every day to take care of it so I won’t have to, okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hank promised solemnly. He’d cleaned the shed and made a perch of sorts from an old wooden box and tied the hawk to it with the gear he’d already made. When he left by late afternoon to rush home, he could still see the wild bird flaring its wings and gripping the makeshift perch fiercely as he shut and locked the door.

  He knew there’d be hell to pay as he sped home. He was late and the sun was getting ready to set, but he didn’t give a damn. After the yelling subsided and he’d apologized several times, life would go on. All he wanted to do was get home and read his book about how to start the training. Images of her flying free and returning to his glove made him laugh out loud as he pedaled his bike ferociously. He had a hawk and no one could take it away from him now.

  To Fly at Check: To hesitate in pursuit of one quarry for another

  Chapter Four

  She’d never hunted anything in her life. What the hell was she doing here now? Frustrated, Sam sat in her rented SUV, waiting for the longest train in the world to clear the tracks. An hour ago, it had clunked to a stop and blocked three-fourths of the road, making it impossible to maneuver around it to the other side. Snow was predicted for the upland desert of the Sierra Valley, so the rental had been a necessary inconvenience, like so many other obstacles she had encountered to get here. She’d made a couple of wrong turns and double backs, all the while griping at herself as her stomach growled and she fought the fear she was lost in the middle of nowhere and might have to sleep in the car. And all of this was just so she could meet up with some falconers who had invited her to join them for a weekend of hunting. Well, Mary Kate had called and invited her.

  She’d been staring at the crumbling, dilapidated excuse for a road for an eternity, not sure whether to cry or scream. It would have been easier to go home and lie low for a day after a painful needle biopsy of her lymph node that morning. This time had hurt worse than the last, and the swelling hadn’t gone down. The ache throbbing deep in the side of her neck every time she craned her head forward, searching for hidden or non-existent road signs, told her this was a fool’s escapade. Her doctor had wanted to do a lumbar puncture as well, but Sam’s mind was fixed on going hawking. She’d never get an opportunity like this again. She’d convinced him to pass on it this weekend and start with just the small outpatient procedure of a core biopsy of the swollen lymph node in her neck. How could she tell him she was afraid a needle puncture to her hip or spine would make her unable to keep up with the others as they walked in the field? Besides, they’d already found the wrong kind of cells from the previous needle aspiration of her other lymph gland. How much more confirmation did they need? The dates for chemo had been set. There was no going back.

  Disgusted, she sighed and shut the car off. Alone, with only the sound of her breathing in the vacuum quiet of the SUV, she stared at the dark and somnolent valley surrounding her in all its stark beauty, but the view evoked little interest.

  They were waiting for her at some little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Well, to be honest, they were having dinner after a day of hunting with their birds. Apart from Mary Kate, who had invited her to join them, no one knew her or cared if she made it at all. A late start, getting lost, and now this stalled train made the certainty of missing them all too real. Sam glared at the neon-green numbers on the dashboard clock. By now, they must have finished dinner and made plans to meet up the next day without her. Not a good start for someone trying to prove she had what it took—to become a falconer.

  Just trying on that phrase in her mind tantalized her with its implications. This was what the trip to what the others called a “mini-meet” was all about, to prove, in spite of her circumstances, she had what it took to become one of them. And to do that, she’d have to talk one of them into sponsoring her through an apprenticeship. They didn’t know about her sickness. It was her nasty little secret.

  The throbbing in her neck reached a sharper level of intensity, and Sam fumbled for the newly prescribed painkillers in her purse until some movement caught her eye. The faded yellow car with large, black letters stating it was the property of the Southern Pacific Railroad clanked and banged into sluggish action, groaning at the task of shifting its load. Sam flung her purse back onto the passenger seat and started the engine. At last, it pulled ahead enough for her to snake around its tail end, and she sped up the dark valley road, aiming for the lights ahead, which had to be the town of Portola.

  The restaurant was easy to find; it was probably the only one in town. Sam bolted through the front doors, eliciting surprised glances from some of the wait staff. This was not the usual calm and cool Sam who could master any situation. There was nothing worse than not being at her best when she wanted to make a good impression, and here she was, late, half-starved, and exhausted. Her eyes searched the room and noticed a group in the back corner. A few had gotten up to leave, and others huddled together in animated conversations. She saw a familiar face and plunged ahead.

  “Hi.” Her voice sounded weak, underscoring her discomfort. She’d never realized how much of a control freak sh
e was to let herself get so rattled. Another lesson in self-discovery, she thought, like every day with this disease was becoming.

  “Hey, girl. You made it.” The husky female voice helped smooth her ruffled feathers.

  “Yeah, finally.” She laughed, though she didn’t feel like laughing. Looks from people she didn’t know told her she was an outsider, and her stomach gave a turn. A glance at Mary Kate’s face for reassurance helped, but even this new acquaintance was more interested in what others around her were saying. Sam didn’t know if she should sit down and make herself at home or stand by until invited.

  “So, tomorrow at Hallelujah Junction. Ten o’ clock.” A tall man in rancher’s garb loomed over her as he made the announcement, and everyone got up.

  They were leaving, and she was clueless about what came next. She’d already gotten lost once out here and didn’t relish experiencing that again. Sam felt her face flush, something she hated more than anything as a fair-skinned, blue-eyed blonde who couldn’t hide that kind of embarrassment to save her life, makeup or no makeup.

  “Hallelujah what?” Sam ventured with some anxiety.

  Mary Kate turned, aware of her again.

  “It’s at the end of town by the 395. See you there in the morning?” She smiled, and Sam did too, nodding. She didn’t know where the hell the end of town was, let alone the 395, but she was too weak and worn out from hunger to protest she was lost.

  Sam dropped into a nearby chair as the others left. How had she become so helpless? A waitress started clearing the table in front of her.

  “Is it too late to order something?” She was nauseous from the new medications she’d started after the needle biopsy that morning and needed to get something into her stomach.

  The woman, in her fifties, tried to hide her disapproval. “The kitchen’s closing, miss.”

  She choked down unshed tears and managed a nod.