Night Wings

by Joseph Bruchac

  Having your head pushed underwater, even by a friend joking around in a swimming pool, can be a very unpleasant experience. Especially if you don’t expect it. The situation I am in right now is a lot worse. Needless to say, the ones thrusting my head underwater are not my friends. There is no kidding around involved. Their intentions are deadly serious.

  But knowing I was about to be dunked, even a split second before it happened, gave me enough time to do what I could to prepare. To plan three steps ahead of them.

  The first step, taking a series of quick deep breaths before I was pushed under—packing air into my lungs—is the one I’ve already taken. It doesn’t mean I’m not in danger of being drowned, but it does give me time. I’ve always been able to hold my breath for a long time, so the strategy I have in mind ought to work.

  Step two is to make them think I am panicking. So, even though I’m not terrified, I wave my arms and bang them against the side of the bucket as if trying in vain to lift my head out, which of course I cannot do with the meaty paw of a 250-pound East German gorilla on the back of my head.

  Step three depends on my assumption that Darby Field does not want to actually drown me. His objective is to force my grandfather to do what he wants by torturing me. Actually killing me would defeat the purpose. Field wants me alive—at least for now. So, here goes step three. I stop pushing my head back against Stazi’s hand, stop waving my arms. I go totally limp.

  And just like that I am yanked out of the water and dropped on my side on the ground, where I lie like a limp dishrag.

  “No!” Grampa Peter is yelling. “You’ve killed him, my poor grandson!”

  It almost makes me smile. I can hear from the way he’s yelling that he knows exactly what I am up to. It ought not to have been hard for him to figure it out. It would be more than a little strange if the kid who, at the age of seven, was already diving thirty feet deep to free our lures when they got stuck in our favorite fishing lake, could drown after less than a minute in a bucket. Plus the fact that he has just said more than four words in a row is a sure sign that he’s acting as much as I am.

  “What did you do?” Field is snarling. “Did you break his neck?”

  “I do nothing,” Stazi answers, his tone more than a little defensive. “I only do what you say.”

  I’d like to lie here and listen to their argument heat up even more, but I might start laughing if I do that. Plus any minute now someone might decide to start doing CPR. The thought of any of them giving me mouth-to-mouth is enough to turn my stomach. So I cough convulsively and spit out the mouthful of water I sucked in just before being pulled from the bucket.

  Stazi pulls me up from the ground, thumping his hand on my back in an effort to be helpful. He hits me so hard that he almost knocks me down, and I start coughing for real.

  “Back off, dummkopf!” Field pushes him away from me, steers me to the bench, and sits me down. He’s trying to regain control of the situation, the movie director getting things back on script.

  I sit there, wiping my face, snuffling, being the pathetic kid who has just had the scare of his life but is still trying to be brave. Out of the corner of my eye I see Grampa Peter wink at me.

  “No more,” Grampa Peter says. Even though he is wrapped up in more tape than a Christmas package, his voice is so strong that it turns every head toward him.

  Field keeps his eyes on my grandfather, but reaches out to grab my shirt and pull me toward him, a further reassertion of control on his part.

  “What’s that I hear?” Field asks. “Are you ready to cooperate?”

  Grampa Peter stares at him, his eyes as fierce as an eagle’s. Then he nods his head.

  “I will do it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Old Stories

  There are all kinds of old stories that our elders tell about monsters, like the story that Pmola’s wings made the wind blow so hard on top of Mount Washington. One of my teachers said it was because we were superstitious back then and didn’t understand science; that we made up creatures like Pmola to explain dangerous forces of nature because we didn’t understand that winds are caused by temperature changes and the motion of the earth.

  I kept quiet while the teacher said all that. I didn’t even bother to shake my head inwardly. I just did what I usually do whenever I start hearing that sort of talk. I left the classroom. Not physically, of course. I wasn’t about to end up in detention. I just drifted off into my own daydreams.

  It’s not that I don’t believe in science. But science doesn’t explain everything. My ancestors were not stupid or foolish. We had our own ways of understanding the world. Our stories taught us all kinds of useful lessons, like the lesson that we need to be careful when it comes to power. Some things—and some places—really are dangerous, and the best thing to do is to avoid them.

  For example, there is this one river gorge in Vermont, near a town called Huntington. The old Abenaki name for that gorge is Place That Swallows Us, because our stories told of a monster that sucked people underwater and killed them. So we never seam there. Modern people who don’t believe in or who don’t know our old “superstitious” stories swim in that gorge every summer. And every three years or so some of those swimmers drown when the current catches them and sucks them under.

  I am thinking about our monster stories right now as I sit next to Grampa Peter in the back of Darby Field’s van. The truck that I tried to take was left behind when they picked up this van from a spot hidden even farther down the road from Grampa Peter’s trailer.

  The van is filled with all kinds of expensive-looking equipment. Right now, Field is confidently narrating his plan and building the suspense for his imagined viewers as he talks to the camera about his daring to go to a forbidden place that is unknown to much of the world even though it is in the heart of one of North America’s favorite hiking areas.

  The camera that is focused on him is manned by Stazi, who, like everyone else in Field’s gang, is both a bad guy and a member of the film crew. Stazi is Camera Two, using the small hand-held high-def camera. He’s shooting in black and white, and his footage will be intercut with shots from the big camera on the tripod that is handled by Tip—Camera One. Louise is Sound. Right now she is holding a metal pole with a microphone covered in what looks like rabbit fur just over her boss’s head.

  We’re parked at a pull-off that gives a view of Mount Washington through the window behind Field. It’s a set-up shot for him to explain what this episode of Forbidden Mysteries is about: “The Search for Pmola, the Winged Monster of the White Mountains.”

  Of course, Grampa Peter and I are not in the picture. We are in the third row of seats, way far back. The cameras are in front of us in the middle of the big van, and Field is farther forward on a seat that has been turned around backward so that the panorama of the mountain view is visible though the windshield behind him. It’s clear that this vehicle has been specially designed and outfitted for this sort of thing. And if anyone had any doubt about that, all they would have to do would be to read what is written in large red letters on both sides of the van: FIELD’S FORBIDDEN MYSTERIES.

  I’m not really listening to all of the blather that Field is spouting about how the sightings of something called the Mothman, a strange giant headless being with wings, are very similar to the descriptions of Pmola.

  “Poh-moh-lah and Mothman,” he whispers. “Winged mysteries beyond our comprehension? Ancient beings, or visitors from a distant galaxy or some other dimension?”

  And so on and so on. As if there was some connection between Pmola and the Mothman—which there isn’t.

  I’m pretty sure I know where Field is getting all this Mothman stuff from. You can find it on the Internet easy. Plus there was that goofy movie made starring Richard Gere, The Mothman Chronicles or something like that. I hear that Gere only takes roles like that because they pay him a lot of money that he can then use for charity—like helping Tibetan monks. The thought of the Dalai La
ma watching one of Gere’s movies and giggling makes me laugh out loud.

  “Cut!” Field’s angry voice brings me back out of my daydream. He is glaring at me because my laughter has undercut whatever excellent point he thinks he was just making. “One more outburst and I shall have Stazi tape your mouth shut again.” Field’s face is as red as a beet, and he is tugging at one end of his mustache as he snarls at me.

  Even though I know that I’m not in a position where I should laugh, he looks so ridiculous—like the corny villain in an old-time movie threatening to tie the heroine to the railroad tracks—that I know I won’t be able to say anything without cracking up. So I just put my head down as if I am scared stiff.

  My apparent terror mollifies him, and he makes a circling motion with his index finger to his attentive crew: Start it rolling again.

  Grampa Peter bumps his knee against mine. I look over at him and understand the look in his eyes. He is as amused as I am by Field’s dog and pony show, but he wants me to stay alert. Don’t daydream. Listen. Pay close attention. Watch and wait.

  I nod to him that I understand.

  You can always learn something by listening. And even though I am totally uninterested in the load of horse manure that makes up Forbidden Mysteries, which is at least two steps below similar shows about extraterrestrials, strange creatures, ancient curses, and unexplainable phenomena, there are some things I would like to know.

  For one, how much does Field really know about Pmola? Does he think it is just an old story made up to explain the strong winds around the mountain? How much does he know about Pmola’s treasure? Does he know as much as the first Darby Field knew when he climbed to the mountaintop hundreds of years ago in a futile search for jewels? Does he know that the first Darby Field was deliberately led to the wrong place by his Abenaki guides? All that anyone is going to find on top of Mount Washington—aside from the things humans have brought up there—is bare stones and hungry wind.

  From his bragging about all the research he’s done on all the Abenaki families in our area, I understand better now how Field found Grampa Peter. Even though Grampa Peter always plays it down, it’s common knowledge that he knows more about the mountains and the old stories than anyone else. It’s also pretty widely known—and not just among Abenakis—that Grampa Peter has the special powers of medawlinno and knows the old ways. Field probably just put two and two together and figured that if anybody knew how to get to Pmola’s treasure, it would be Grampa Peter.

  As far as I know, there aren’t any people outside our family who know the real role that Grampa Peter plays. You see, Grampa Peter is the keeper of a story that others might know, but a story that only he fully understands.

  Lots of people can talk about Pmola and Pmola’s treasure, but our family inherited the knowledge that makes that story real. That’s why my father told me about Pmola and the good hunter when I was little, a tradition passed down among us Fortunes ever since that long-ago man stumbled on Pmola’s cave and was granted good fortune—that hunter was our ancestor. As a result it’s been a sacred trust for us ever since to guard that secret passed down from generation to generation. Of all the people in the whole world, only my grandfather knows the actual place where Pmola hid his treasure.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Things Could Get Worse

  “Whenever you are feeling sorry for yourself, sweetheart, just remember things can always get worse.”

  That is one of my mom’s favorite sayings. She trots it out whenever I am upset, and then she smiles. For some reason, it almost always makes me smile too. It is like another thing she says: The best thing to do when your troubles get really big is to relax and not worry about them, because they are way beyond your control.

  Somebody who doesn’t know my mom might think that her saying things like that means she is telling me to give up and be a quitter. But that’s not it at all. What she is talking about is a kind of mental jujitsu, a reminder that you shouldn’t wear yourself out with worry and self-pity when things are tough. Let me put it this way: If you fall into a flooded river and you are being swept downstream, you can’t escape from drowning by struggling against the current. Instead, you should put the current at your back, let it carry you along, and try to angle your way toward the shore downstream. Go with the flow. Like I’m doing now.

  We’re driving up Base Road, the approach to the slopes of Mount Washington, which leads to the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail that ascends to Lake of the Clouds Hut and is the shortest route up Mount Washington from the west. The views along the way are beautiful. It always touches something in me when I look out over those long vistas. The ancient mountains roll on into the distance, one range after another, with more shades of blue and green than you can have names for in English. And the rocks along the road are just as beautiful. Most people look beyond them, trying to see the long views. But I like to sit and study those big old boulders.

  The sun is rising over the slope ahead of us. It’s a brilliant golden ball of light, and its warmth touches my face through the window of the van. I close my eyes to accept its blessings. Kisos o-o. The sun, it shines. The Giver of Life who always returns with a new day. I open my eyes and look over at Grampa Peter, who nods his head at me. I know that he, too, has just given his morning thanks to the sun. Despite the fact that we are in deep trouble, he hasn’t forgotten to be grateful for another day of light and life.

  Grampa Peter looks ahead again and I look at his profile. It is what some people call a classic Native American look. If you are a coin collector, you’ve seen a profile like his on those old nickels, the ones with a buffalo on one side and an Indian head on the other. Some have also said that his profile is like that of the Old Man of the Mountain. In case you don’t know what I am talking about, let me explain who the Old Man of the Mountain is—or was. Not far from here, back to the west, is Cannon Mountain, which got its name because of a natural stone table that looks sort of like a cannon from Profile Clearing.

  The three ledges at the upper end of the east cliff of Cannon Mountain looked like a huge face when they were seen from the lake and the clearing below. Mom says there is actually a story about it by an author named Nathaniel Hawthorne, who lived way back in the nineteenth century. Hawthorne called it “the Great Stone Face.”

  Anyhow, people made a big deal about the Old Man of the Mountain for years. Tourists came to take its picture, there were postcards made of it, and all kinds of stories were told—like that it was actually the face of an ancient chief who had been turned to stone because he dared to defy the Great Spirit.

  Because it was made of piled rock ledges, that stone face became unstable over the long winters of freezing and thawing and looked as if it was going to fall. So the state actually tried to protect it. They poured rocks into the cracks and strapped the whole thing together with a system of cables and turnbuckles. Up close it made those rocks look sort of like King Kong when they had him tied down on display in that New York theater.

  Then, a few years ago, guess what happened? Yup. The whole thing slid down the mountain, all three ledges. The Great Stone Face was gone. You can still read some of the wacky postings that went up on the Internet, like how this meant that the few remaining Abenaki people in our region were doomed because that great face had been watching over the land and protecting them (and doing a lousy job of it, considering New Hampshire is one of only two states in the entire Northeast without even one acre of reservation land). A number of officials in the state parks, and even more in the tourism industry, wanted to drag those poor rocks back up to the place where they had been and rebuild the Old Man of the Mountain.

  Somehow, someone from one of the local TV channels got word about Grampa Peter, this old Indian who looked just like the famous profile and who was some sort of elder, maybe even a medicine man. They called to ask him to come with them to shoot a story about the fall of the Old Man of the Mountain. I was visiting him when it happened and I watched as he nodded his head wh
ile the voice in the phone kept talking on and on, so loudly I could hear it from where I was sitting on the couch.

  When there was a pause in the conversation, Grampa Peter spoke his first words since he’d said “Hello.” They were, “You gonna feed us?” When the voice on the other end assured him that we’d be taken out to lunch before the shoot, Grampa Peter said, “See you at eleven,” and hung up.

  The day wasn’t bad. The newscaster did his intro, and then the lens was turned on Grampa Peter, who really did look pretty impressive with his long white hair around his shoulders and his brown-skinned craggy face turned just so that the mountain and its empty face were behind him. He raised one hand dramatically, his open palm gesturing toward the place where the ledges had been.

  “Rocks,” he said. Then he dropped his hand down and shrugged. “They fall.”

  That was the end of his speech. The newscaster tried to save the day by stepping in with his mike and asking one question after another. But Grampa Peter was finished with talking. All he would say in reply was “Hmmm,” whenever the reporter paused in hope of an answer. Needless to say, the piece was never aired.

  Remembering that almost puts a smile on my face. But then the van hits a bump and reminds me where we are as I am tossed to the side, unable to steady myself with my hands because they are taped together in front of me.

  How could things get worse?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A Fall

  As we start to slow down, Darby Field looks at Grampa Peter.

  “Where’s the spot?” he asks.

  Grampa Peter jerks his head to the right, pointing with his chin at a narrow pull-off on the shoulder.

  “There,” he says.

  The van edges off the Base Road to a steep dirt track, just wide enough for a single vehicle. In only a few yards we have dropped down at least forty feet below the road, turned behind a jumble of huge boulders, and stopped at a spruce thicket. We aren’t quite high enough yet to be in the alpine zone. Up there all the trees are so dwarfed by the altitude and the thin soil that a two-hundred-year-old juniper might be only ten inches tall. The spruces here are no more than ten feet high, but they provide effective cover from the road above us. The only way the van could be seen now would be from one of the higher slopes across from us or from an airplane or helicopter.