The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  “Just look out for yourself, Mr. Know-It-All.”

  Reed kept walking, a spring in his step despite the load on his back. He was so pleased Beck was sure he had a screw loose. “Yeah, this is just what we need.”

  What I need, you mean! Part of her could have, peradventure, at a better time, admitted he was right, but right now she wasn’t in the mood to admit anything.

  The moment came. Feeling like a Neil Armstrong, Beck followed her adventurous husband and took that One Small Step out of the parking lot and onto the trail. Other steps came after that, and she looked back twice before the deepening forest hid the familiar world from view.

  Then, looking back no more, she pressed on, leaving one world for another.

  Road 228 was “maintained” in the summer, which was Idaho’s way of saying it would be filled back in if it washed out, and you could still drive it if you didn’t mind the washboard rattle under your wheels, the blinding dust, the constant growl of the gravel, and the rude bumping of the rocks.

  Dr. Michael Capella, a stocky, dark-haired college professor in his thirties, was driving 228 in a Toyota 4Runner, climbing, ever climbing into the mountains, his eyes intent on every curve, every bump, every rut as he maintained a speed just a notch short of dangerous. His wife, Sing, a lovely Coeur d’Alene Native American, sat next to him, her face clouded by a list of concerns, not the least of which was his driving.

  “Incredible mountains,” she said, admiring their beauty.

  Cap nodded, gripping the wheel.

  “Cap, there really is some great scenery out there.”

  “And your point is?”

  “It’s just a little after four. We’ll make it to the resort with time to spare, so relax. Kick back a little. Isn’t that what this trip’s all about?”

  He eased off the accelerator. Sing said nothing, but a faint smile traced her lips.

  Cap allowed himself a quick look to the right, where the edge of the road dropped off sharply to the St. Marie’s River below and a lone osprey circled above a fathomless, forested valley. He drew a breath and loosened his grip on the steering. “It’s hard to let go of things.”

  She smiled. “You may as well. They aren’t there anymore.”

  He pondered that a moment, but shook his head, still unable to grasp it. “No, I’m the one who’s not there anymore. And I keep thinking I should be, because they are.”

  She chuckled. “You and that confidentiality agreement! It makes you talk in riddles—ever notice that?”

  “Sorry. I know it must seem rude.”

  She touched his hand. “You don’t have to say anything, and you don’t have to prove anything, especially to me. I know the man I married.”

  He nodded a deep nod just to avoid the debate. They’d had this conversation before, and she’d been right, but he’d had trouble buying it. He still did. “Well, call it a sabbatical, then. Call it a break.”

  “It’s a sabbatical. It’s a break. And Reed had a good idea.” Then she added, “I think.”

  Cap shifted his thoughts to the coming week. “Well, Reed says Randy Thompson’s the best. He’s a Native, by the way.”

  “Well, there are some of us still around.”

  “Randy’s up there right now, getting the cabin ready, laying in supplies. He does these survival courses all the time, winter or summer, it doesn’t matter. Reed says you can drop that guy anywhere in the world and he’d know what to do to stay alive.”

  Sing gave a barely audible sigh and looked out the window a moment. “So what do you do while you’re living? Staying alive is nice, but you can’t do that forever. It’s how you live the life you have while you have it.”

  Cap smirked just a little. “I should stick that on the refrigerator.”

  “I’ll write it down for you.” She turned her body to face him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Cap, you did the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

  “At least the house is paid for.” He forced a smile. “It’s where we go from here that bothers me.”

  She smiled. He felt her acceptance, as he was. Without changing him. “We go into the mountains, we learn to survive, and we hear from God. That’s enough for now.”

  He drove quietly for a moment, noticing mountain peaks and waterfalls for the first time, and then placed his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze.

  Thirty miles of grinding, growling, gravel road later, they reached Abney, a once-booming mining town that had long since withered and now had trouble remembering why it was there.

  “Well, it has ambience,” said Cap as they eased down the main road past sagging storefronts, well-used vehicles, and mangy stray dogs.

  “Rustic,” Sing observed politely, kind to choose even that word.

  They drove by a forlorn clapboard tavern with one corner sinking into the ground, an auto garage with dismembered cars and trucks scattered about and a snow cat up on blocks, a combination hardware store and mining museum—noteworthy because this building actually had a new front porch—and a post office not much bigger than a phone booth. They had yet to see a human being.

  “Can’t wait to see the resort,” Sing quipped.

  “I hear it’s the real thing, right out of the rich, historical heritage of Idaho.”

  They drove to the end of town—not far from the beginning— and found a large log cabin to which someone had added another story, to which someone added another wing and a dormer, to which someone added another bedroom, to which someone added four more bedrooms like a motel and then tied the whole thing together with one continuous wraparound porch that bumped up and down to line up with all the doors to all those additions. A sign strung on a chain over the driveway read, “Tall Pine Resort.” On the rail fence was a weathered VACANCY sign with an empty nail for hanging a NO in case that should ever be the case. Judging from the scarcity of vehicles in the parking area, the Tall Pine was not seeing a booming business at the moment.

  Cap pulled in next to two pickups rigged with high sides for hauling firewood and a station wagon with a sad old dog—he must have been the sire of all the others in town—staring at them through the back window.

  “Hm,” Cap mused. “Reed said this place is really hopping this time of year.”

  The lobby was a cubbyhole wedged between the café and the souvenir shop, with trophies of moose, deer, elk, and bear crowding the walls, and one huge chandelier made of antlers that hung over the front desk.

  The white-haired, leathery proprietor broke into a silvery grin from behind the front desk. “So you must be the, uh, the Campanellas . . . ?”

  “Capella. This is my wife, Sing.”

  Sing shook his hand. He had gnarled fingers that had hewn many a log and tanned many a deer hide.

  “Sing,” the old man said quizzically. “It’s gotta be short for something.”

  “Sings in the Morning,” she answered. “My parents like the old traditions.” Not that she didn’t; her and Cap’s home boasted some of the finest Salish artwork, and she often wore her long black hair in traditional braids as she did today.

  The silvery teeth showed again. “It suits you.” He extended his hand to Cap.

  Cap gripped it firmly. “I’m Michael, but my friends call me Cap.”

  “Arlen Peak, pleased to meet you. Now we’re friends and I can call you Cap.”

  “Got that room?”

  Peak slid a room registration card toward Cap to fill out. “One-oh-four, just right for you and the missus.”

  Cap started scribbling, a hint of a smile on his face, his first since they’d left Spokane.

  “So . . .” Peak said, watching Cap scribble, “Randy says you’re planning on a week up there.”

  “Yep. Our friends ought to be getting there right about now. We’re going to hike up and join them tomorrow morning. We’re a day late, but we’ll catch up.”

  “Had to wait to get off work, I suppose.”

  “Sing did.”

  Sing shot him a loving but scolding
glance, then she broke the silence with a question. “So what’s this cabin like?”

  Peak chuckled apologetically. “It’s not the Hilton, but it’s in good shape. We gave it a once-over a little while ago, me and some hunter friends. Put in a new floor, patched the roof, got it all up to snuff again. You understand it’s just a shelter for hunters. It’s got a few cots, some shelves, and some hooks for hanging things, but that’s about it. Randy prefers it that way. Helps people get into the wilderness frame of mind.”

  “We’re ready for it,” said Cap, sliding the completed card back across the desk.

  “Yeah, well, Randy headed up there this morning, so he’s ready for you.” Peak thought for a moment. “But you’ll wanna be careful. Keep your eyes and ears open, and don’t, uh, don’t hang around if . . . you know, if you think better of it.”

  Cap and Sing looked at him, waiting for more.

  Peak met their eyes. “Kind of late to be telling you, I know.”

  Cap sensed something in Arlen Peak, a warning they should heed. “Is there a problem?”

  The old man’s face became grim. “Well, Mr. Capella . . . Cap . . . we’ve never had any trouble around here. Randy knows that, and that’s what he tells all his clients, but like I tried to tell him, something’s not right. Wish he would’ve been here a few hours ago and seen that whole herd of elk come through, right in broad daylight, all going someplace in a hurry. That’s not like them. It’s too early in the year for them to be down this low.”

  “What are you saying?” Cap asked. Both he and Sing were motionless, their eyes on the old man.

  He seemed hesitant to answer. “I’ve lived here a long time, Cap, right here in this lodge, and when you live in a place a long time, you get to know how things are supposed to happen.” He leaned over the counter for a better view out the front windows. He pointed as he spoke. “I know when the elk are supposed to migrate to the lower ground, and I know what time each day the deer are going to cross that road to get to the river. I know when the bears are going to run out of forage and start coming down here to raid the apple trees. I know when things are all right.” Then he looked at them again and added, “And I can tell when they aren’t.” He gave his hands a little toss up. “But you have to live here awhile to understand what I’m saying.”

  Cap drummed one finger on the counter. “Is there a specific danger we should be aware of?”

  Peak thought it over, came to some kind of agreement with himself, and answered, “You may have noticed there aren’t a lot of folks around. Not that I don’t want their business, I surely do, but what I know, I tell ’em, ’cause I know what I know, and nobody’s gonna tell me I don’t.” Then he nodded toward a yellowing poster tacked to the wall.

  Cap thought he’d seen this picture before, a blurry blowup of a massive, apelike creature. It strode on two legs across a log-strewn riverbed. Suddenly his uneasiness melted away.

  “Bigfoot?” Sing said. Cap could tell she was holding back a smile.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “No, no, I’m not laughing.”

  Peak’s eyes were intense as he listened to something only he could hear, an old memory playing in his mind. “I heard one howl once, maybe eight, nine years ago. It wasn’t like anything I ever heard before. Chilled my blood.”

  Sing leaned forward, obviously intrigued by the old man’s earnestness. “What did it sound like?” she said.

  He wrinkled the bridge of his nose, listening some more. “Something between the howl of a wolf and the roar of a lion. Real long, and echoing. Scary.”

  Cap wasn’t doing much to control his smile. “But that was nine years ago?”

  Peak locked eyes with Cap, not smiling at all. “That was the first one. But I was meaning to say, I’ve heard it again the last few nights. Sounds like more than one, and they’re upset about something.”

  Cap had read such nonsense before on grocery-store tabloids. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, allowing his eyes to wander toward the cluttered shelves behind the old man.

  “Nine years without making a sound,” Peak insisted, “and now they’re making all this noise? Cap, they don’t howl for nothing. Something’s wrong.”

  Cap met his gaze again, indulgingly. “It could be a wolf. I understand they’ve been reintroduced up north.”

  The innkeeper raised his hands in a brief sign of surrender. “All right, believe what you want, but just do me one favor—be careful.”

  Cap nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

  Sing was looking at a glass display cabinet immediately below the poster. Inside were yellowed news clippings, photos of footprints, and in the middle of it all, a plaster cast of a huge footprint. “Huh. Look at this.”

  Cap leaned against the counter, detached and happy to remain that way. “Guess you’re quite the Bigfoot enthusiast.”

  “Not by choice,” Peak answered.

  “Ever seen one?”

  “Nope. Ever seen a wolverine?”

  Cap thought the question a little strange. “No.”

  “Very few people have, but it’s out there, isn’t it?”

  While Sing perused the contents of the cabinet, Peak pointed at the plaster cast. “Got that from a Sasquatch researcher just a year ago. He found that footprint right around here, right up in these mountains.”

  “And you paid good money for it, I suppose,” said Cap.

  “Well, that’s between him and me.”

  Sing leaned for a closer look at the cast.

  Cap had to grill Peak a touch longer. “But how many people have lived in this county all their lives and never seen a thing?”

  “These creatures are smart, and they don’t want to be seen. Did you ever think of that?”

  “That still doesn’t mean—” Cap didn’t like the look on Sing’s face or what it told him she might be thinking. “I’d say someone did a real good job carving that out.” Sing unfolded her glasses and put them on. She began tracing a line on the cast, eyeing it over her finger. “A very good job.”

  The hike was going well—physically. Beck always ran two miles before breakfast, so she was up to the arduous trek, and Reed, being a sheriff’s deputy, prided himself on his physical condition. They maintained a brisk pace, Reed bounding along the trail, fully demonstrating the strength and efficiency of his muscles and cardiovascular system, and Beck keeping up just fine, not about to be one-upped. The day was getting warmer, and okay, Reed was right about her buckskin jacket: she’d shed it only a few minutes into the hike, and now it was draped on the frame of her backpack.

  Uphill, uphill, uphill had been the rule of the day. They’d just climbed along a steep, forested slope, half a mile one way, then around a switchback and another half a mile the other way, then back again, the steep mountain drop-off on their right, then their left, then their right, and so it went.

  It was when they finished that climb and descended a north-facing slope into old-growth forest that the hike turned from a physical competition to something almost . . . profound. This wasn’t common, everyday forest with trees the size of telephone poles all close together and stickery bushes between them. No, this was something out of a Tolkien or Lewis fantasy, a wondrous, otherworldly place where the earth was soft and deep with moss and peat; where tiny white wildflowers twinkled in the green carpet, iridescent bugs with fairy wings flickered in the sunbeams, and every footstep was muffled in the pulverized red bark of a million trees that lived there before. Now, this caught Beck’s fancy. She’d read about this place, even written her own whimsical stories about it when she was a girl. This was where hobbits and elves, fairies and princesses, knights and ogres had their adventures and intrigues, and where all nature of mischievous creatures lived among the snaking, claw-foot roots. This was where—

  “You can eat cattails, did you know that?” Reed still had not run out of things he knew and just had to share. “You can eat the stalk; you can eat the pollen; you can even eat the roots. Of course,
they grow in swamps and wetlands, and we’re up a little high for that.” He sounded like a forest ranger on a nature hike, and he was past getting on her nerves.

  She held her peace and concentrated on the coarse, furrowed sides of the huge trees. How old must they be by now? How many centuries had they seen? How many—

  “Hey, a slug. Did you know those are edible? ’Course, they’re supposed to be better if you cook ’em, but you can eat them either way.”

  Enough. “R-reed. You c-can barbecue one and s-serve it with A1 Sauce and I will never eat it. Change the s-subject.”

  “How about grass? Remember that meadow back there? We could have cooked up a kettle of grass stew, maybe even made some tea.”

  “If I recall c-correctly, we have p-pine needles for tea.”

  “Now you’re learning. Hey, you know how to find north and south without a compass?”

  “D-do you ever stop talking?”

  “Beck, we’re supposed to learn all this stuff.”

  “Reed, I am happy with my life, I really am! I have a novel to work on, two paintings, and a stack of research. I could be doing all of that right now and enjoying my life, but nooo, I have to be hoofing out in the middle of nowhere, listening to my back-to-earth husband talk about eating slugs.”

  “One of these days, Beck, you’re gonna wish you knew this stuff.”

  She fully intended to learn it, but she wasn’t about to tell him. She did sneak a look at the slug as she passed by. Ooookay. That settled that.

  Reed held back, which gave her precious time to mellow and enjoy things—well, more than just enjoy. She already understood what Reed had been trying to tell her. There were sights out here she’d never seen, and there were feelings that could only be felt by being here: the solitude, the wonder. The unique song of the woods could only be heard in nature’s kind of quiet. She wanted to capture it, but what camera was capable of conveying the depth of such an image? What words could evoke the emotion? God spoke through His creation, and the message went past the mind, straight to the heart. It was all so—

  “Uh-oh.” Reed stopped, and in her reverie Beck almost ran into him.