The Kennebec River stretched out for miles in front of us. Once I’d gotten Early’s bug repellent on, the insects left me alone, and we eventually rowed out of the swarm. By nine o’clock, the clouds had lifted, and the air around us was crisp and clear. I always loved October at home, with its morning chill in the air, the afternoon sun warming the wooden planks of the front porch, bowls of steaming chili, and of course, baseball. I could feel a familiar ache coming back again, and I didn’t want it. I needed something to distract me.
“So, Early, why don’t you fill me in on the latest installment of Pi? What’s been going on in his world lately?”
“There are only a few numbers left that I know, and I don’t have those memorized. Some parts I can tell from memory, and other parts—I need to read the numbers. After that I have to figure out more numbers, but it takes a lot of calculating.”
That made me wonder, how did Early read those numbers? It was clear to me now that he was not making up a story and pretending that it came from the numbers. I should have known Early was not one to play make-believe. He may have thought some crazy, unbelievable things, but he believed them.
“Can you teach me to read numbers?” I asked.
“I don’t think it’s something you can learn. Nobody taught me. I’ve just always seen numbers differently than most people. Fisher says it’s a gift. He says when he sees the numbers that start with 3.14, it’s just a bunch of figures that don’t mean anything more than numbers. That made me sad for him. For me, they are blue and purple and sand and ocean and rough and smooth and loud and whispering, all at the same time.” He paused for a breath.
I wished I could see what he saw—color and landscape, texture and voice.
We passed under a rain cloud that shed a few sprinkles on us. It made me think of Billie Holiday, her rich voice. She could just hum with no words and you could hear the sadness, the pain, the feeling. That made me think.
“Maybe it’s like listening to music,” I said. “How it can make you feel things without any words. There was a song at my mother’s funeral. It was all in Latin, and I didn’t understand a word of it, but the way the sounds blended together and the music rose and fell, well, it could make a person cry—if they were prone to that sort of thing.” I blinked hard.
“How come Kansas doesn’t have any color?”
“We have color.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, we—” Oh, not that again. “What makes you think we don’t have color?”
“Because in The Wizard of Oz, Kansas is all in black and white and grays. There’s no color until Dorothy gets to Oz.”
“Oh.” I laughed. “That’s only in the movies. Kansas has plenty of color. Especially in the fall.” I allowed the memory of it to draw me back. “The sky is a beautiful blue.”
“Like the ocean?”
“Kind of. My mom says if the world ever got turned upside down, you could just dive right into the sky and swim in it. And the wheat just before harvest is a golden blanket of waves and ripples.”
“That’s nice. What does it sound like?”
“It’s just waving wheat. It doesn’t make any noise.” But then I thought about it. “Well, I guess if you listen really hard, it makes a shooshing sound.”
“What if you listened harder?”
“If I listened harder”—I closed my eyes as I kept rowing—“I suppose it would sound kind of happy and full, like Benny Goodman and his band playing ‘In the Mood.’ It would be music you’d want to dance to.” I kept my eyes closed, trusting Early to guide me if I started rowing off course. “And then there’s all the fall produce in my mom’s garden and the Bentley orchards.” I could practically feel the dirt under my hands. “The pumpkins are bright orange, there are sweet red apples and yellow squash, and of course, there’s plenty of green. And all that ends up sounding like mmmmmm. Pumpkin pie, meaty stews, and cinnamon-apple cobbler. And the trees—”
“Yeah, the trees,” said Early.
I opened my eyes. I’d always liked the brilliance of leaves changing color at home, but here—I’d never been surrounded by trees like this, their leaves all turning color, to bright oranges, deep yellows, and flaming reds. Whole forests of trees that looked like they were on fire.
I eased up on the rowing, grateful for the rest and the moment to soak it all up. Early had given me a glimpse into what he saw and heard and felt through his numbers. And there was a beauty in it that was warm and real. “I suppose if color could be sound,” I said, “these trees would be playing a whole symphony.”
“A Mozart symphony,” Early answered, “if it were Sunday.”
We rowed along in a contented quiet, listening to the sounds of all the colors around us, when a barge emerged from a little side stream and pulled up alongside our boat. There were seven or eight bearded and weathered faces staring down at us.
These faces belonged to a ragged band that leaned over their ship’s railing with arms crossed. They smelled a little rank even from a distance and looked like they’d been apart from civilization for some time.
They just stared, and I wondered if they were waiting for us to speak first. Then the group parted, and a large man stepped forward. He put his hands on the rail of the barge and peered down at us. Dense trees reached out over the Kennebec River, allowing brief flashes of light to shine through the branches and leaves as we floated underneath. It was in those flashes that I could see the man’s face—it was scarred on one side, and a black patch covered his left eye.
“That’s a fine-looking boat you have there, lads.” His face pulled into a contorted smile. “You look like you’ve had a long stretch of rowing. How about we tether your boat behind ours, and we’ll motor you upstream a ways?”
Early caught his breath. His eyes opened wide. I stopped rowing, and our boat lagged just a bit behind their barge. It was enough distance for Early to whisper what was on his mind.
“Pirates!”
16
Quicker than we could say Jolly Roger, we were pulled on board the barge, and the Maine was tied to a rope to be towed behind. One of the men with bulgy eyes took a firm hold on the back of Early’s jacket and plopped him in the corner of the barge, next to two slobbering bloodhounds. One of the dogs didn’t even look up; the other gave Early a passing glance and continued licking himself in what my mom would have called an unseemly manner. Then the man deposited me in the corner next to Early, and both dogs gave low warning growls.
The bulgy-eyed man rummaged through Early’s backpack and took out an apple, then pulled a dirty knife from his pocket and wiped it on his pants. He sliced a piece out of the apple and chewed it right in front of us.
Granted, it was rude to eat with your mouth open and not even offer us a bite, but if that was the definition of a pirate, my uncle Max would be a card-carrying member, complete with a peg leg and a parrot perched on his shoulder.
No, these were just scruffy woodsmen giving us a lift upstream. Still, the scruffy woodsman with the apple was eyeing us pretty closely and seemed intent on us not moving a muscle. He rummaged through our packs some more and seemed to take a liking to Early’s compass. He admired its shiny case, shoved it in his pocket, and dumped the backpacks at our feet.
The barge chugged along, gasping and sputtering, sending occasional plumes of smoke into our faces. I thought about asking if we could move to the other side of the boat, away from the engine, but thought better of it. Early piped up instead.
“Do you have any rum?” he asked.
The man didn’t answer. He just continued eating the apple. I nudged Early, trying to shush him, but he went on. “Pirates like rum. I’ve never had any, but I heard it puts a fire in your belly. Does it do that to you?” Still no answer. “Sometimes I get a fire in my belly, but it’s usually just gas. It doesn’t feel good, so I don’t think I’d like rum. Do you think you’d like rum, Jackie?”
“No. Now be quiet and let the man eat in peace,” I whispered.
<
br /> “But that’s our last apple.”
“Then let him eat our last apple in peace.”
Early finally quieted down as we slowly made our way upriver. I don’t know if it was the fumes or just fatigue, but my eyelids grew heavy, and the next thing I knew, it was almost dark. The barge’s engine was off, and I could hear the side butting up against what sounded like a wooden dock.
“Early,” I whispered. His breathing was deep, and he was slumped against me. “Early,” I said again, shaking him. I grabbed the backpacks. “Let’s get out of here.”
Early stirred, but just as we stood up, we heard a voice yell, “Olson, go get those boys!” It was a wiry fellow whose shoes clomped as loud as a peg leg. “Have ’em haul up those barrels and put ’em in the truck.”
Olson was the man who’d been watching us. He came back and pointed to a stack of medium-sized barrels. “Haul up those barrels and put ’em in the truck,” he said, as if we hadn’t just heard Long John Silver say the same thing.
Early tried to lift one on his own. “These are heavy. What’s in them?”
“Never you mind what’s in ’em,” said Olson. “Just get a move on ya.”
“I bet it’s rum. Pirates like rum.”
One by one, Early and I lugged the barrels and set them in the back of a flatbed truck that was waiting at the end of the dock. The night was dark, and with only a gas lantern propped on the dock railing, we couldn’t make out any labels on the barrels. I hoped it didn’t matter whether they were going in right side up or upside down, because we couldn’t tell top from bottom. Besides, those barrels were likely to fall out, as the bed of the truck was full of holes and rotted boards.
Of course Early, who had more curiosity than what killed the cat, climbed right up in the truck with the lantern, poking around, his bright-red tartan jacket popping up here and there among the barrels until Olson caught him.
“Get out of there, kid,” he snarled.
“Okay,” said Early. “But I’m here to tell you, whoever sold you your rum is having a good laugh. It’s all dried up.”
“Is that so?” said Olson, raising a flask to his lips. “Then it’s a good thing I got some good and wet right here.”
“Are you three sheets to the wind?” asked Early. “That means drunk. You can also say tipsy, pickled, or schnockered. But my favorite is goosed. The custodian at school has a little too much to drink on weekends. He calls it having the whirligigs. Have you ever had the whirligigs?”
Olson just stared at Early, his flask half-raised. Whirligigged or not, this seemed like a good opportunity to hightail it out of there. “We’d like our boat now, and we’ll be on our way,” I said, even though I figured it wasn’t going to be that easy.
“Well, that’s fine and dandy. Why don’t you go on up to the Bear Knuckle”—he pointed to the shack up the hill—“and tell that to the boss. I’m sure he’ll hand it right over.”
“What’s his name?” asked Early.
“The boss? MacScott.”
“But what’s his pirate name?” Early said, with no small amount of disappointment.
“Oh, I get it,” said Olson. “Eye patch. Pirate. You’re funny, kid. He can be pretty nasty, but I don’t think he’s got his pirate name yet.”
Olson climbed in the truck and started up the engine, grinding it into gear. He pulled away from the dock and started the slow climb up the mountain, hitting every rut and rock along the way. Early and I were left in darkness.
“Mangled MacScott,” Early breathed with satisfaction. “That’s a good pirate name. I bet his first name is Darius. What do you think would be a good pirate name for Olson?”
I didn’t care what his pirate name would be, but I thought Early might move quicker if I answered him. “Sir Drinks-a-Lot,” I said.
“Sir Drinks-a-Lot.” Early pondered the name. “I like it.”
“Now let’s get moving,” I said, trying to figure out a way to get the Maine back without having to face MacScott again.
“But we’re getting closer, Jackie.”
“Closer to what? Having our heads chopped off in a guillotine?”
“No, Jackie. Pirates don’t do that. They might hang you by the neck, or cut out your insides, or slit your throat, or string you up and let birds pluck your eyes out, or feed you to sharks, or cut out your tongue, or—”
“All right, Early.” I stopped him before he could come up with a hundred and ten other gruesome types of death and torture.
“Let’s go find the pirate MacScott,” said Early. “Maybe he knows something about the Great Bear.”
There seemed nothing else for it but to do just as Olson had suggested: go find MacScott and see about getting our boat back.
Early and I walked up the hill about fifty feet. We came to what might have been a road but turned out to be just a dried-up creek bed that allowed a couple of mangy trucks and a beat-up old motorcycle to somehow ease their way up to a ramshackle building.
In the moonlit night, we got our first glimpse of the Bear Knuckle Inn. When Early and I walked in, MacScott and two of his men sat at the bar, and a thin, pitiful-looking girl stood behind it. Animal heads loomed on every wall—moose, deer, elk. A ferocious bear head, its teeth showing in an angry snarl, seemed to be leaping from a place of distinction just above the bar.
Of course, two kids walking into any drinking establishment would draw some attention, but Early and I walking into this one seemed to stop everyone in their whiskey-filled tracks.
I started to tug on Early’s sleeve, which everyone knows is the unwritten code for Let’s get out of here! Everyone but Early, that is.
“That’s a nice bear you got there.” Early pointed to the bear head on the wall. “Have any of you seen a different bear around here?” he asked in his too-loud voice. “We’re looking for the bear we read about in the newspaper.”
That was news to me, but I could piece together Early’s thinking. Pi was always trying to keep the constellation of the Great Bear in his sights. It was his guiding light. So it made sense, in an Early kind of way, that he would follow the Great Appalachian Bear to find Pi.
The burly men in their heavy jackets looked at each other while the girl behind the bar wiped out a glass with a dirty rag.
“Early, come on.” I tugged on his sleeve.
“It probably looks like that one you’ve got there, only bigger.”
MacScott laughed, a smoky wheeze, his weathered fingers cradling a mug of ale. Keeping his gaze on his drink, not turning to face us, he said, “He’s twice as big as that one.”
“So you’ve seen him?” said Early. “Is he still alive?”
MacScott’s shoulders hunched. His hand trembled slightly, making the liquid slosh in his glass. “Alive?” He raised his eye patch and turned to face us.
I flinched as if I’d been slapped. In the dim light of dusk, when MacScott and his men had overtaken our boat, his face had been somewhat shadowed. Now, in the light of the bar, I could see the horrible scars on the side of his face—his eye was missing, and the socket was pulled into a misshapen divot. How old he was, I couldn’t be sure. Old enough to be a grandpa, although I couldn’t imagine him being one.
“Alive?” He repeated the question as if he couldn’t make up his mind. “Like most demons, it’s more dead than alive.”
“Did the bear do that to your face?” Early asked.
The man took a drink. “Yeah.” Then he smiled, his skin pulling tight and shiny. “But not before I killed her cub and got off a round in her. Took out her left eye, so tit for tat, you might say.” He placed a hand on the lever of his rifle, propped against the bar. “I plan to finish her off and collect the bounty. Folks are getting so scared, it’ll be up to a thousand dollars before long.” He pounded back the rest of his drink and set down his glass. “Another,” he said, turning his back to us.
The girl looked up from her task of scraping something off the bar top with her fingernail, then poured him another dri
nk, peering at Early and me through her stringy red hair.
I wanted to leave. There was a hardness in this place. I’d been around people who drank before, but it was usually a festive kind of drinking among friends at a wedding dance or Fourth of July picnic. These were not festive people. These men preferred to drink alone, inside, with their coats on.
“Is your name Darius?” Early asked. “I think your name is Darius.”
“I think my name is none of your business,” MacScott growled.
We had to get out of there before Early drove a half-crazy man all the way crazy. “If we can have our boat back, we’ll be going now,” I said.
MacScott slammed down his glass, splashing his drink onto the bar top. “That boat is my boat now.” He kept his back to us while nodding at the two men sitting at the bar. “Take care of them.”
The burly men stood and grabbed Early and me by our coats. They didn’t seem to be interpreting MacScott’s instructions to mean they should draw warm baths for Early and me, give us mugs of hot apple cider, and tuck us into fluffy feather beds for a cozy night’s sleep. Just as I was envisioning a pit of hissing vipers, Early spoke up.
“You want to hear a story?” Early nudged me and whispered in a voice that everyone could hear, “Remember, Jackie, how pirates like stories?” He addressed MacScott again. “I know someone who’s looking for the Great Bear, and he’ll find her before you do.”
MacScott hoisted himself from his stool and stepped toward us. He put his face up close to ours so that we could see every scar, hear every wheeze. “If someone’s crazy enough to go looking for that bear, they’ll need to have a better reason than the bounty. That animal is a killer.” Still, there was an uneasiness in his voice at the mention of someone else looking for the bear.
“Come on, Early,” I said more firmly. “We need to get out of here.”
“He’s just trying to scare us,” said Early as I pulled him away from MacScott.
“Yeah, well, he’s doing a pretty good job.”
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