Chasing Redbird (21 page)

That sound—had someone called my name?

In this tired and demented state, I saw her:
Aunt Jessie
. She was standing—or floating, rather—near some trees, and as I went toward her, she moved on, leading me through the woods, but never letting me catch her. In a small clearing, she spread out her arms, or so it seemed, and vanished. I lay down in the clearing and slept.

At daybreak, I made out the shape of the Sleepy Bear Rock high above on the ridge. I was well below the trail, in one of the larch groves, surprised to be alive, surprised to feel so comforted:
I had seen Aunt Jessie!

W
hen I saw the cabin, I was so tired and hungry I didn't care who lived there. I kicked at the door but couldn't budge it.

“Anybody around?” I called. “Hey—?”

I pulled at the shuttered windows, but they were too firmly fastened. All I could see through a slim crack was a shelf on the opposite wall. On it: a pot, a book, and—there beside the shelf—oh there—on a hook—oh, it was wonderful, oh, it was terrible, terrible. It was Aunt Jessie's coat.

I was out of there so fast I could have caught air.

I stopped at my campsite only long enough to grab the wire cutters, a length of rope, and some apples before starting for home. On the way, I was going to get that horse.

Oh that coat! The sight of that coat! That instant joy, that instant horror!

I ran down the trail, past Sleepy Bear Rock again, across Baby Toe Ridge, through Crow Hollow, on and on. I thought,
Aunt Jessie's alive! She lives there!
I tore down the trail.
No. Someone else has her coat. Uncle Nate gave her coat to that woman!

When I reached the meadow, there was Willow, pawing and pacing. I coaxed her to take an apple, and she didn't much like my putting a rope on her, but when I cut the fence and led her through, she swung her head high and proud, as if to say,
Out of there at last!
We rode down the trail toward home, where I tied her to a tree by the creek before going on to the house.

“Zinny! We've been waiting!” Bonnie said. “We're going to the circus, and we thought you forgot. You have to watch Uncle Nate. And guess what—Jake was arrested! Isn't it awful? He's not in jail now, but he might have to go to Juvenile Court. Isn't it awful? Do you think he'll go to jail?”

Sam said, “Jake stole a
car
. He's in big trouble.”

“Tell her about Bingo,” Ben said.

“Oh!” Bonnie said. “Ben saw Bingo—you'll never guess where! In Mr. Butler's car! Ben thinks Mr. Butler stole our Bingo, but Dad doesn't think that could possibly be.”

“We're going to find out, though,” Ben said.

“Right!” Bonnie said. “Dad says we can go over to the Butlers' after the circus.”

My old spaghetti swamp was so tangled it was as if someone had thrown me in it and tied me up in a zillion knots.

“There you are, Zinny,” Mom said. “You look a wreck! Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I lied.

“Did the kids tell you about Jake? Honestly, I don't know what to think.”

“Mom,” Gretchen complained, “May's wearing my jeans. Make her take them off.”

“Zinny, let me sort out Uncle Nate's stuff with you. He has to take this medicine three times—”

Will pulled on my sleeve. “Jake was arrested.”

May hovered near the door. “He didn't actually steal that car. He just borrowed it. I know the whole story. He confided in me.” She said this with a studied air, as if it were extremely significant.

“Zinny,” Dad said, “We have to talk when we get home—”

“Aren't we going to the circus?” Sam wailed.

After they'd left, I slipped into Uncle Nate's room. “Lucky you,” I said. “I'm in charge of you today.”

“I know it.”

The phone rang. “I'll be right back,” I said.

“Ain't going nowhere,” he mumbled.

“That's what you think.”

It was Jake's mother, who wanted to know if Jake was at our house. When I said he wasn't, she said, “Are you sure—which one are you?”

“Zinny. Yes, I'm sure. No one here but me and Uncle Nate.”

“That boy will be the death of me yet. He's supposed to be grounded, and I mean grounded, except to go to work. He didn't come home last night, and Mrs. Flint just called and said he hasn't shown up for work. I'm calling the sheriff. Are you sure he isn't there?”

“I'm sure. Just me and Uncle Nate. You don't think anything has happened to Jake, do you?” I asked.

“I don't know what to think. If you see him, tell him to get over to that store right away. And Zinny—”

“Yes?”

“Tell him he's got a lick of explaining to do.”

From my closet, I snatched the medallion that I'd taken from the metal box in Uncle Nate's drawer, and then I went up to the barn where I knew there was an old bridle. I had hoped there might be a saddle, too, but there wasn't. I retrieved Willow, led her down to the house, and tied her to the porch railing.

“Okay, Uncle Nate, let's get a move on. We're going for a ride.”

“Do I look like I'm in any condition for a dag-blasted ride?”

“You said you wanted to go on the trail—”

His eyes opened wide.

“I saw her,” I said. “I saw Aunt Jessie.” I guess I should have told him what else I saw, but I didn't.

“Tarnation!” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. “Dag-blasted legs.”

I had second thoughts. “How are you ever going to make it? You can't do it—”

“I can!” he said. “You gotta take me.”

“But your leg—”

“You gotta, pumpkin. You gotta!”

I pulled him upright and, inch by inch, we made it to the porch, though Uncle Nate had to stop every few feet and lean against the wall. “My heart's a-jumping,” he said. “Where'd that horse come from? You're not going to try to get me on that thing, are you?”

It wasn't easy, but Willow was obliging and patient as I pushed and pulled and shoved Uncle Nate up on her back and climbed up behind him.

“Ain't it supposed to have a saddle?” he said.

“We've got these reins—don't need a saddle.”

“Let's go then,” he said. “Let's get a move on—”

A
t the edge of the creek, when I turned the horse up the start of the trail, Uncle Nate said, “You taking me up there? Way up there?”

“That's where I saw Aunt Jessie, so that's where we're going.”

“Okay,” he said, “but you're awful bossy lately.”

On up the trail we rode under an overcast sky.

He kept slumping forward against the mare's neck and I had to pull him upright, fearing that he'd slide off. He insisted on clutching his stick, which regularly poked my leg.

“Can't we drop that stick?” I asked him.

“Nope. Might need it.” It jabbed my foot. “Lookee there, you've gone and cleared the whole dag-blasted trail. Why'd you go and do that? Where does this lead anyway?”

“You know this trail perfectly well,” I said.

“Don't talk about it.”

“You've been up here lots and lots of times.”

“Not this way,” he said. “Not on this-here trail.”

At the spot where I'd discovered the medallion, I pulled over. “See that rock? You'll never guess what I found there—”

“I know what you found.”

“You do?” I said. “What?”

He waved his stick at the hole. “That thingy—that coin thingy.”

“Where'd it come from?” I asked. “Who put it there? Do you know?”

Uncle Nate craned his neck around to look at me. “Pumpkin,
you
put it there. Are you being a noodle?”

That chill, that shiver returned. “When?” I asked. “When did I put it there? And why? And—”

“Hold your taters,” he said. “I cain't keep track of all those questions. You don't remember putting it there? You don't remember how you scared us all half to death?”

I saw myself running, running. I was very small. Something was in my hand. I could feel it there pressed against my palm. Rose had been in the drawer—

“Pumpkin?” Uncle Nate said. “You remember?”

I had touched Rose's hand and when I did, I saw the leather pouch beneath it, and inside the pouch, the medallion. That hand, it was so stiff, so unlike Rose's hand. I grabbed the pouch and left the house. Out of the house, up the hill.

“Pumpkin?” Uncle Nate repeated. “It was when Rose died—”

“Shh,” I said. “Wait—” I wanted to see how much more I could remember. Running, running, tripping, falling, stumbling. Clawing at the dirt, burying the pouch, finding the stone to mark the spot, sitting there calling
Rose, Rose, Rose—

Uncle Nate said, “We couldn't find you—it was terrible, terrible—”

I couldn't remember anything more. “Who found me?”

“Me and Jessie. We found you sitting there. We took you home—”

“So how did you know what I'd buried there?”

“I'm nosy,” Uncle Nate said. “I came back. I looked.”

We rode on through the hills, into Maiden's Walk. I was thinking about the medallion, fingering it in my pocket, wondering why it had been in Rose's hand, and why I kept seeing
two
medallions in my mind. Around the edges of these thoughts, I saw glimpses of a circus tent, like the one my family might be entering now.

We reached the meadow and approached it cautiously, to be sure the owner hadn't yet discovered his missing mare or his clipped fence. No sign of anyone.

Uncle Nate said, “Somebody oughta mend that fence,” and then, “What're you doing? Ride
around
it.”

“We're riding the trail, and the trail goes through here.”

“Did you put these stones in here? Where'd you get this horse?”

“Uncle Nate—was there another medallion—were there two of them?”

“Pumpkin, I cain't talk about it—” He stared straight ahead.

“But why not? Do you know what the initials meant—
TNWM
?”

“'Til Next We Meet—” There was a catch in his voice, a muffled low sound at the back of his throat.

'Til Next We Meet, 'Til Next We Meet
. I saw the circus again, a tent, a table with a brightly colored cloth. I saw two medallions.

In the distance, dark clouds were gathering, and I nudged the horse into a slow trot. “Bumpy dang thing,” Uncle Nate said, sliding this way and that. “My heart's jumping.” On we went, through the rest of Maiden's Walk, and through Crow Hollow.