By Sunday evening, Barry had completely thrown Susan over for the creek. Barry put on waist-high rubber trousers and headed for deep water. She watched from the boulders like a dismal cheerleader as currents skirled around his knees.
And Monday was just as dull. Susan read the hardbacked biography of Benjamin Franklin, a book thick enough to impress any man. But Barry stood by the fire with his fishing pole and a dumb grin and he turned in early so he could chase fish for breakfast.
And now it was Tuesday evening, and they were lost.
"It's Monday, isn't it?" Barry said.
"It's Tuesday."
Barry nodded, fumbled through his backpack, and brought out his fancy bottled water. The campfire glinted off the plastic. Barry peered at the bottle. It was as vacant as his eyes.
"Are we in West Virginia or plain Virginia?" Susan hated herself for not knowing. They’d passed through Harper’s Ferry and over the Shenandoah River, then up Loudon Heights where the trail maps showed a meandering thread back and forth across the border. They headed south out of survival instinct, toward warmer weather. Susan hadn't kept track of miles, all she knew was her feet were sore.
She could outwalk Barry any day, and she could pitch her tent faster than he did. Barry had no brain cells that weren't clouded by Ted Williams and trout and AnnaBeth-what’s-her-name.
And now Susan was stuck with him.
In the mountains.
In the fog with dark coming on.
And it was Tuesday evening.
Late October.
In the Southern Appalachian Mountains.
Susan’s grandma, who everybody called "Mamaw," said the mountains were way wilder than what the movies said. The mountains weren’t hillbilly dolls and moonshine stills. The mountains were old as time, and secrets slept under a mile of worn dirt. Mamaw said those who belonged to them always came back, because the trees and rocks and people and animals were all of the same blood, tapped into the same spirit. Mamaw told of the Wampus Cat, the creature that could change from a witch to a cat in order to seek its prey better, and how it had been caught in the middle of its transformation. Now, when the moon was full, it could be seen in human size, howling, dripping saliva from its fangs, its yellow eyes glowing in the fierce furry face.
Susan shook herself awake.
For the second time.
Cold.
Because Barry was curled and snoring in his little pup tent. And she had to use the bathroom—or in this case, the woods. Real bad.
The Appalachian twilight was scary, because she was from Gastonia. Dead factory town, lazy with the letter a and not too proud of it. The mountains were a myth that lay somewhere beyond the pollution belt, the land of legends. But in the dark, the legends seemed far too real. And Mamaw said legends didn’t lie. And dogs didn’t like Mamaw.
Susan shook Barry’s tent. "I've got to go."
"Snurk?"
She shook again. "I've got to go out in the woods. And it's getting dark."
Barry stuck his head out of the tent.
"Sorry, AnnaBeth," he said.
"I'm Susan."
"Sorry."
Men were always sorry.
Especially Barry.
"I've got to go behind a tree. And I don't want to go out there alone." Susan could walk the back streets in factory towns, roll miles on a city subway, take a plane to Pensacola. But the West Virginia woods were a different story. Or were these the Virginia woods?
Barry groaned and crawled out of the tent. He stumbled, groggy from sleep, and went to the fire. He busied himself throwing wood on the pile of embers while she sneaked behind the nearest oak.
As she relieved herself, the chirping of the crickets rose in an uneven symphony. Mamaw said the animals knew songs older than the creek music that trickled between high boulders. And they sang louder in late October, when the magic inside the world seeped closer to the outer skin. Susan heard something in the brush and wiped and zipped before she was completely finished.
Barry sat on a big rock by the fire. The firelight cast him in bronze and he looked attractive again. Then he belched and the wind changed and smoke drifted into Susan’s face. She sat on the ground across from him, as far away as she could manage without freezing to death.
"Are we near Shepherdstown?" she asked. Because Shepherdstown was a real place, a dot on the map, and no doubt had some kind of fast-food franchise. If she ate another handful of honey-sweetened rolled oats, she was going to turn into a diabetic horse.
Barry pulled his compass from his belt. His golden brow furrowed. On Saturday, such a simple gesture would have set her shivering with love. Now she wanted to pull his ears down over his head and cram his compass into his nose.
Barry tapped the compass and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I think so."
Barry said "think" with the old Barryesque self-confidence. Even in doubt, he was never wrong.
Susan counted the days backwards on her fingers. "We left on the twenty-seventh, right?"
"Yeah. Parked the car in Maryland. Greenbrier, wasn’t it?" He patted his pocket to make sure he still had the keys. She should have paid attention to little dissonant clues like the Green Party sticker on the bumper of his gas-hog SUV. Clues like AnnaBeth-Mary’s picture taped to the dashboard. But, on October twenty-seventh, Susan couldn't see beyond his blue eyes.
"That makes tonight Halloween," she said.
"Halloween?" His expression switched from confusion to glee.
She looked around at the trees. Had the crickets fallen silent? She shifted closer to the fire. "And we're lost."
"We're not lost."
"Where are we, then?"
Barry waved his hands at the woods surrounding them. "Here. Near Shepherdstown."
Nowhere. With night sliding from the trees like sick shadows. Barry must have mistaken her look of concern for come-hither. He lowered his voice, the way he'd probably heard George Clooney do it in a movie. "And it's just the two of us, honey. Trick or treat."
Yes, just Barry and Susan. Or was it AnnaBeth-Mary, or maybe the half-dozen other girls Barry had mentioned on the drive down south? Mamaw said you were never alone in the mountains, because the woods watched you like a hungry beast. And legends never lied—
Two golden specks flashed against the black face of the forest. Susan shifted closer to the fire. "Did you see that?"
"Huh?"
"Lights. Like animal eyes."
"Might be a deer. Or a raccoon. Coons like to prowl around campsites."
"These eyes were yellow."
"Probably just a reflection of the fire."
Except the fire was mostly orange and red. Not deep yellow like the eyes. And Mamaw said the mountains had eyes, they watched and they waited, and them that belonged always came back.
Barry grinned with those perfect teeth and moved to Susan’s side, dragging the backpack. He rummaged in a zippered pouch and brought out a cigarette. He lit it and passed it to her, but she shook her head.
"I’m scared of cancer."
He took another drag and put his arm around her. "Don't be scared. I'll protect you."
She was wondering who was going to protect her from Barry. That’s when the branch snapped. She hated herself for it, but she snuggled closer to Barry. Mamaw and her stories. Always told as if the strange were true. "That sounded way too big for a raccoon."
Barry tapped the pipe clean on a stump. "Noise carries funny in the mountains, especially at night."
"Do they have bears up here?" Mamaw said bears were almost as bad as the big mountain cats, the "painters," what had big fangs and screamed like women in the hurt of childbirth. But nothing compared to a vengeful and angry Wampus Cat.
Barry gave his hiccup of a laugh. "The Smoky Mountains have more black bears than you can shake a stick at. Huh-huh. Smoky." He stubbed out the cigarette.
"According to the guidebook, this is the Shenandoah National Forest, not the Smokies."
"Whatever. Mountains are moun
tains."
Her tent looked inviting, but if she crawled inside, she’d be trapped. And the canvas walls looked far too flimsy to hold back a large animal. Or the weight of the mountains. Or the strength of legends.
"Say, I know a good ghost story," Barry said.
"I don't want to hear any ghost stories."
"Hey, come on. It's Halloween."
How could she tell him what a jerk her was without insulting him and losing what little comfort he offered? As much as she hated to admit it, she needed him. At least until they reached civilization, at which point she would happily give back his twangy bluegrass CDs and never speak to him again. He could drive north, she could head south, and the mountains would forget them, go on with the business of being ancient and full of secrets.
The noise came again, louder and to Susan’s left. "Did you hear it that time?"
Barry pointed up through the gap in the trees. "Moon's almost full."
"On Halloween."
"You don't believe in that kind of junk, do you?"
"Spooks and goblins?" she said. "No, not when I'm safe in bed with a deadbolt on the door and the radio going. But out here, it's different. And you never heard Mamaw’s stories."
Stories about the lady with the lamp, who glowed by the river; painters who followed the wood wagon home, screaming all the way; fireflies that stabbed a billion sparks above the creek beds; frost that glittered in the soft ghost breath of morning; legends that grew legs and flesh and teeth and walked the Southern hills. Stuff that got in your blood and owned you.
"These mountains are alive." Barry's idea of poetry. Or his way of scaring her. All the same, with Barry.
"I don't want to hear any more strange noises, thank you." Susan would not allow this idiot to hear her whine. Her discomfort was genuine, deeper than ancient granite and Mamaw’s long line of handed-down stories. "And I don't want to see red eyes in the forest. All I want is a hot bath and a greasy hamburger and some clean sheets."
Barry tried to look wounded, but the expression came off as something an inept president might hide behind during a press conference. He took his arm from her shoulders.
"I thought you were an Earth chick," he said.
"I'm not a chick in any sense of the word. I'm not going to grow up to be a hen, and roosters hold absolutely no appeal. But I’m about ready to ruffle some feathers."
"Don't be like that."
She started to pour it on, dump eighty miles of hiking and their being lost and his two-track-mindedness on him and probably she would end up crying in frustration except, before she could really get rolling, she saw the yellow eyes again.
In front of them, maybe fifteen feet away.
This time, even Barry saw them.
"What was that?" He stood and grabbed a long limb from the fire, held it as a torch.
The eyes disappeared in blackness.
"That wasn't a reflection." Susan picked up the closest rock.
"Looked like yellow eyes to me."
"I told you."
"Shh." Barry waved his hand.
The noise came from the left. And the right. And behind them.
Susan turned her back to the fire. The rock was heavy in her hand. The only direction that didn't seem scary was up, with the stars blind in the glow of the moon. Mamaw said the sky hung heavier in the mountains, that it took your breath and then your soul, because you’re closer to heaven here.
The eyes flashed beside her tent. Branches broke. The laughter of wind swept from the trees.
Halloween. Trick or treat. In the land of legends. Mamaw’s territory.
The campfire grabbed some oxygen and jumped for the sky. Smoke burned Susan's eyes and nose. The forest grew wild, unafraid, with Appalachian teeth.
The night swooped in like bats, the trees bent with knotted limbs, the golden eyes closed in. It was coming, whatever it was.
Susan raised the rock. "Barry!"
He jumped in front of her and waved the burning stick as if it were a flag. Embers fell from its tip. He shouted at the woods. The eyes froze, then faded back to invisibility.
The air grew still again. The fire sputtered. Leaves settled on the ground. Susan's heart, the one Barry had briefly stolen, was now back and working overtime.
She should have known better than to head south with a man. Not into this land that Mamaw said was haunted by ancient things. Especially not on Halloween.
"What was it?" Susan's hands were cold.
Barry had long lost his glow, was now just another guy with body odor and the deep-seated fear that all guys tried to hide but was always just a sniff away. He tugged at the waistband of his jeans. "Mountain lion, I bet."
"Mountain lion? The guidebook didn't say anything about mountain lions."
Barry tried to ruralize his speech, hard to do with the nasally Maine accent. "Supposed to be extinct in these parts. But there's a lot about these woods that people don't know."
"I know, I know, the land of legends." Susan edged closer to the fire. It was burning low. Somebody would have go in search of wood. Somebody named Barry.
"Big cats, they'll come right up to a camp. They're not afraid."
"Barry, stop trying to scare me."
He grinned.. "Best thing to do is get in the tent and hope it goes away."
"The fire's dying."
"So?" He crawled into his tent.
Susan looked around at the woods. Painters could climb trees, couldn't they? Were they afraid of fire? What color eyes did they have? All the cats Susan knew had golden or green or gray eyes, but those were house cats. Maybe mountain lions were different.
Bigger.
Wild things in the land of legends.
Creatures with fang and claw that had stalked here long before the Catawba and Cherokee and Algonquin, long before the Scottish and Irish and German settlers, and long before Daniel Boone, that original tourist, had started the Southern Appalachians on its downward cultural slide. The guidebook writers from New York couldn't know much about mountain lions, painters, and distant legends. And absolutely nothing about Wampus Cats that were forever locked in transformation, caught between two worlds.
Something chuckled in the dark, and it sure wasn't the ghost of Daniel Boone.
Even though this was Halloween.
When midnight made promises.
Susan didn't wait for the yellow eyes to appear. The wet rustling of leaves was all the encouragement she needed. Still clutching the rock, she scrambled into her tent. She listened closely to the quiet. To Tuesday night. To October.
To Halloween.
To a mountain lion that shouldn't exist.
The creature's silhouette was now clear, black against the amber glow of the fading fire.
"Williams faced the Yankees thirteen times in 1941," Barry said from the neighboring tent.
"Barry." She wasn't sure if she had mustered enough air to summon this lost fool of the wilderness. She tried again, glad she had a rock in her hand.
He grunted, alreaady half asleep.
"Barry!" The shadow was bigger now. Something nuzzled her tent flaps.
Something with long whiskers.
And October teeth.
The fire died.
Susan was alone with the night. And a snoring Barry. And whatever was outside. In Mamaw’s land.
She held her breath, hoping it would go away.
It didn't.
She listened to the breathing of the big mountain cat. Soft, at home in the darkness. At ease. Something that belonged in the land of legends.
Barry would protect her. Barry would growl and grab a stick and scream stupid words at the stars.
And the cat would . . . what?
Barry's uneven snoring was an insult to the crickets.
Susan lay on her belly, ear at the entrance to the tent.
The woods sang a mountain song, of Rebel yells and squirrels and rustling laurel thickets. Creeks ran quick and cold in the dark. A cat purred, patient as the moon. Mamaw
’s ghost sang a lost ballad of wind in the woods.
Susan whispered Barry’s name, afraid the cat would hear. She flicked on her flashlight, pulled down the zipper of the tent, and peered through the nylon netting. More fervid eyes waited in the October blackness. More mountain lions that shouldn't exist. More wild things. More of Mamaw’s painters. And behind them, a Wampus Cat mewling a folk hymn.
She had been wrong all along. Because Barry had seemed like the wild thing, a beast that she must tame or die trying.
Now she saw that he was the danger. He was tame, and his tameness would build a cage around her. His world was one of baseball statistics and environmental rallies and kayaks and snowboards and an endless stream of trail girls, not rocks and trees. He entered this land of legends like a conqueror, with bottled water and wool socks and Yankee pride.
"Deliverance" wasn't a documentary. The Southern Appalachians weren't savage and cruel. The mountains only resisted what didn't belong here. And maybe she belonged, her blood thick through three generations, Mamaw’s heart still beating in hers. A witch’s spell stretching over generations.
The night chill fell away as she left the camp. The eyes surrounded her, warm breath touched her skin, soft paws played at the ground. This was Halloween, a night of trick or treat, when legends came alive. And the legends had come for her.
The forest called, the mountains waited, the wilderness sent an invitation. Mamaw’s song drifted between the trees, beckoning, haunting, welcoming, with a chorus of "Follow your heart."
Her heart was full of the scent of Barry, the stench of his too-human flesh, and her teeth ached for his taste. But he would be easy to track later. For now, the night beckoned.
Susan ran with the painters, free.
Somewhere in the night she changed. At least, half of her did.
###
THE BOY WHO SAW FIRE
He dreamed of hot things.
Red peppers curled like the tips of elf shoes. Stove eyes, their orange coils glaring menacingly. Asphalt, soft and black and casting ribbons of heat on a summer day. Steam baths, mists of boiling dews. And, at the center of his dreams, the point around which these fiery molten ores revolved, was the golden hell of the sun.
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