Night Wings

by Joseph Bruchac

  And I have to listen to this hogwash. Talk about torture!

  He signals “Cut,” and Louise lowers the camera.

  “And now,” he says, “after the fox!”

  “Which way?” Louise dares to ask. The tone of her voice is sort of insolent now.

  “Ah,” Field says. He walks a few paces up the trail and then points theatrically at a patch of soft earth. “Behold, O ye of little faith.”

  Louise pushes me ahead of her, and we both look over Field’s shoulder at what he’s pointing to. It’s a perfect footprint from my grandfather’s left boot. Field climbs a little farther, a superior smile on his face, and then points again, this time at a thin piece of torn cloth, the same color of Grampa Peter’s shirt. It’s tangled in the scraggly branches of a dwarf juniper.

  “Elementary, my dear Watson,” he intones in his most self-satisfied, superior voice.

  He probably thinks he’s the great white tracker, like Hawkeye from The Last of the Mohicans, finding my grandfather’s trail like that. I’m pretty sure Stazi wouldn’t make the mistake he’s making. But Stazi is not here. I look at Louise out of the corner of my eye, wondering if she’ll fall for it too. However, she doesn’t say anything.

  It’s no accident that Grampa Peter, who knows how to disappear without a trace when he wants to, has left those marks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mist

  We’ve been climbing for over an hour now and we’re well above the tree line, where there’s nothing but dwarfed brush and lichen among the stones. It’s easy to imagine myself back in the time of the flood, when all life was washed away by the great waters that came just shy of the top of this mountain.

  I’m not talking about the Bible story, but our own ancient tale. Long, long ago the people were out of balance. They showed no respect for the earth. Instead of hunting for food and clothing, they killed things for pleasure. Instead of picking berries, they pulled the bushes up by the roots. When they fished, they would catch every fish in the stream with nets and leave most of them to rot on the shore.

  Only the people of one small village remembered to do things the right way, to give thanks and to only take what they needed. In fact, they went out of their way to be kind. One day, a man and woman from that little village saw a rabbit that had fallen in the river and was about to drown. They pulled that rabbit out and set him free out of the kindness of their hearts.

  But most of the people continued hurting everything around then. Finally, Ktsi Nwaskw, the Great Mystery, sent a flood to cleanse the earth of those bad people. Of course the Great Mystery warned the animal and bird and insect nations first and provided ways for them to survive. The flood was only meant to wipe out human beings.

  The rabbit, though, took pity on the people of the little village. He went to that man and woman who had saved him and told them a flood was coming.

  “Follow me,” the rabbit said. Then, with the waters rising behind them, he led that couple and the other people of the village up to the very top of Agiocochook, where the flood could not drown them.

  That is why, to this day, we incise the shape of the rabbit onto birch bark and carve it into wood. We want to remember how that rabbit saved us and how important it is to show respect to all things in creation.

  It’s not a story that the people who are dragging me up the mountain would understand. As far as they are concerned, the most important thing in life is to get as much for yourself as you possibly can.

  “We have your grandson!” Darby Field yells, his hands cupped around his mouth. It is maybe the twentieth time he has yelled this as we’ve been following Grampa Peter’s trail. I keep waiting for Field and Louise to wise up that they’re being led the way he wants them to go. But I guess their greed has made them blind, blind to the fact, too, that a wall of mist has been following us up the mountain as we’ve climbed.

  Why can’t they see, as I can, that we are being pushed up the mountain by that wall of mist? We’re not being followed by floodwaters, but something just as powerful and deadly is waiting above us at the highest point.

  Suddenly my grandfather appears right in front of us. It isn’t as if he stepped out from behind a stone or stood up from some hiding place. One moment he was not there and in the next breath he was.

  Darby Field lets out a noise like a toad that’s been stepped on and jumps back. Louise is probably equally surprised, but keeps her cool and stares hard at Grampa Peter, who holds out both his hands, palms up.

  “Here,” he says.

  And what he means is, I give myself up to you. I am going to give you what you want.

  His eyes make contact with mine, and I get the message as he flicks his gaze behind me. I’m to hold back, wait for the right moment, and be very cautious. I understand that last bit from the expression on his face. It’s not fear, but the look of someone who has just seen something that made his heart pound. And he seems tired, as if what he has just done—and it’s not the quick climb to the top—has taken much of his energy. I think again about where we are on this trail into the past.

  I try to go to his side. Louise grabs the line around my waist and yanks me back behind her.

  “Stay,” she commands me. Apparently she and Darby Field both learned their people skills at the same dog obedience school. She points one of her guns at Grampa Peter and gestures up with it. “Lead the way, gramps.”

  Field gives her a fishy glare. He wanted to be the one to take control, especially after embarrassing himself with that toad squawk. But Grampa Peter has already started climbing, mist swirling about him. The clouds are all around us.

  Now I see things I recognize. Formations of stone, the way the path sweeps in and out of them. We are almost at the very top of Agiocochook. It has gotten much cooler, and not just from the mist, which blocks out the view in all directions.

  There’s a strange tension in the air, though I seem to be the only one who notices it. And there’s a faint scent that I think I’ve smelled before. We just passed over the place where the road was cut up the mountain decades ago. But there’s no road here. No cog railway, no weather station, no human-built structures.

  Something else, though, is here. I know that Grampa Peter feels its presence as much as I do. I only hope that it knows the difference between our intentions and those of the man and woman with us.

  Grampa Peter looks back over his shoulder. We’re in a tight group now, the only way we can all keep each other in sight. No one is more than an arm’s length apart.

  “Here!” he says, dropping his arms. At the same time he cuts his eyes quickly to the left. Then he takes a quick step to the right and vanishes.

  Things begin to happen fast. I yank free of Louise’s grasp, turn, dive into the mist, and begin to run down the slope. I think I know where I’m going, but a rock turns under my foot and I find myself twisting to the side and going down on my right knee.

  Good thing, too. I hear the blast of Louise’s gun from behind me and feel a searing pain as the bullet tears through my jacket and the flesh of my left shoulder. She’s firing blind, but I know that shot was meant for the back of my head.

  I crawl forward as more shots ricochet off the stones. Then I’m around a rock, and up on my feet. My knee is numb, and all I can do right now is limp, not run. There’s a wind in my face that wasn’t blowing before. It is cutting through the mist that hid me, sweeping it off the mountain. They’ll be able to see me and get off a shot at me if I don’t find a place to hide.

  A strangled cry comes from up the mountain. And though I probably shouldn’t look back, I can’t help myself. The wind has cut a path through the clouds and I can see the peak fifty feet away from me perfectly. Field and Louise have fallen to the ground and are looking up at the tall dark figure above them, its wide black wings spread, blotting out the setting sun. Its pitiless gaze is on them. Then, as if feeling my eyes on it, it turns its head in my direction.

  I whirl around, start to run. I’m not limping
anymore. If there is one place on earth I shouldn’t be right now, this is it!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Cave

  It’s dark now. Eerily so. I suppose I’ve been on my own for at least an hour. But I can’t tell what time it is because my watch is no longer working. Maybe it broke when I hit it against the rocks. I’ve lost the trail several times and have had to turn and slowly feel my way back to it. At least my trick of flexing against my bonds as I was tied up served its purpose. I was able to work myself free—not as fast as a professional escape artist, but quick enough to avoid too many out-of-control falls.

  There’s no light from the sky, no sign of moon or stars. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but right now I am definitely wary of what it’s hiding. I’ve thought more than once of taking out my Mini Maglite, which is still zipped into the inner pocket of my jacket. But showing a light in enemy territory is one of the worst mistakes a soldier can make, according to Mom. The beam might show me a few feet of the path, but it could also show someone—something—where I am. Most people are so scared of the dark that the first thing they do is try to make a light.

  I don’t say its name, not even in my thoughts. Grampa Peter has told me more than once to be careful about that. Do not say or think the name of anything with power, unless you want it to be heard. If you are in rattlesnake territory, you never say or think the word rattlesnake, because doing that might call it to you. If you have to mention it to someone else, maybe to warn them that there are dangerous reptiles around, you should say something like, “Watch out for a moving stick.” Words have power, and names have even more power. So I don’t allow the name of that old being to come into my mind.

  I just keep moving, and if my mind starts to stray I count my steps. I’m up to a thousand and twenty now.

  It’s quiet all around me. Ever since I started to run it’s been quiet, except for the rattle of stones dislodged by my clumsy feet. The last loud noises I heard were three loud cries from behind and above me. Not shouts of terror and despair, like the one that burst from Darby Field and led me to turn and see the scene that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Those three harsh, echoing cries that split the air came from no human throat.

  One thousand and forty, one thousand and forty-one…

  Actually, it hasn’t been completely quiet. Twice when I’ve paused, I’ve thought I heard something. A soft sound that came not from behind or in front of me, but from high above. Almost like the sound of a kite flapping in the wind or a sheet hung on the line, buffeted by a breeze. Or—and I don’t want to think this, which is why I only allow it to come to me as a last comparison—like wide wings in the night.

  The thought of that makes me start to walk faster.

  One thousand fifty one, one thousand fifty two, one thou—dang!

  I’ve run into another rock with my knee. I can’t keep going like this. I have to stop, try to get my bearings. Breathe. That’s what both Mom and Dad would tell me to do in a situation like this. If you run in panic, you may end up running toward whatever danger panicked you.

  I sit down and take a slow breath. As soon as I do that, the sky begins to clear over me, and the moon shows itself. It lights not just the path and the roll of ridges visible from this high place, but a narrow dark opening in the rock face right next to me. A cave. One I’ve never seen before.

  Then I hear something. Wide leathery wings. I’m sure of it. The sound is not high in the sky. It’s coming closer, toward me. I look up. A black shape is dropping down from above me, blotting out the moon.

  I duck my head and leap frantically for the cave mouth, just as something strikes at me. A talon digs into my wounded shoulder, tearing my jacket even more. I twist away, claw into the cave, pulling my legs in just before something hits the stones hard. I’m panting, as winded as if I just ran ten miles. I turn around and see the glint of red eyes staring at me from outside. A low throaty growl, then a long arm reaches in, clawed fingers spread wide. I scuttle back as quickly as I can, praying that it is too big to force its way in after me.

  The cave is wider back here, the roof higher. It’s so dark that I can’t see anything, but I can hear a soft fluttering sound from above me. Little brown bats, most likely. Caves like this are their home at this time of year. Bats don’t bother me at all. Plus worrying about creatures with little wings is the last thing on my mind now.

  I take a deep breath, trying to slow my pounding heart before it explodes in my chest like a grenade. The faint light of the moon shining through the narrow opening ten yards away, no longer blocked by a huge body. Has it given up? Not likely.

  I crawl farther back to look for another way out of here. I reach in front of me to keep from banging into anything. Good thing, too, because my hand finds a wall in front of me, walls and roof narrowing in on each side. I’ve reached the end of the cave.

  I’m trapped.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Light

  Someone once asked Grampa Peter if he ever got lost in the mountains. His reply was simple: “Nope.”

  But if that person had asked Grampa Peter to clarify that answer some, Grampa Peter might have added what he later said to me: “But I got confused one time for about two weeks.”

  His real point was that you are never lost until you think you are. It’s just that some times are harder than others when it comes to finding your way.

  I’m remembering that right now. Being trapped is like being lost, I think. But am I really trapped?

  I begin to feel my way along the wall in front of me. There’s a draft of air coming from somewhere. I reach down and find a place just above the floor where there is space between the stones.

  The caves in these mountains are made by great slabs of stone that have slid down, piled on top of one another. So I’m not surprised to find this place where the rocks don’t fit neatly together. It’s too small to squeeze through, but it’s probably big enough to see through.

  I get out my flashlight and press the button. The beam that shoots out of it is so intense that it hurts my eyes after all this darkness. I blink, then gradually open my eyes, letting them get used to seeing light again. I fasten the Velcro strap around my head, crouch down, stick the light into the crevice, and put my cheek against the stone so I can see through with one eye. And what I see makes me gasp.

  It’s a much larger chamber than this one. I can’t tell exactly how big it is, but I can’t see the walls on either side. In the middle is what looks to be a big sleeping mat, maybe ten feet across. It’s made of evergreen boughs woven together, the way we sometimes cover the floor of a lean-to when we’re out in the forest for a few nights and need to make a quick, comfortable shelter. Some of the boughs are so fresh that they are still green. My nose picks up the scent of crushed balsam needles, and I see that the sleeping nest is dented in the center like someone—something—big has been resting there.

  But I only glance at that briefly because as I move my narrow flashlight beam about, it reflects off hundreds of points of light. Objects that glitter and gleam. I know what I am seeing. It’s Pmola’s treasure.

  I can’t help myself. I start chuckling. But it’s bitter laughter at the thought of all Grampa Peter and I have been put through. Tears are coming to my eyes as I laugh, thinking of the things Darby Field and his crew have done to others in search of wealth that, compared to human lives, is always really worthless in the long run. All the nervous energy that’s been bottled up in me is coming out.

  I focus light once more on Pmola’s great treasure. Precious objects all right, things that my ancestors saw as full of power and meaning, but far from the riches that modern people covet.

  Not silver or gold, not diamonds or rubies. Instead what I see are carefully piled stacks of quartz crystals, shiny stones that contain iron pyrite—fool’s gold—and some roughly made bracelets that might be pounded copper. All brought there by Pmola over who knows how many years, how many centuries, the way a crow will
pick up something shiny and carry it back to its nest.

  How many centuries? Thinking of that long passage of time reminds me of where I am. I’m in that other time, the time of our old stories. How would my ancestors have related to this? What would they have done if they found themselves where I am? What could they have said—and in what tongue? And how would Grampa Peter behave?

  I lean back from the crevice, turn my flashlight beam back the way I came. I’ve seen the light now. I know what I need to do.

  I start making my way back to the cave entrance, thinking about the right words to use. I pause at the cave mouth and turn my light off. The moon’s bright enough to cast a faint shadow on the ground. Sometimes moon shadows are really exaggerated, but I know that the very large shadow I am seeing reflects the shape that is waiting out there, a wide-winged shape on top of a great boulder, the shadow widening and narrowing as those leathery wings open and close.

  Breathe. I crawl out through the cave mouth slowly. Fast movements always attract night hunters. I feel Pmola’s cold gaze on the back of my neck and I turn around.

  It’s right there, not more than an arm’s length from me, so close that I can see the ripple of the muscles under its sleek black pelt as it raises one arm. Pmola seems as big as the mountain itself.

  Like most Abenaki kids of my generation, I was not raised with just our old language. Instead, what I heard most of the time was English with a few words and phrases in Indian mixed in. I’ve always wished I could speak our language as well as Grampa Peter, but at least I know some of the most important words. And right now I know that anything I say should be in our old tongue. And I think I know what those words should be: the phrase that we all speak to each other at the start of the new year when we want to begin fresh with clear minds and forgiving hearts.