Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (7 page)

“I
won’t take that kind of chance again. If it looks bad, I won’t attempt the
ridge.” Jeff noted Carl was opening the duffel bag. “Goodies?”

“Sort
of. I figured you would decide on some harebrained plan, so I brought a few
things from my gear that might come in handy.” While speaking, Carl laid pieces
of equipment on the table.

“Whoa.
Crampons and an ice ax. Snowshoes? I don’t think things will get that tense!”

“I
don’t think so either, but this time of year, as you pointed out I might add, a
few precautions are justified.”

“You’re
right, and thanks.”

Carl
placed the items with other equipment Jeff was assembling. Sitting on top of
the pile was a revolver and two boxes of ammunition. Carl picked the weapon up
to examine it.

“I’ve
seen that little .38 special you keep by your bed, but I’ve never been
introduced to this baby. For as old as it seems to be, it’s in great condition.
.357 magnum?”

“Yeah.
Colt Trooper. Bought it at a private estate sale I lucked into. The stainless
steel tooling was so good I couldn’t pass it up. I figure it dates from the
late sixties or early seventies.”

“Pretty
heavy, isn’t it?” Carl observed, hefting the pistol several times. “The .38 and
a few extra rounds ought to do the job.”

“It
isn’t the dirtbags I’m worried about. Bears are coming out of hibernation about
now. Introducing grizzlies may have been a good idea, but they’re taking the
place over. If I have to tangle with one of those mothers, that .38 would be
worthless.”

“Okay,
you need the Colt. Now answer me this: why two boxes of ammunition? Those
babies weigh a ton. How many bears do you expect to meet?”

“What
do you mean?”

Carl
handed him the boxes.

“Where
were they?”

“On
top of the pile next to the Colt, Jeff.”

“I
have no idea how they got there. You’re right—I don’t need more than ten or
twelve extra rounds.”

Carl
watched in silent amazement as Jeff walked over to the stack of camping gear
and set both boxes down on top.

“Jeff,
what are you…” Carl stopped and decided to let it go. The ammunition was not a
critical issue.

Continuing
to sort equipment as if nothing had happened, Jeff looked at Carl with a
hopeful expression.

“Going
to join me for a few days later on?”

“I’ll
try. Let’s set a meeting time and place. How about west of Hoodo Pass four days
before the end of your trip? If I don’t show, you’ll know I couldn’t cut free
of my project.”

“Sounds
good. I’ll make a smoke above the treeline so you’ll have a marker.”

Carl
left and Jeff spent the rest of the evening packing. Ready for bed, he happened
to glance at the backpack. Perched on top was his saber. Muttering to himself,
he padded over to the sword.

“I
know I didn’t put it there. If I didn’t, then who did?” The sword’s position
clearly indicated careful placement. “Maybe Carl was fooling with it.”

Jeff
knew Carl had not touched the sword. He reached down to pick it up. The instant
his hand brushed the scabbard, Jeff knew that if he did not take the sword it
would mean his life.

It
might have been ten or fifteen minutes. Jeff would never be sure how long he
stood there. Every resource was focused on that decision, about that sword,
concerning his life. He had never experienced any feeling that even came close
to the awful sense of conviction that prevented him from touching the sword.

Slowly
pulling his hand back, Jeff continued to stare at the saber which silently,
patiently sat there. An instrument of death, it seemed at that moment to
symbolize life itself. Jeff collected himself with a shudder and slipped under
the covers.

“I
will take that sword and the weight be damned, even if I have to leave
something else behind.”

Sunshine
flooded the apartment when he awoke. Sitting up with a start, Jeff looked at
the bedside alarm clock and saw it was already ten o’clock. He looked over at
the camping gear.

Perched
on top of the pile, the sword was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. Morning
traffic outside posed a sharp contrast to a quiet watchfulness that permeated
the apartment.

“Okay,
okay, I said I’m taking you!”

Throwing
on clothes, he hurried out to the ancient Dodge pickup that served as transportation
and coaxed it to life. He didn’t want to take time to eat, so Jeff grabbed some
cheese and apples on his way out the door with the backpack. The Dodge promptly
died when he let out the clutch.

“Oh
no you don’t, you old bastard,” Jeff chortled. He had learned its every dirty
trick years ago and teased it back to life. “And away we go!”

They
were well north on I-5 and settled in for the haul before the Dodge was
convinced that everything was going to be all right. Lulled by the sonorous
thunder of the truck’s exhaust system, Jeff slipped on sunglasses and bit into
the apple. With each mile that passed, Jeff felt tension and resentment fade.

"Damn,
it’s good to be out of Seattle. What a relief!”

They
rolled through the Methow Valley over packed snow with the transmission in
four-high. The roads were nearly empty, the sun was bright—it was a perfect day
to drive on and on. Later, they were well up Gold Creek on a gravel road when
Jeff snapped on the headlights.

“Must
be two feet of snow,” he worried out loud. “C’mon, baby, get me there one more
time.”

The
headlights picked out the campground entrance near the tail end of dusk. “Thank
God!” Jeff broke into a grin.

Slapping
the gearshift lever into second, he locked up the drive train and tramped down
on the accelerator. Engine screaming its thrilling song, exhaust pipes
bellowing, the Dodge bucked around the off-season barrier, four wheels spraying
rooster tails of snow and dirt.

“Yee-ha!
Sock it to ‘em, you old bastard!”

The
truck had a fight on its hands, but the engine held on to the fat part of the
power curve. When the Dodge made it back onto the road in a flying leap, Jeff
was laughing so hard he had to ease his foot onto the brake and stop.

“Son
of a bitch! This is the way to live!” He patted the dashboard in appreciation,
and intoned, “Long may your rusty fenders wave, old truck.”

Letting
the clutch out, Jeff idled the Dodge to an inconspicuous nook he was fond of.
Belly still full from the late lunch, he made himself comfortable in the cab. Up
with the sun, he scrambled a few eggs for breakfast, made a final check of his
gear then looked balefully at the sword.

“Well,
you wanted to come along so damn bad, how in hell do I carry you?”

As
expected, he received no answer. After trying several arrangements he tied it
to the back of the pack frame. Heaving the pack on top of a handy boulder, Jeff
slipped into the harness. When he stood up and felt the weight, he groaned.

“I
am going to die before this day is out. That pack must weigh eighty pounds.” He
staggered into motion. “To hell with it. Either it’ll kill or cure me.”

Several
days later, about the time Jeff thought he might not die after all, the trail
he had been following began to wind a tortuous way up the eastern flank of
Sawtooth Ridge. The incline rapidly increased, and he was forced to use Carl’s
ice ax to pull himself up the steeper parts. Shortly, it started to snow. That
was a worrisome development.

Jeff
sat down on a handy stump to take stock. Slipping out of the backpack, he unfolded
a topographical map that included Hoodo Pass. Wind gusts kept flipping it
around, shaking off the snow.

“Decision
time, boyo,” he mumbled while measuring distance and elevation. “Ouch, that’s
higher than I thought. Looks like something over 5,000 feet. Pass ought to be
lower, though, and I’m already pretty high. Maybe I can ease over that sucker
tomorrow.” A vision of Carl’s concerned face briefly flickered, and was gone.

Late
the next day he was nearly at the end of his strength with several hundred yards
to go before he made the pass. The wind was full in his face and blowing hard.
Leaning forward, he staggered through the pass in snow up to his calves. Badly
in need of a breather, he sought refuge behind a ledge that gave some
protection from the wind. Leaning back against the ledge, Jeff looked out
across the Sawtooth Wilderness and, some miles farther to the west, the Cascade
Mountains.

The
overcast had solidified into a slate-gray shroud that skimmed higher peaks.
Visible as a white veil, a snow flurry was coming his way. Stretching north and
south as far as he could see, rugged mountains dominated the western sky and
emanated a sullen power.

Gray,
black and white, alive and immortal, jagged peaks brooded coldly in their early
spring sleep but missed nothing. Daylight was fading fast, lending such a
sinister appearance to one blown-out caldera that Jeff drew back.

“Holy
shit! What have I done to you?”

As
if in reply, the wind moaned a funereal dirge around the ledge. The effect was
so strong that Jeff considered canceling the hike. A sudden clatter made him
start. Released by spring thaw, a large rock bounded by only feet away.
Shivering from the sense of threat, Jeff could not help feeling intimidated.

“They
know I’m here! I’ve never felt anything like this before. Why are they angry at
me?”

He
had never felt so insignificant, and every attempt to reason with himself only
made things worse. With more than a little bravado, he muttered, “Screw you,
I’m not turning back now whether you like it or not.” Jeff settled the pack and
set off down the trail toward the comfort of trees and earth.

He
was about to enter the forest when a deep rumbling boomed up through his legs.
The ground jerked sidewise and Jeff stumbled to one knee, showers of stones
rattling off his backpack. Quiet. The world seemed to be holding its breath.
Getting to his feet, heart beating wildly, Jeff stood crouched. The earth was
still.

That’s
it, he thought several minutes later, only a little tremor. Birds tentatively
began their evensong, and a single ray of sunshine escaped the overcast.
Flipping off the mountains, Jeff hiked into the trees.

Building
a fire larger than was necessary, he ate quickly and pulled out his longtime
companion, a battered recorder. Jeff stared into the fire and lifted it to his
lips. When he returned to the mutual reality of earth and forest, the fire had
burned down to a few glowing embers.

Sunshine
filtering through evergreens prodded Jeff out of the sleeping bag. He broke
camp and moseyed down slope with a jaunty step, whistling off-key. Hiking where
the moment’s whim took him, days and nights merged into a seamless whole.

One
of those sun-dappled days, Jeff stopped early near a rushing creek. While
foraging for firewood he ran across a row of fool hens sitting on a low branch.
They were large plump birds, and he was unable to resist temptation. Jeff
knocked one of them off its perch with a stick and hurried back to camp.

Once
cleaned and spitted on a green stick rotisserie, the monotonous duty of turning
the bird freed Jeff’s thoughts. Carl’s questions about his saber came to mind
at once.

“I
must have been thirteen or so when Grandad gave it to me.”

Jeff
couldn’t remember how he had escaped the grind of planting, but seemed to
recall it had been a wet spring and it was impossible to get into the fields.
With his father’s blessing and a lunch from his mother, he had headed out from
their farm near the Missouri border in southeast Iowa for a day’s ramble in a
nearby forest.

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Deep
in a thicket of oak and maple, a gangly youngster no longer quite a boy looked
around with an irritated expression. He brushed locks of reddish-chestnut hair
out of his eyes and listened intently. All was silent.

“Stupid!
C’mon, boy!”

Nothing
moved, and he could hear none of the usual crashing sounds. “Dumb dog,” he
muttered.

A
wide grin replaced the frown. Whistling under his breath, hands jammed deep
into ragged jeans, he continued on his way. Someone familiar with Jeff
Friedrick from school would have been surprised at how unreserved he seemed.
Although he was well liked by teachers and a good student, there was something
about Jeff that puzzled several staff members.

He
was there in the classroom, yet he wasn’t. He excelled in sports and because of
that moved freely among various cliques while devoting his attention to none of
them. Jeff was, the teachers decided, an intriguing young man. Yet he didn’t
make trouble or demand attention. They were content to leave it at that and did
not attempt to draw him out. That he was alone would have surprised no one.