Navigating Early (22 page)

He remembered something. Something apart from the memories of the Ancient One. A memory that was his own. It was of a different woman who spoke words of comfort and solace. A woman who ruffled his hair while she told him stories. A woman who told him to keep his eyes on the Great Bear,
because the Great Bear is a mother bear. And a mother’s love is fierce
.

There was a great rending within Pi as he realized he had been lulled, just as he had been upon entering the maze, and drawn into a life that did not belong to him. Returning to the house, he took one last look at the Ancient One as she slept in a chair by the fire. He placed an extra shawl around her shoulders, tucked it under her chin, and kissed her on the cheek. That night, under cover of darkness, he turned his attention from the Ancient One, who had mesmerized him with her comforts and stories, back to the Great Bear, whom he had lost sight of for so long.

The maze did its best to divert and distract, but Pi no longer looked to the path to lead the way. He kept his sight on the Great Bear to guide his steps. And just as the sky was
growing light, he made his way clear of the maze, its brambles and bushes, its twists and turns, and found himself once again facing the ocean. It beckoned him. But he was so alone. And he had lost so much. So he turned away from the ocean and set out on foot once more. In which direction, he couldn’t say and didn’t care.

24
 

E
arly had a way with his story of Pi. He was so convinced that we were following in Pi’s footsteps that I found myself cocking my ear in anticipation of hearing a faint chime or ringing in the distance, just like the bell sound Pi heard when he was lost in the maze. But I heard nothing more than the sprinkling of rain, which was beginning to fall on the trees and leaves around us. My face was hot. How could I have fallen for this craziness and let Early sucker me in with his story?

“So Pi heard a bell that led him out of the maze? Well, lucky for him,” I said, pulling the rain poncho from my pack and putting it on over my already-damp clothes. “I don’t hear anything but the sound of us getting wet. We’d better keep moving.”

Early didn’t respond. He seemed lost in his musings about Pi as he put on his own rain poncho.

That was okay; I didn’t want to talk anyway. And pretty
soon we were trudging along in a steady rain that soaked our shoes and chilled us to our bones. I wished I had the wide-brimmed Stetson that I could still see hanging on the hat stand in our mudroom back home. I hadn’t brought it to Maine, because who needs a cowboy hat in Maine? But just then, it would have provided some protection for my rain-spattered and scowling face.

I narrowed my eyes so that they were open only a slit and tried to let the sounds of the wet forest guide me. It’s amazing what you can hear when you’re not distracted by seeing. A few squirrels and birds chattered and squawked, first to my left, then to my right, as if playing some sort of forest game of hide-and-seek.

But as we continued on and the day grew darker with more clouds and trees, the noises grew darker as well. The wet leaves gave a sucking sound beneath my feet, as if trying to pull me into the ground. The rain lost its pitter-patter as it grew heavier, seeming more like a heavy sigh now. The whole forest exhaled an ancient breath that it must have held since its great trees were saplings. I felt as if I were being drawn deeper and deeper into the mystery of the woods. I knew that inside each tree, etched into its core, were circles, each ring telling the story of a year in the life of that tree and this forest.
What kinds of scars and jagged lines would someone find in the life of a tree?
I wondered.

Did people have telltale lines like that? What would mine look like? I didn’t need to see them. I knew they had been severed last summer. A gash had been cut into me, so deep that I felt I was at that tipping point, when the lumberjack
is just about to yell “Timber!” But somehow I remained poised, in precarious balance, not sure which way I might fall.

As I let my thoughts ramble, the sound of the rain changed, becoming tinnier, like the pinging of water off a metal roof. Maybe there was a barn or shed nearby.

I veered toward the sound, not because I was trying to find its source, but because that was the only way the narrow path would let us go. The pinging got louder and more rhythmic. It reminded me of my mother’s laughter, light and musical.
The forest must be playing tricks on me
, I thought. I could almost hear her calling my name.

Jackie, Jackie. Time for supper
.

My steps quickened, even though I knew it wasn’t real. It was probably just the wind rushing through the trees.

“Do you hear that?” Early said, drawing me out of my reverie.

“No,” I said, not wanting to let on that my imagination had run away like a bee-stung horse. Besides, what could I say?
Hear what? That woman calling out from the middle of nowhere?
He’d think
I
was crazy.

“Hear what?” I said.

“That woman calling out,” he answered, plain as day.

Then we heard it again, closer. The rhythmic sound.
Ting, ting, ting. Ting, ting, ting
.

Without warning, the trees opened onto a tiny clearing, where there was a rusted-out Model T providing a rain break for a raccoon lounging underneath; a worn-out, old log cabin; and an even older-looking woman with a long
gray braid that hung past her waist. The braid swung back and forth as she worked a metal rod around the inside of a triangle, making the rhythmic clanging sound.

“Martin,” she called. “Time for supper.”

Early and I watched her long braid swing to and fro. I wondered if she had one twist in her braid for every year of her life, just as a tree had one line in its core for every year of its life. If she did, she’d be over a hundred. And she looked it.

“She’s old,” I whispered to Early.

He shook his head. “She’s ancient.”

I hung back under cover of the trees, still clearing my head of my mom’s voice calling me, realizing it was just this old woman calling someone named Martin. But Early had his own plans, as usual.

“Go on.” He gave me a shove, pushing me out into the clearing. “She said it’s suppertime.”

The woman stopped ringing her dinner triangle, leaving the clanging rod in midair.

She’d spotted me.

“Well,
there
you are,” she said. “Come in out of that rain—you’ll catch your death.”

25
 

I
looked around to see who she might be talking to, but somehow I already knew. She was talking to me. It was the way she’d said
Well
, there
you are
that struck me. She didn’t say,
Who are you?
or
Who have we here?
or even
Look what the cat dragged in
.

No, it was
There you are
, as if she’d been calling me, looking for me, waiting for me, for a long time.

“Come on,” she beckoned. “And bring your friend. Is that Archibald with you? I saw him come by today. I think he got a new gun too, and wanted to show it off. I told him I expected you home any minute, but he said he couldn’t stay. You know you’re supposed to be back before supper.” She stepped out into the rain and put her shawl around my shoulders, guiding me into the cabin, every step, every movement showing her age.

“You too, young man,” she said to Early, slowly reaching for another blanket from the porch and wrapping it around
him. “Usually, Martin brings home stray cats and dogs, and occasionally a stray boy. Let’s do our introductions, shall we. I’m Eustasia Johannsen.” She held out her hand, spotted and wrinkled.

Early took it in his. “My name is Early Auden. I’m on a quest.”

“Well, isn’t that splendid. My Martin’s been on a quest too. He wanted to try out his new gun. Did you shoot a rabbit for supper?” she asked, putting her arm around me. “No matter,” she said before I could reply. “I’ve got plenty of soup simmering in the pot. And your favorite jam, and biscuits.” She winked at Early. “Now, you boys go get changed and wash up for dinner. Early, you can change in Martin’s room. He’ll have extra clothes for you to wear until yours are dry. Don’t be dillydallying.”

She handed Early an oil lamp and steered us toward a back bedroom where we could change, then busied herself over a white enamel cook pot on the stove.

Before I could close the door, Early said in his too-loud voice, “Is that your grandma?” Then, before I could answer, he followed it up with “I didn’t know your real name was Martin.”

Then I shut the door with a thud. “She’s not my grandma, Early. And I’m not Martin. She’s mistaking me for someone else.”

“I’m cold, Jackie. Can I borrow some of your clothes?” Early began opening drawers.

“They’re not
my
clothes, Early. That’s what I’m trying to tell you—”

Early already had his wet clothes in a pile and was pulling a neatly folded pair of pants and a shirt out of a drawer.

Suddenly I realized I was shivering. “Give me some clothes,” I said, exasperated. “At least we can dry off until she figures out we’re not who she thinks we are. She’s old, and she probably has a great-great-grandson who lives nearby.”

Early was looking at the articles in the room. “Then why are his clothes here?” I glanced around. There was a wooden bed, neatly made, with a red-and-blue flannel blanket on top. Several books lay open on a small desk next to the window. A McGuffey reader.
The Odyssey
. Quackenbos’s
Practical Arithmetic
. Their pages were a little yellowed, but otherwise, everything was clean and tidy.

I picked up a pencil and a sheet of paper that had several math problems written out. The last problem was unfinished, as if the student working on it had decided there was much more fun to be had outside and set his pencil down right then and there.

“These are really old textbooks,” I commented. “You don’t think—” I put the paper and pencil down, considering my unfinished question.

Early put on a pair of socks, of course carefully making sure the seam was placed evenly across his toes, while I put on a pair of pants that felt a little stiff and old-fashioned. Then I picked up a Sears Roebuck catalog lying on the nightstand next to the bed and thumbed through it, looking at old pictures of hammers, stoves, sewing machines, fishing rods—all manner of necessities.

“What’s your favorite jam?” Early asked.

“What?” I said, distracted with the catalog.

“Your grandma said she made your favorite jam. Is it blueberry or strawberry? I like both. I just hope it’s not raspberry. One reason is because the raspberries got a lot of rain this year, and the newspaper said they’re more tart than usual. And another reason is because I don’t like raspberries.”

One thing I’d learned about Early was that once he got something in his head, right or wrong, it was very hard to convince him otherwise. His mind was like one of the lobster traps I had seen hanging in the boathouse at Morton Hill. The lobster can find his way in through a small opening but is unable to make his way back out. So it went with Early’s ideas.

“Besides, raspberries also look kind of hairy, and they have those little seeds that get caught in your teeth.…”

I stopped listening to Early as I looked at a particular picture circled in the catalog.
1894 Winchester Short-Barrel Carbine Rifle. $17.50. Initials engraved for an extra fifty cents
.

This was the “new” rifle that Eustasia Johannsen had mentioned. I looked at the front of the catalog.
1894
. I tried to figure things out in my head, but I couldn’t even formulate the question.

“Early?”

“Yes.”

“I have a question for you.”

“You still haven’t answered
my
question.”

“Blueberry,” I answered.

“Good, I like blueberry.”

“Now is it my turn?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. It’s kind of like a story problem in math class. If Martin Johannsen bought a new 1894 Winchester rifle, wears old-fashioned clothes that fit you and me, and has unfinished homework from an eighth-grade primer, how old would he be?”