The elder bent his head the same direction and raised a brow.
“No,” Amos bemoaned, reading his body language, “I haven’t been boozing. I respect the laws of the village.” He raised his nose and pursed his lips. “What else have you been thinking? Standing there for more than an hour.”
“Nothing that would interest you.” Stoically, Stone reconnected with Westcreek.
“Oh, but it would! It would. I bet you’re thinking about saving the valley, saving that poor little town, saving your best friend. I bet if I gave you two holey buckets full of water you’d race down over the hills. Try to save everyone.” He paused. Then whispered loudly. “So what’s stopping you?”
“Earlier I drove to Walker. I notified the Cass County fire and sheriff’s departments. Told them what was happening, but they already knew. Brewster had called. I’ve seen buses with lights flashing already. More help should be arriving soon.”
Amos moved back to Stone’s right peripheral. “Sounds like your work is done. Nothing left to do but observe. Be a ‘bystander.’”
“I don’t appreciate your words,” Stone said sternly.
“I beg your forgiveness,” the old Indian said, raising his hands in a surrender-like stance. So sorry. I’m out of line. Maybe I can patch things over with a little story. A small gift to smooth over my disrespect as we wait here. Over the years you’ve shared many a tale by firelight. Wonderful tales about our ancestors—our shared pasts. But I fear you may have forgotten the most important story of all.” He stood taller. He brushed his right breast, concerned the small deer hairs weren’t laying correctly.
Stone closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t have time—”
“Oh, I think you do,” Amos interrupted shyly. “Remember, your work is done.”
Suddenly silent, he raised his eyes to the left corners of their lids, as if making sure he had the entire tale memorized before beginning. Then he talked with pride. “Once upon a time there were two little boys—good, but strong-willed little boys. During summers, the two played together almost every day, and they especially liked to swim in the lakes surrounding the valley. There were many to choose from: Lake Winnibigoshish, Wabedo Lake, Turtle Lake—it wouldn’t be far from the truth to say there weren’t many waters their wee toes didn’t touch. That is, except one: Thunder Lake. The boys’ parents forbid them from swimming there. The depths were too great, the currents too strong. But strong-willed boys . . . they don’t listen much.”
As Stone fidgeted, Amos strolled to his left peripheral. “One early morning the two snuck out of their homes and made the three-hour trek to the lake. Once there, they stripped down to their skivvies and dove off a rocky point. Oh, the fun they had, the water so warm and refreshing, the sun rays tickling their heads as if it, too, wanted to play. They splashed and laughed for one hour. But at one hour and one minute, everything changed. The boys got winded. They felt cramps in their tummies. Worse, they didn’t realize how far they had drifted away from the point. Fun turned to desperation, scared treading an attempt to keep noses breathing air. Efforts were for naught, though. It was like a mighty sturgeon sucked at their feet and weighed them down. They couldn’t win. Soon there was no splashing and the sun’s rays got swallowed up by clouds.”
Amos crept to just inches behind the elder, his eyes narrowed and his head cock-eyed, like he anticipated a coming reaction. “But just when all hoped seemed lost, two big arms from a small rowboat reached way down—down so far that the rowboat almost capsized. A man plucked the boys from the water. I don’t think he knew if he was pulling up a white boy or a red boy. He just pulled. The man took them to shore, laid each on their stomachs, and slapped their backs until every drop coughed up from their lungs. I bet the boys remember little of that day. You know, all the trauma and their foggy heads?”
“We never did find out who saved us,” Stone muttered. “Did Brewster tell you this story?”
“No. He didn’t have to. Whose arms do you think those were in the water?”
Eyes large and lower jaw drooping, Stone whipped around to face Amos.
“An Indian can’t catch any fish with youngins making so much racket.”
“Why are you telling me this story?” Stone asked suspiciously.
Amos chuckled. Turning away, he walked with strong steps in the direction of his shack. He then spoke ahead and loudly. “Well, with all due respect, Elan, by your logic, I should’ve just let you and Brewster be. Things probably would have worked out. Might not have been so bad. After all, there were two large motorboats across Thunder Lake full of whites. I’m sure eventually they would’ve come to your rescue. Eventually.”
“Oh, how I miss the gunshots and screaming from below,” he said with theatrics. “That poor little town. At least bullets and loud voices were a sign of life. Now, nothing. Nothing but quiet. Good night, dear elder.”
Stone gradually returned his gaze to burning Westcreek. As directionless air stung his eyes, he worried that the Cass County authorities wouldn’t arrive soon enough. He thought seriously about heading for downtown.
14.8 Serenade of the Birches
2:49 a.m.
Bump-ba-bump . . . bump-ba-bump!
“Sleep, my baby,” she said with a smile, “sleep through the night. All will be well, all will be right.”
“What?” Dex said, glancing with confusion at Gloria sitting in the pickup truck’s ripped passenger seat. His strong hands struggled to keep the steering wheel steady, dry stumps, tentacle-like, above-ground roots, and melon-shaped stones on the logging road jostling all four tires.
Staring at a rusty floorboard, the young mother kept her body still by bracing one hand against the glovebox. “It’s a rhyme I taught Steven. When he was little. Something I’d say to comfort him, whenever he felt afraid or alone. If Brewster is right about him burning down Westcreek, he’ll need me.”
“Sleep, my baby,” she said again, though softer, “sleep through the night. All will be well, all will be right.”
Listening, but at the same time watching with interest through the rearview mirror—Dex noticed an anomaly in the trees on both sides of the road. When lightning stuttered, he could see the crowns of tall birch trees slant inward, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the truck going by.
Bump-ba-bump, bump-BA-BUMP! The truck struck an especially deep run of holes. Guided by misaligned headlights, Dex refocused on the path ahead.
Meanwhile, like she was in a moving confessional, Gloria continued to verbally reflect. “You know, you were right about me being the town whore.”
“Gloria, don’t,” Dex said with sensitivity. “I was out of line.” Mentally, he tried shifting gears, nodding to the northeast. “Help me find a hiking trail. It should be coming up on the right side. It’ll lead to—”
“No, I need to say this,” she said. “Please.”
For a long moment, only the sputtering engine sounded.
Gloria bit her lower lip. “Chasing around like I did—I convinced myself that it was for the right reasons. To find a man, a kind man, with the money and means to get Steven and me far, far away from this place. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to degrade myself. No man I couldn’t find attractive. The day after my husband’s funeral, I was out the door early to work and much too late in coming home.”
Dex gently reached for Gloria’s hand. Then his vision lifted to the mirror. In addition to the bending crowns, the lumberjack observed tree trunks twisting and branches flopping unnaturally. Eight trees in total, he could see long ropy legs yanked from the earth, all ending in thick feet and stringy toes. Each pair of feet were set atop the ground and made to run. From Dex’s perspective, the birches chased after the truck.
It’s impossible, he thought. My eyes must be tired. Or something’s wrong with the mirror.
The young mother squeezed Dex’s hand. “You have to believe me. I never stopped loving my son. I tried to be a good mother. I made his meals, kept his clothes washed, looked aft
er him. Even kissed him on the forehead while he slept. I wonder if he ever knew that. When I was home, we talked, though usually about nothing; shared something fun about the day; always said good morning and good night.
“Our lives were scripted,” she admitted. “Like a movie with no real words or plot. No emotion. If I spoke of his father, it was in passing or only about the positive times. Maybe I feared if I ever said his name he might die all over again.”
She forced a smile. “We had so many good memories. Like how the three of us, every spring, would tap maple trees just outside of the valley and drink more of the syrup than we’d take home. How in the fall we’d having a fishing contest off the shores of Gull Lake. Not for who could catch the biggest fish, but who could catch the smallest. How I used to watch out my kitchen window on weekends and see the two playing tag. Steven was just a wee boy, and my husband would steal his crutch. Not to be mean, but to encourage him to step strongly. To have no fear. To gain confidence. I don’t know if it ever made a difference, but I do remember their laughter being music to my heart.”
Dex released Gloria’s hand, finding it necessary to clutch the wheel tightly with all ten fingers. Running single file behind, the birches were getting closer. He also noticed, after squinting, that some of the mid-branches resembled human arms curved at the elbow. Like joggers, the trees seemed to find greater locomotion with each arm thrust forward and backward.
Keep it together, Dex, he told himself. Don’t let Gloria know. Man up. She doesn’t need to worry more. It’s just your imagination.
Suddenly the birches broke off their chase, some veering to the east into the forest and some veering to the west.
Dex sighed with relief.
Unaware of the drama playing out, Gloria scooted close to the lumberjack, searching for his eyes. “The nice thing about movies is that you can play them over and over and nothing changes. You know what to expect. Life as usual can be that way. It can be a very safe place. A comfort. We didn’t show sadness. We didn’t cry, and I think if we ever started, we’d never stop.” She paused, as if pained by the reality. “I allowed Steven to grieve on his own. How’s that for being a mother?” she barely said.
Gloria let her gaze drift to a well-lit, staticky radio. “Maybe the real reason I stayed away from home was that I just couldn’t face the truth. Something I kept from Steven. Something I kept from everyone . . . that I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”
“That’s not true,” Dex exclaimed.
“Yes, it is,” she countered.
“Stop it, Gloria!”
“I’m the one who visited Brewster and reported that the General Store was being robbed. I couldn’t take another long night worrying if my husband was okay or that he might be hurt. Or worse.” Swallowing hard, she talked quickly. “I didn’t mean for him to be shot. I just wanted him thrown in jail for a day or two, let him sober up, realize what he was doing to his family. Had I not called, he might still be alive.”
BUMP-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP!
Four giant holes tried sinking the vehicle, the final one kicking up the front end forty-five degrees. The engine stalled and Gloria gasped. When the truck’s shocks stopped bouncing, Dex desperately turned the key and pumped the gas pedal. A high-pitched squeal followed, and with no ignition. He slammed his fist on the wheel in anger.
Gloria cried uncontrollably. Trembling, pressing hard against the dashboard, as if expecting another bad jolt, she mumbled incoherently.
Dex slowly reached for her shoulders, turned each toward him, and made direct eye contact. He breathed deeply, hoping the young mother would do the same. Nodding his head in reassurance, he talked softly. “Everything’ll be all right. I promise. We can’t drive any farther. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way if we’re going to find your son.”
Gloria’s body melted within Dex’s strong arms. Her tears continued to flow, but her voice seemed clearer. “I’m so scared,” she said.
“I know . . . so am I,” the lumberjack admitted, “but together we can be brave.”
“Do you think Steven is still alive?”
Dex thought for a moment. “Yes,” he answered, though feeling a pang of uncertainty in his gut. “But we have to act now.”
The young mother thought ahead, feeling her son would be found safe. “Where will my son and I go? We can’t go back to Westcreek.”
The lumberjack wiped away Gloria’s tears with his thumbs. “We’ll leave together. All three of us. Lord knows I have nothing to offer. I can barely take care of myself. But if all I can find is a cardboard box under a highway overpass, I’ll make sure it’s the best damn cardboard box anyone can find. Until we figure out something different. I promise I’ll take care of you two.”
He kissed her forehead. “Okay?”
Gloria nodded slowly.
Dex reached in back of his seat for a rusty rifle. “Now let’s go.”
Getting away from the truck wouldn’t be easy, though.
While Dex carefully guided Gloria out the driver’s-side door, the eight birch trees reappeared. Their sudden presence caused both to recoil and lie prone upon the seat, Dex shielding Gloria. Huffing from fissures deep within their hard white, gray, and black torsos, the birches romped about in front of, behind, and at the sides of the vehicle, smacking their appendages atop the hood, roof, front fenders, and bed of the truck like a car wash with heavy cloth scrubbers gone kerflooey. Inside, the humans cowered.
“What’s happening?” Gloria screamed with hysterics. “How can trees move by themselves? What’s doing this?”
“I don’t know!” Dex answered in agitated bewilderment. “I saw them earlier but couldn’t believe my eyes.”
Then the offensive became better coordinated.
Judging by their crowns moving up and down, the trees talked among themselves. Upper limbs of some pointed to the truck, other birches, and/or Dex and Gloria, like the grove was assigning tasks aimed at extraction. Next, those at the front and rear took turns raising and lowering each bumper. Up and down, they went—up and down. When that didn’t work, the trees near the doors rocked the truck from side to side with greater and greater force. In the cab, Dex dropped his rifle and grabbed between the seat cushions with one hand, poking his fingers through the holes in the floorboard with the other—trying to stabilize their bodies.
Back outside, the largest birch lost patience. Near the passenger door, grunting loudly, it punched, kneed, and pushed at the truck’s metal frame, the other trees watching. Eventually the truck tipped onto its left side, and everything within crashed against the driver’s door. Dex’s hands and fingers couldn’t keep hold, and eventually lying in a heap, he and Gloria brushed off old newspapers, rope, a box of nails, and two lunch pails, each groaning in the process.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Dex said.
“I know, but how?” Gloria screamed until hoarse.
Dex tended to his bloody fingers, cut by the thin floorboards. An idea came: the bottom’s rusty, there’s already holes. So why can’t more be made? Bigger ones?
“Gloria, kick the floor,” he said.
“What?” she questioned.
“Kick through the floor!” he grumped.
Leading by example, Dex thumped flatly with his boots near the clutch and brake. Squirming into a better position, Gloria did the same, though her small legs were less impactful.
“C’mon, harder!” Dex encouraged.
At the same time, the birches gathered. Leaning in from all sides, forming an irregular teepee, the crowns crowded together near the passenger window for a better “look.”
“Faster!” Dex yelled, feeling the cumulative stare.
A portion of the truck’s underbelly vibrated. With greater and greater stomping, dust, rust, and metal chips flew off. The chips grew to quarter-sized holes, which grew to half-dollar hunks, which grew to saucer-sized circles. Eventually one of Dex’s soles pushed through.
“It’s working!” he said. “Keep it u
p!”
The trees countered. Each battered the truck with their densest limbs. The hood crumpled, the wheels flattened, more glass shattered, and as Dex and Gloria feverishly continued their work, crystal shards rained down. Still, they were making progress. Both of Dex’s boots busted through the bottom, closely followed by one of Gloria’s shoes. More vigorous kicking helped widen the escape route.
“Bend the edges down with your hands,” Dex said, twisting his body 180 degrees so his head faced the floor. “That way we can crawl out.”
The young mother tried, but from the glassless windows, a new challenge emerged: the thinnest birch limbs slowly snaked around Gloria’s ankles, waist, and neck. At first the entanglement was loose. But gradually it became tighter and tighter.
“Almost there,” Dex declared, grimacing while creasing the hole like a baker making a pie crust.
One of the branches on Gloria’s legs sliced into her skin. “Dex, help!”
Wiggling through the opening, Dex flipped around and stretched out his hands. “Grab on! I’ll pull you!”
Gloria did, and most of her body exited the cab. But several limbs joined forces and pulled at her knees and thighs.
“Don’t let go!” the lumberjack demanded.
“I won’t!” Gloria promised in fright.
A tug-of-war ensued with the birches gaining the most ground. In and out Gloria went, barely touching the creased metal sides. At one point, clutching her feet, Dex was tugged so close to the truck that he had to slam his boots against the floorboard and bend at the knees, just to keep Gloria from disappearing back inside. He looked like a sideways ice fisherman pulling in a large catch. Thinking about the real possibility that he might lose his true love, he gnashed his teeth and found strength he never knew he had.
“No!” he roared.
All the birches suddenly jumped back five feet from Dex’s voice and stood stunned.
But the ensnarement continued. Gloria still had branches around her legs.
Dex continued to fight. With exhaustive pulling, inch by inch he assisted Gloria in finally clearing the truck bottom. Then he had another idea: noting some sharp corners around the opening, he yanked her to one side and started a sawing motion against the flimsy wood. Gradually most of the limbs released with a shriek and a shaking “paw.” One after another, the trees let go—one after another and with a bass tone from deep crevices within their trunks. Dex shouted. “Leave her alone!”
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 19