Navigating Early (17 page)

I lay awake, pondering how I’d gotten there. How did a normal kid from Kansas end up in the middle of the woods with a strange kid like Early? I looked up at the stars and found myself asking the same question Pi asked when heading out on his journey.

Why?

Why did everything get turned upside down? Why did my mom have to die? Why am I following Early, with his endless stories of Pi, on a crazy bear hunt?

With these questions swirling in my head, I wished Early was awake to tell me one of his stories. But Early still breathed the breath of deep sleep.

Maybe I could try remembering something pleasant on my own. My mom was a great one for working up a raucous tale on a cool October evening just like this one. I closed my eyes tight and imagined myself when I was younger, snuggled up next to her on the porch swing while she sipped hot tea from her white teacup with the little red flowers. Or, more recently, just sitting beside her, holding a skein of yarn while she rolled it into a ball.

I tried to hear her voice, but she remained silent. My eyelids grew heavy. Just as the questions started to swirl around in my head in a dreamy way, Early—not as asleep as I’d thought—said, “The numbers are running out.”

19
 

W
e didn’t say much to each other the next morning as we packed up our things. It was Tuesday morning. We’d been gone two days, and Early showed no signs of turning back. I kicked some dirt over the campfire, and we started out.

Just a little ways from our camp, I noticed a pile of cracked walnut shells on the ground. Looking up, I studied a tall oak tree that might have been home to a hungry squirrel who’d been spying on us during the night. That was probably it. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that someone else had been watching us.

The sky was cloudy and gray, and a soft mist surrounded us. We knew we’d have to venture farther north into the woods to actually be on the Appalachian Trail, and from what I’d heard, it wasn’t that easy to find. I’d read that trees on the trail were marked with an occasional white swatch of paint, and that there were supposed to be warming huts
and campsites for hikers. So far, we hadn’t seen anything like that. Just lots of wilderness, with an emphasis on
wilder
. In fact, we’d
wildered
around so much, I’d have sworn we were lost. Since Olson had pilfered Early’s compass, we were relying on our wits, and mine were getting dimmer by the minute.

But Early seemed to still have his bearings. He had a map but never checked it. I didn’t know how he even knew which way was north, since the clouds were thick and dark. A storm was brewing.

I was just getting ready to dig in my heels. We were heading back. And if Early wouldn’t go, then I’d head back without him. I hoped he wouldn’t call my bluff, though, because I didn’t know how I would find my way.

I squared my shoulders, turned to face Early, even held up my hand to tell him to stop. Then we heard the dogs.

They were a fair distance behind us, but we heard them, barking and bellowing after whatever they were tracking. I couldn’t be positive they were after us, but even Early sensed the need to pick up our pace.

We veered to the right, and the barking followed us.

“Early, I think those dogs are following our scent.”

“Why would they do that? We don’t have any food left except the jelly beans.”

“Maybe they’re not looking for food. Maybe they’re looking for us.”

“Maybe they’re looking for the bear.”

“Could be,” I said. Early had made it clear that we were looking for the Great Appalachian Bear. Maybe MacScott wanted to make sure we didn’t find it before him. Still, I
couldn’t help thinking there was more to it than that. The barking was getting louder.

“Either way, don’t you think we’d better cross that river?”

“There’s no bridge. We’ll get wet. I don’t want to get wet,” said Early.

“But if we cross the river, the dogs will lose our scent. Then we can find the bear first.” I didn’t really care who found the bear first, and I didn’t know what Early planned to do if he did find it, but this seemed to be enough to get Early moving.

“Okay, but where can we cross? The river is moving fast. It could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”
I repeated. “That’s a funny word coming from someone who didn’t think twice about heading off into the woods in search of a seven-hundred-pound bear. Come on, it looks like the river narrows a bit up here, and there are some logs jammed out toward those rocks in the middle. Maybe we can work our way across there.”

I could tell Early didn’t want to give in. But the dogs were getting louder, their bellowing and high-pitched yelping competing with the roaring of the river.

“Early,” I shouted, “we need to cross!”

“Let’s find a bridge. I don’t want to get wet.”

Just then, the dark clouds let loose, and what had been a fine mist turned into a downpour.

“There,” I said, “you’re already wet. Now can we cross?”

Early tried to blink the raindrops out of his eyes. “We can cross.”

As I looked at the swiftly moving current and how it
glossed over the wet logs jammed haphazardly against each other and a few large rocks, I realized that getting Early on board would be the easy part of crossing the river.

I knew I should go first, since it was my idea, but my hand was itching to do rock-paper-scissors. Then Early saved me the embarrassment.

“I’ll go first,” he said, and stepped out onto the closest log. For someone not very athletic, Early was surprisingly nimble and sure-footed. After a time watching him, I realized I shouldn’t have been surprised at all. He was very sure about most things—whether they were true or not. He was sure that the number pi held within it a great story. That, contrary to the theory of a renowned mathematician, the number pi and the story it told would never end. That his brother, who had been killed in the war, was still alive, and that a great bear would lead us to him. And that I was a person he wanted to be friends with.

With that thought in mind, I again put one foot in front of the other and followed Early Auden.

He was halfway across by the time I got started. The logs seemed firmly jammed one against the other, and I worked at keeping my eyes straight ahead. My feet kept slipping on the wet bark of the logs. I extended my arms to keep my balance, but my backpack shifted left and right, nearly pulling me into the rushing water.

Early reached the boulder in the middle of the river, which seemed to be the reason for the tie-up of logs. He turned around and motioned to me to keep going before he continued on. I figured it was late in the logging season; otherwise, the entire width of the river would have been
congested with logs. These must have been the last few stragglers that had gotten snagged against each other.

My heart was racing as I neared the boulder marking the halfway point. I stepped onto the rock.
I made it!
Halfway, at least. Here I was, standing on a wet rock in the middle of a swiftly moving river.
I can do this
, I thought. Then I made a big mistake. I looked around—and
saw
that I was standing on a wet rock in the middle of a swiftly moving river. Suddenly I was back on Dinosaur Log, frozen with fear.

“Come on, Jackie.” Early, almost to shore, turned around, urging me to follow.

I looked behind me, wondering if it would be better to go back in the direction I’d come from, but the first of the hound dogs had already arrived and was yapping and snarling. The dog whined and panted, dipping his paws into the water, only to back up and start howling again. Even he knew better than to take on this powerful river.

I turned to face Early and carefully stepped out onto the next log. It was slimy with moss, but I mustered another couple of steps. Then my foot slipped, getting wedged between two logs. I cried out in pain as the rough bark tore at the skin on my ankle. The logs shifted slightly, clamping my foot in a painful vise. I tugged and pulled but couldn’t budge.

“I’m stuck!” I called out.

Early began retracing his steps, heading back toward me. I used my free foot to stomp on one of the logs, and it moved. I was almost free. Just one more shove and—

The logs gave way, freed from their jam. The world slid out from under me and I was swept away.

The next minutes, or years—I’m not sure which—were a blur of icy water and logs, bumps and gashes, and short gasps of air. I tried to grab hold of a log, but every time I grasped at it, the log would bob and roll away as if this were some kind of game.

The current was strong, and my body grew cold and weak. It was a game I wasn’t going to win. I tried to stretch out my body and float as best I could. Maybe I could get one more bit of air. A log was rushing straight at me. It struck me. I felt a sharp pain in my forehead.

Then I saw something and knew I must be slipping into unconsciousness. At first I could see only its color and great size as it floated alongside me, just as in the story of Pi. Then I tried to take another breath, and as my lungs took in more water than air, I looked into its eyes.

The deep, somber eyes of a big white whale.

20
 

I
was sure I’d dreamed the whole thing. After all, there are no whales in freshwater rivers. Still, the memory of it was so clear. The whale’s skin was smooth, and the water rolled cleanly over its folds and creases. I felt its buoyancy as it floated along beside me, gently guiding me out of the rushing current. I could still see those eyes, dark and mysterious as the ocean.

But gradually, the dream receded. Try as I might to hold on to it, to the feeling of being lifted and held and cared for, almost loved, I became aware of sounds and smells and a whopping headache that were not in my dream. Against my wishes, my eyelids fluttered open. I jerked awake as I stared into a pair of glassy, unseeing eyes that held me fixed in their gaze. My heart raced; then, as my vision cleared, I realized it was just a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on a nightstand next to a large bed. A very large bed that made me feel very small.

Goldilocks came to mind, but the ache in my head cut that story short. I’d have to tell Early—

Where
was
Early? Had he fallen in the river too? What was this place? I bolted upright. My head pounded with the shift in position. I touched the throbbing lump on my temple and felt the stickiness of blood in my hair. I must have gotten a pretty good bump from a log or rock and passed out. And my ankle felt raw from being scraped against the rough bark.

But somehow I’d gotten from the stream to this place—a room with wooden beams in the ceiling and logs for walls. I ran my hands over the patchwork quilt covering the bed. Pots clanked in the next room, and my mouth watered from the smell of simmering meat. I was drawn to it like, well, like a kid who hadn’t eaten in some time.

Standing on the cold wooden floorboards, I was relieved to find that my foot didn’t seem to be broken. My ankle was a little tender, but I could walk on it. I shivered in my still-damp T-shirt and shorts, and not knowing who might be in the next room, I padded over to peek through the door. Peering out, I felt as if I were in some kind of exotic jungle, but hanging from above, instead of leaves and vines, there were animal furs and snowshoes; hooks, nets, and fishing lures; wooden bird decoys, mounted fish, and maps. A bearskin lay on the floor, its teeth bared, its eyes looking straight at me.