The Guardian Hills Saga
Page 18
Whistling with two skinny fingers, Bleak signaled for help. Two more pairings appeared, one from the east and one from the west, both providing more lift. Another story they rose. Another story and with Alfred screeching.
The combined strength was still not enough.
Yet two more pilots arrived, one from the north and one from the south, bringing the total to seven. Instead of the upper body, these creatures focused on Alfred’s ankles, pulling the would-be businessman into a tight aerial cross. All deer frantically kicked with their legs, as if such action might lessen the load and contribute to vertical mobility.
“Do as you will, but I wouldn’t play with that bunch,” Paul deliriously yelled from below. “They got nasty tempers, those ones.”
Seventy feet up, even with the treetops, Alfred’s flashlight got knocked loose, succumbing to gravity and resembling a miniature helicopter struck by ordnance. Twisted and dropped, it did. Twisted and dropped.
Watching with the help of dull atmospheric glow, Paul then witnessed his friend’s descent, much like the flashlight. Each deer unclenched its teeth, sending him plummeting to the earth. Tree limb after tree limb cracked or broke until his head slammed into a flat rock surrounded by pink-petalled lady’s slipper flowers. The former wrestler’s eyes remained open. But he didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
“I told you,” Paul scolded. “They’re nothing but trouble. Now look, you’re dead. Who’s gonna take care of my leg?”
Paul felt a light tug on his thin coat. Turning to the left, he saw Grave, the fawn no longer near.
“Did you see that?” he said to Grave. “I tried to warn him. I did, I did. He wouldn’t listen.”
Grave shook his head from side to side and pushed out his lower lip.
“Hey, little buddy, do you know first aid?”
Grave shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t know or you don’t know if you know?” Paul asked, feeling more lightheaded. “Well, ain’t that the shits. I need someone to change my bandage. I’m still losing blood.”
Suddenly feeling apprehensive, he stared intensely at Grave’s face, noting the creature’s chubby cheeks, shy eyes, and full lips.
Paul wondered about its next move. “Say, you gonna eat me?”
Grave shook his head and mouthed the word no.
“You gonna be nice to me?”
The little earie eagerly nodded his head.
“I don’t wanna die. I—” Paul started, a tear forming in one of his eyes. But he was interrupted.
Placing a small index finger over the human’s lip, Grave uttered, “Shhhhh.” Then, “No weep, no weep. Just sleep, just sleep.”
Eventually Paul’s heart stopped. Synchronized with the last beat was a queer series of earie calls that spread throughout the valley. All creatures were being summoned. Grave and the seven floating above answered in kind, and whether by land or air, each headed for the ol’ Krebs place. In their absence, skeletons in pseudo life, whether near or to the east, fell to the earth in pieces.
A series of web strands had been strummed.
14.6 Waltz of the Little White Pines
2:21 a.m.
Sheriff Cullin searched urgently for Mayor Pike and his men. With one hand clutching a silent walkie-talkie and the other throwing light by way of an anemic lantern, the lawman hiked up the valley south of the clearing, panting and sweating profusely. At one point he seemed disoriented, narrowing his eyes to the skies and hoping for a glimpse of the moon to exact positioning, but no luck.
The earie calls in the valley broke his attention.
“Rolly?” he yelled, worried there might be immediate trouble. “Blaine, Tommy—somebody answer me!”
No response.
Rushing carelessly ahead, hoping to run into the group, Cullin tripped on rocks and waist-high branches that acted like stuck turnstiles at a train station. Twisted to the right, trying to keep momentum, he then twisted to the left with irritated grunts. He eventually came across a plot of little white pine trees. The acre or so of land was in sharp contrast to the tall forest, allowing the sheriff’s lantern glow to extend evenly forward.
Peering ahead, he missed two dangling obstructions that smarted against his scalp and threw off his hat.
“What the—” he muttered, stepping back, redirecting his light. “Dear God . . .” He spotted some type of ghastly drying rack. Hanging from a thick, horizontal poplar branch, secured by tangles of ivy at the neck, two golden retrievers swayed from the impact of hitting Cullin’s head. Each was gutted like a deer during hunting season, fresh blood dripping down the legs. Upon closer examination, Cullin could see that all the eyes and teeth had been removed.
Who could have done this? he thought, creeped out. Or “what” could have done this?
Suddenly a voice spoke timidly from the little white pines. “Brewster? Is that you? Are those things gone?”
Adrenaline taking over, encouraged at least one person might’ve survived, Cullin rushed into the small plot of calf-high yearlings. Near the middle he stopped and listened carefully, for he couldn’t see or hear anyone.
“Talk again,” he demanded of the voice. “I can’t find you.”
“Brewster, it’s me—Doc,” came back. “You’re close. Keep moving north. I’m stuck to the ground.”
Stuck to the ground? Though perplexed by the words, Cullin continued his quest, hunched over and fanning the lantern from side to side. Near the plot’s top edge, he tripped on uneven ground, landed on his side, dropped his radio, and yet somehow kept the lantern upright and stable.
“Ouch,” Doc Baker complained. “Right in the head.”
Surprised, Cullin righted himself, got to his knees, and stared back. He then realized he hadn’t stumbled over uneven ground but rather a man. “Sorry,” he said. “God am I glad to see you! Here, I’ll help you up.”
“No—no!”
Setting his light source aside, the sheriff latched onto Doc’s shoulders and pulled. But he didn’t move. Tensing up, Cullin tried again, this time with all his might. The result was the same.
“I told you!” Doc scolded. “I’m stuck to the ground!”
Examining the situation more closely, Cullin floated his fingertips over the physician’s subdued features, sensing that tiny strands held him secure. Doc seemed like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput.
“What happened?” he asked.
Doc cleared his throat and wiggled his thick gray moustache. “It was those badger things. You know, those skinny little animals with big ears who walk on two legs? I was trying to find my dogs during the storm when they attacked. Out of nowhere they dropped from the sky and knocked me down. I couldn’t get away. Then they dug in the dirt, found some roots on both sides of me, and tied them together.” With his eyes he motioned down the length of his body. “See for yourself, the creatures made perfect knots.”
Cullin saw what Doc was referring to. A series of neat little bows, like someone tying their shoes, extended from his forehead to his ankles in perfect alignment.
“And Brewster,” Doc added, “the roots tightened by themselves. As if they were alive. How can that be?”
“Hold still,” the lawman encouraged, fumbling in a coat pocket for a small Swiss Army knife. “I’ll cut you loose.” Exposing the blade, he began sawing at the strands until he heard a POP! Successive slices yielded the same, but when Cullin reached Doc’s ankles, he encountered a problem. As soon as the final set of roots were severed, two more wormed into place, formed a new knot, and established an even tighter hold. Cullin cut more feverishly. Again, the ankles were freed, only to be resecured. The faster he sawed, the more rapidly the roots grew back. The struggle for freedom appeared without end.
Abruptly sitting up, Doc tapped Cullin on the shoulder. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but have you seen my dogs?”
The question delayed the sheriff’s efforts. Looking away, expressionless, he pictured the golden retrievers hanging lifeless without innards, teeth,
or eyes. The truth was hard to say, so Cullin changed the subject. “We have to get out of here! I said hold still!”
And then he had an epiphany: silently admitting the pointlessness of his efforts, a new strategy came to mind: If Doc can sit up, I can leverage his weight against the hold.
Standing opposite the physician’s entangled boots, Cullin offered his hands. “Grab on.”
“What?” Doc bristled, adjusting his small spectacles for a better fit.
“Just trust me,” Cullin said. “I’m gonna pull you over the roots.”
The stuck man nodded, the strands at his ankles tightening even more.
“Ready . . . set—”
“Wait!” Doc interrupted.
“Why?”
“Are we going on ‘go’ or after go?”
“On go!” Cullen snapped. “You always go on ‘go’! Now stop wasting time!”
Both preparing, the sheriff reinitiated the countdown. “Ready . . . set . . . GO!”
Like a jumping frog, Doc sprang into the air, the heels of his boots digging into the soft dirt, allowing his feet to clear the hold. With a collective groan, one man landed on the other, and in an especially thick row of white pines, each briefly thrashed about in an effort to separate.
“You OK?” Cullin asked.
“Barely,” the doctor quipped.
“Now let’s get out of here.”
But before Cullin could roll sideways, to his knees, and then to a full stand, Doc reached for his arm. “Those badger things can talk, Brewster. Like us. Over and over they kept saying, “His greed, his greed . . . for deeds, for deeds. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Let’s not stay and find out. C’mon.” Hurrying to his lantern, the sheriff led the way. But when he bent over and tried clutching the handle, the lantern scurried a few feet. And stopped.
“Did you see that?” he said.
“I wish I hadn’t,” Doc answered.
“Stay here.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
Chasing the delinquent light, Cullin dropped his arms and cupped his hands, trying to limit the directions it might run to next. Looming over the lantern, he carefully reached for the handle a second time, but again it took off, this time in a half-moon pattern. At plot center, the object stopped.
Cullin’s blood pressure rose. Cursing with annoyance, taking three large steps, he leaped at the light, his body at one point parallel to the ground. He resembled a stout baseball player sliding headfirst for home, and when gravity prevailed, he landed with a thump, his palms slapping each side of the metal base simultaneously.
“Got it!” he proclaimed joyfully. Immediately he examined underneath the lantern and within a five-foot radius, hoping to make sense of such bizarre behavior. Everything seemed normal, though. Just little trees planted in rows. No burrowing rodents wandering about. No fissures in the dirt from mini earthquakes that somehow could give the illusion that the lantern was alive or any other evidence supporting even crazier explanations. Nothing.
“This damn forest,” Cullin ridiculed, shaking his head.
“Sheriff?” Doc called. “It’s not over.” He heard something.
“What do you mean?”
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!
“That!” Doc said loudly.
Near both men, several white pines broke free from their fibrous anchors, becoming mobile. Using at least two long, hook-shaped roots for feet, they charged the humans, stretching out swinging limbs, and smacked at the two. On Cullin’s face or at Doc’s ankles, they rubbed their thin needles on exposed skin. At first the men didn’t react. But after a few seconds, a red rash appeared, and they both itched vigorously to sooth discomfort.
The sheriff jumped up. “Let’s get out of here!”
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! Several more trees joined in the fight, surrounding the two. In addition to needle assaults, the trees used straggling roots as lassos, encumbering the men’s footsteps.
“I’m stuck again!” Doc ruminated. “Help!”
Scratching his face, lifting and lowering his legs with more and more difficulty, like a cranberry picker in an especially soft-bottomed bog, Cullin verbally directed his frustration downward. “Leave us the hell alone!”
Then he noticed something curious: to the sounds of his angry voice, the little pines retreated with a sudden burst, falling back at least ten feet. But only momentarily. As if only briefly dazed, the plants reconvened around Cullin’s feet, continuing the melee. The sheriff viciously stomped three trees into the ground before, again, feeling overwhelmed.
“Damn it, go away!” he demanded.
The trees disbanded a second time, and Cullin felt he had stumbled upon an important tool in battle.
He spoke to Doc. “Shout! Swear as much as possible!”
“What?” his counterpart questioned, trying to stay upright, roots weaving into his boot laces and tightening around his calf muscles. One pine crawled up his pant leg.
“Just do it!” Cullin ordered, his own attackers scattering. When they returned, he squashed three more into the earth.
“Let go,” Doc said to the trees in a shaky tone, his mustache twitching.
“Louder!” the sheriff encouraged.
“Damn. Damn. Let go!” Doc said with a bit more volume, his confidence growing.
“Louder!”
“Let me go, you fuckin’ things!”
Immediately the trees around Doc’s feet ran away. And like Cullin, when they came back, he kicked them into the soil, though sometimes needing two or three attempts before roots and limbs calmed.
Rhythmically, both humans shouted and kicked at their ankle-high enemies. Shouted and stomped they did, over and over again. Shouted and stomped and with increasing effectiveness. Sometimes the words were directive, other times contemptuous, and still others quickfire swearing. No matter the vocalization, all methods kept the trees at bay.
For a while.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! And again, pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!
“Sheriff,” Doc moaned. “I can’t keep this up. I’m getting so tired.”
Cullin felt the same, and with the arrival of more little white pines, he knew the two were losing the battle. They needed a better tactic. After a particularly high-kneed flattening, Cullin’s sidearm flopped against his thigh.
My gun, he thought. It’s our only hope.
Grabbing the pistol, he shot into the air. Within a millisecond every tree bolted back to its respective row and position. All were suddenly motionless.
Cullin grabbed the lantern. Walking in larger and larger circles, he wanted to verify that the danger was truly contained. Except for long trails of dirt where roots had been broken or exposed or dragged, nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Heading east, he handed Doc the lantern.
“Where are you going?” Doc asked.
“I’ve got to search for the others.”
“In the dark?”
Cullin peered at the clouds above. A hazy glow pushed through from the other side. “I’ll let what little moonlight we have guide me. Or crawl on my hands and knees in the dark, if I have to. None of the others are responding to their walkie-talkies, and I want to know why.”
Doc adjusted his spectacles. “I think they’re all dead. I’ve heard terrible screaming. All around me. I think I’m the only survivor of this forest nightmare.”
“Then I wanna see their bodies,” Cullin said. He gently pushed Doc in the opposite direction. “Now go. Head back to town.”
Reluctant to leave, wiggling his mustache as if trying to shake off minute dust from the fracas, the physician headed south.
“No!” the sheriff suddenly roared, remembering the two carcasses hanging near the forest line. “Go west and meet up with the evacuation teams—ONLY west. Definitely go… west!”
Doc did as he was told, and before leavi
ng the plot of pines, he started whistling. “Duke, Shannon?” he said in a controlled yell. “Where are you?”
Cullin bowed his head in regret. He wanted to tell the truth; he just couldn’t.
Suddenly his two-way radio laying atop three flattened trees came alive.
14.7 Water Music
2:38 a.m.
Elder Stone stood stationary in Wasin near the edge of the valley. Alone, hands clasped behind his back, the village packing per his request in case the fires spread north, he stared intensely at burning Westcreek. The flames seemed so distant, and yet he could almost feel the heat blowing against his face. Mentally trying to make sense of the odd, opposing sensations, he squeezed his eyelids tightly together, as if needing an outlet for stress. It was at this moment that a meager voice spoke.
“Funny how silence can be deafening, eh, Elder?” the voice said.
“What do you mean?” Stone asked plainly, knowing who it was but not taking his eyes away from the valley. He squirmed with self-consciousness, like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. Breathing deeply, trying to relax his muscles, he attempted to appear more at ease.
“A couple of hours ago there were gunshots and screaming. Now, nothing, nothing at all.”
Amos lingered in Stone’s right peripheral vision. Cleanly shaven, hair washed and pulled back in a tight but small ponytail, he wore a lengthy deer hide shirt, wrinkleless deer hide pants, newly made moccasins, a beaded necklace and bracelet, and a colorful headband.
“Why aren’t you packing with the others?” the elder asked. “The fires could come quickly. We should be prepared to leave. Our homes, our lives may be in danger.”
“I need to stand with our fearless leader,” the old Indian proclaimed. “After all, who will watch over he, the one who watches over us?” Amos stepped softly to Stone’s left peripheral.