In The Forest Of Harm (24 page)

The rustling grew louder. In the shadows he could make out a dark, low-slung shape slinking closer. It snuffled now against the base of his tent, knocking over the radio.

With sweat-slick fingers, Mitch strapped the rifle in a double loop around his arm and aimed at the tent flap. He didn't know where the first swipe would come, but he didn't care. Sometimes the not-knowing made it all the more fun.

“Come on, kitty-kitty,” he murmured. He shook his head and chuckled. “I'm ready for you. This trip I'm ready for anything.”

THIRTY-FIVE

This story is so scary you can only tell it in the daytime.” Jonathan sits on the porch outside Little Jump Off. He and Mary had planned to go on a hike, but a cold rain pelted down from a leaden sky.

“Ulagu was a giant wasp that swooped down from the clouds
and stole children away from their homes. He had long yellow
claws and a giant red stinger on his tail. He flew so fast no one
could catch him, and he carried off so many kids the Cherokees
were in danger of dying out.”

“What happened?” Mary squeaks like a mouse.

“The warriors tried to kill Ulagu with arrows and spears, but
they had no luck. Finally they prayed, and the Great Spirit
struck Ulagu's nest with lightning . . .”

Craaawwww!

Mary jumped. She startled from her sleep, her eyes grainy, her tongue thick in her mouth.
Ulagu
, she thought, her heart hammering as she struggled to her feet. Without thinking, she ran forward, ready to push against the Hell that she and Joan had fought through all night.

Crrraawww!
Once more the sound split the still air. Mary stopped, breathing hard. Perched in a pine tree just ahead of her was not Ulagu, the fearsome monster of her childhood, but a single black crow.

She blinked, never more grateful to see a bird in her life, suddenly realizing that the sharp laurel leaves that had so cruelly sliced her hands and face had been replaced by the scrub growth of the forest floor. “We're out!” she cried.

She turned around. Ten feet behind her Joan lay sleeping under a laurel bush, but Mary was standing upright among oak seedlings and scrub cedars. They had done it. All night they'd struggled through the sharp, cutting bushes, finally collapsing when they could crawl no further. Mary had been certain that this day would only bring more of the same torture, but for once they had chosen the right direction. They were free.

Her heart suddenly light, she looked up at the crow. Like her he was solitary; a singular member of a race that embraced pairs. Maybe he was a Spirit Guide sent from the Old Men, she thought suddenly. Maybe he would speak if asked the right question. “Can you tell me where Alex is, Koga?” she called, breathless with hope.

But the crow made no reply. Instead, he spread his tail and let loose a glob of green shit, then he lifted his wings and swooped up into the sky, a moving black rent in a field of white clouds.

“Well,” Mary sighed. “So much for Spirit Guides.” As the bird disappeared her joy faded. He probably knew exactly where Alex was, but he could not speak English, and she could not speak crow.

She looked around. Oaks, maples and mountain ash grew thick around the edge of the Hell. It was familiar vegetation, but unfamiliar terrain. Earlier, when they had followed Alex's trail from Atagahi, she had always had a sense of where they were. Crawling through the Hell had changed all that. Though she could still find east, she could no longer place it in relation to any part of the forest she was familiar with.

She sat down on the ground and gazed at the trees around her. That she and Joan had escaped the Hell was wonderful. But they were still miles from any part of the forest that she knew, and probably even further away from Alex's trail. Time, she knew, was running short, and every day sapped more of the little strength they had left. Yesterday they had lost Alex's trail; today they were badly lost themselves. She sighed. With a sick, sad ache in her heart, she realized then that she would never see Alex again.

She watched as an ant crawled around the toe of her boot and wondered if Alex was dead. If so, then had she become a ghost? Was she now chuckling from some cosmic plane, amused by Mary's anguish? “I hope so,” Mary said softly, unable to bear the thought of her dearest friend waiting vainly for Mary to come to her rescue.

“Forgive me, Alex,” she whispered. “I tried my best. Don't ever forget that I love you.”

“Bella!” called Joan suddenly, twitching in the tangle of a dream.

Mary got up and hurried over to her.

“Bella?” she mumbled again.

“Joan, wake up,” Mary said gently.

Joan sat up fast, scraping her forehead against a laurel branch. She blinked at Mary, her gaze still soft and unfocused. “Where are we?” she groaned.

“On the far side of hell.” Mary smiled sadly at the irony of her words.

“Huh?”

“We crawled out of the Hell, Joan. I'm not sure where we are, but we're out of the jungle.”

“We are?” Joan rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What are we going to do now?”

Mary picked up a dead leaf and dragged it along the ground. “We're going to walk that way.” She pointed east. “I think it's the way back to Little Jump Off.”

Joan's jaw dropped. “But what about Alex?”

“We lost her trail yesterday, Joan. Crawling out of this Hell probably put us miles away from her.” Mary shook her head. “You're injured, we're both starving and exhausted. It's time to call it quits.”

Joan looked at her, unbelieving that those words had come out of Mary's mouth.

“If we get back to Little Jump Off, we can start the sheriff looking for Alex,” Mary said. She made a little cross in the dirt. “Do you still have the oil paint?”

Joan fished it from her pocket. Mary took it to where the crow had perched in the tree. At shoulder level, she dotted out a small yellow X.

“I have no idea how far this Hell stretches, but if we walk east, and keep it on our right side, we should eventually come back to our old trail.”

Joan frowned. “Why the X on that tree?”

“It's a marker. We'll always know where we started,” Mary explained. “It'll keep us from circling this Hell forever.”

Mary capped the paint, then shot a final, wistful glance over her shoulder at the distant mountains.

“We could look for Alex one more day,” Joan offered.

Mary shook her head. “I'll join the official search whenever it starts. Right now we need to get you back to civilization.”

Mary helped Joan ease the boots on her swollen feet and they started walking east. Joan had to walk on her right heel, giving her a hopping, peg-leg sort of gait. It made for slow going, and Mary knew it was just a matter of time before Joan's whole leg would be hot and swollen with infection.

They pushed through the trees, Mary helping Joan when she stumbled, wishing they could just slip through the forest like Jonathan did when he tracked wild turkeys.
Jonathan
. How she wished his arms were around her right now. Did he still remember what “Save me a seat” had meant to them, several lifetimes ago? If she ever got the chance, she would have to ask him.

“Hold on,” Joan panted, as the sun began to heat the hazy air. “I need to find a bush. I've got diarrhea.”

“Okay.” Mary slumped down against a tree. “I'll wait here for you.”

As Joan went to squat behind a patch of bushes, Mary pulled some hickory nuts from her paint box. She bit into one, wincing at its bitterness, but swallowed it anyway. A while later Joan eased down beside her.

Mary scooted over, sharing the spongy moss beneath the tree. Joan's slender body now gave off a hot, too-sweet smell. Though she'd made no complaint about her foot, she was limping badly.
She's got one more day
, Mary realized. Then the diarrhea will have purged her completely and the fever will bake what's left. Then the only thing she'll want to do will be to lie down under a tree and sleep. The infection in her foot will wither her, just like the laurel leaves.
Then the Old Men will have taken them
both
, a voice echoed inside her head.

Mary handed the rest of the nuts to her. “Finish these. I've had plenty.”

“They look like candy they used to sell at Dr. Bell's drugstore in Brooklyn. And they don't taste half-bad anymore.” Joan cracked one nut between her teeth. “I guess you can get used to anything.”

Mary gazed out at the trees below them, then, all at once, she sat up straight, her heart racing. She turned to her friend.

“Joan, do you sense anything odd?”

Joan frowned. “Do I
sense
anything odd?”

“Yes.”

“You mean like ESP?”

“No. Just stand up and tell me if anything seems different.”

“Okay.” Joan struggled upright. She looked out over the russet-colored valley below. A moment later she turned back to Mary, her eyes wide.

“I smell smoke.”

Mary leapt to her feet. “That's exactly what I smelled. Somebody's here.” A strange kind of anticipation sizzled through her. Close by, someone had lit a fire. It could be anyone from fishermen casting for trout to Barefoot. And Alex . . .

“Can you tell where it's coming from?” Joan asked.

The scent of the woodsmoke hung in all directions. Mary turned in a slow circle, trying to catch any sounds of people camping, but no noises drifted up on the breeze.

“What should we do?” Joan's voice was tight.

“Let's keep walking east. Maybe we'll run into whoever built the fire.”

“And then what?” asked Joan.

“If they're campers or hunters, they'll have food and supplies. They can bandage your foot and help us get back to Little Jump Off.”

“And if they're not?”

“Then we'll have to do something else,” Mary replied evenly.

They hiked on resolutely, ignoring their discomfort, keeping now to the cover of the trees. Mary's eyes searched for smoke everywhere, but she saw none. Finally, they reached the top of a ridge. Here an ancient oak commanded a stunning view of the mountains below.

“Come on,” Mary said. “Let's go get our bearings behind that tree.”

They scrambled up to the tree, where they pressed themselves against the trunk and peered out into the valley. Hundreds of rusty autumn mountains rolled out before them. It was a magnificent vista. Both women stood silent, searching the hills for any sign of a fire.

“Look!” Mary cried suddenly, pointing.

Joan looked where Mary pointed, then gasped. A tiny sprig of smoke curled from the trees.

“There's the fire, Joan. That's where they are.”

“How far away is it?”

“It's hard to tell,” Mary said. “Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe an hour. Do you feel strong enough to go have a look?”

Joan stared at the curling smoke, then took a deep breath and nodded.

“Are you sure? It's okay if you want to stay here and wait for me.”

Joan shook her head. “No. Bad things happen when we split up. I want to come with you.”

“Okay, then. You keep the boots on, and we'll go slow.”

“And we'll be careful, won't we?” Only the tremor in Joan's voice betrayed her anxiety.

“Very careful,” Mary assured her.

“Good. Just remember if it's Barefoot and he sees us, then we're both dead.”

THIRTY-SIX

Mary helped Joan down through the trees, in the direction of the smoke. Thimbleberries pulled at their scratched and bleeding legs, as if begging them to stay in the sanctuary of the ridge. They pushed their way down through the prickly branches to emerge in an old-growth forest.

“Jeez, these trees are tall,” said Joan, gazing up at a hundred-foot hickory.

“The timbermen never got up here.” Mary breathed easier as the air felt cooler, the earth springier beneath her feet. She squinted at the wilderness below, but saw nothing beyond the understory of the forest—young maples and hornbeams sprouting from a knee-deep evergreen carpet of galax and trillium.

With Joan following close behind, Mary crept on from one tree to the next. After a few minutes she gestured for Joan to stop behind a clump of locusts. Ahead, glimmering through the sun-dappled shadows, lay a broad expanse of tall yellow weeds. Could that be where the smoke was coming from? They crept on to a huge bass-wood that rose just in front of a weedy meadow lying like an island in the middle of the dense woods. Suddenly, Mary caught her breath. At the very back of the field stood a run-down cabin with a tendril of smoke wisping from the stone chimney.

Her muscles tightened. Was this just some hunter's remote cabin? Or had they stumbled upon the lair of Ulagu?

Mary slipped from behind the tree and was just about to pull Joan forward, when a flicker of a motion caught her eye. Quickly, she threw both of them back against the trunk and peeked out.

A figure emerged from the cabin. A man, wearing an old army camouflage suit and a Yankees baseball cap. A long hunting-knife scabbard hung from his belt. He raised his arms high above his head, as if stretching, then slung a bulging sack over his shoulder and stepped off the porch. Mary's heart froze. Though she and Joan crouched a hundred yards away, she could still see the dark beard and deep-set eyes.

“I see him!” she whispered, not believing their luck.

“Where?” Joan tried to peer around the broad tree trunk. “I don't see anybody.”

“There!” She pressed Joan against the tree, barely daring to breathe herself, praying the bearded man would not walk toward them. He paused, lazily scanning the perimeter of the field, then strode away at an angle, into the woods that bordered the northeast side of the meadow.

“Come on,” urged Mary. “Let's see if we can get closer.”

For a moment Joan looked as if she might weep, then she closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. “Okay,” she said, sighing deeply. “I'm ready.”

“Crawl from tree to tree now. Remember, he's out here somewhere, so we need to be quiet.”

“No kidding,” muttered Joan as she dropped to her knees and began to follow Mary through the lush forest floor.

They reached a tulip tree, then crept on through some spicy-smelling sassafras. Once they thought they heard footsteps behind them. They froze, trying to press themselves into the damp earth. For an eternity they lay motionless, listening, scarcely breathing. Whatever it was came toward them, paused, then rustled slowly away.

Mary raised her head and looked toward the meadow. She saw a low pile of rotting logs just inside the edge of the forest—a perfect shelter if they could get there undetected.

“Over there.” She mouthed the words and pointed her finger. Joan nodded. Her face was pale and her lips tight.

Inch by inch, the two women snaked through the underbrush. Thorns ripped at their skin; yellow jackets whined around their eyes and mouths. Crawling ten feet seemed to take ten years, and all the while Mary kept waiting for a shotgun to click and a male voice to bellow “Hold it!”

The woodpile logs were cedar, cut years ago and forgotten. Now silver with age, they afforded a knee-high shield behind which two people might possibly conceal themselves. Mary reached it first, then Joan crawled up beside her, breathing as if her lungs were clogged with sand.

“Thank God,” she rasped. “I was sure I heard him fifty times.”

Silently, Mary studied their situation. If they lay on their stomachs and craned their necks, they could peer through a gap between two logs that offered a narrow view of the cabin beyond. Cautiously, she raised up and peeked through the slit.

The cabin was barely standing. Both windows on the side were broken. The chink had crumbled long ago from between the logs; planks gaping in the front porch gave it the snaggletoothed look of a piano with missing keys. Smoke still rose from the chimney, but beyond that, nothing moved.

Then Mary saw a shadow melting through the woods on the far side of the cabin. She grabbed Joan, and they both turned back to the slit, trying to see everything and not be seen.

The dark shape shifted through the trees: Joan gasped as a green-clad man ambled into the clearing.

“That's him!” she cried, her voice a thin squeal. “That's the one who hurt me!”

“Shhh!” Mary pressed Joan down hard.
At last
, she thought with a strange satisfaction.
I'm going to gaze upon
the face of Ulagu
.

He stood lankier than she'd imagined. The sun cast no highlights upon his snarled beard and his eyes glittered out from beneath the cap as a lizard might peer from under a log.

With a hitching gait he carried his sack to a rickety gambrel attached to the porch. Mary studied his walk. Could his odd, shuffling steps be the same curious tread she'd heard on the porch that afternoon, moments after finding her mother?

A brown bullet of tobacco juice flew from his mouth, then he knelt on the dirt and pulled a limp raccoon from his sack.

Mary knew what was coming as he hung the creature from the gambrel by its hind leg. “Turn away, Joan,” she warned.

“Why?” Joan asked, still watching. “What's he going to do?”

With his knife flashing in the sun, he made one swift cut along the underside of the coon's legs, then began to peel the skin away from the flesh. Once something attracted his attention. He looked up and seemed to stare straight at them.
Not now
, Mary pleaded, unable to tear her gaze away from his face.
Please don't see us now
. He stared at the forest, unblinking. Then he spat again and turned back to his work.

“He must have a trapline somewhere,” Mary muttered as he tugged the animal's pelt down from the fatty white carcass. When he began to make tiny cuts around the coon's eyes, Joan made a retching noise deep in her throat and rolled away to vomit.

“Close your eyes,” Mary told her. “Sing Puccini in your head.”

Joan obeyed, curling herself in mute misery against the logs. But Mary waited intently as the man untied the skinned carcass, then made quick work of another big coon and a small dun-colored rabbit. When he'd finished, he carried the skins and carcasses into the cabin. Mary waited, but he did not reappear.

Finally, she sagged back against the woodpile, feeling the small fire of hope she'd kindled for Alex die. She knew trappers loved leaving nasty little surprises everywhere they went. Leghold traps, deadfall traps, underwater traps. She studied the meadow that stretched between them and the cabin and felt her heart sink in despair. The field might as well be ringed with razor wire and land mines.

She looked down at Joan. Her friend's mouth was slack, her breathing shallow. She had taken herself far away, indeed. Maybe she was singing at La Scala, the notes soaring from her throat clear and beautiful, just as they had at Atagahi, so long ago. Mary gave a rueful smile. If she had somewhere else to go, she would be doing exactly the same thing.

She decided to keep watch on the cabin and let Joan sleep for a time. Then they could take turns watching until dark. The adrenaline rush that had carried her here had dissipated, leaving her shaking and exhausted. She settled back against the log, her eyelids gritty, her scratched arms and legs heavy as lead.
The Old Men have
given me Ulagu
, she told herself as the warm sunlight made her drowsy as a shot of whiskey.
Now if only they'll give me
Alex
.