Neosho: Book One - the Neosho Chronicles

Copyright © 2012 by Richard Brian Cain.

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Cover art by M. Scott Cain

ISBN: 978-1-4497-4534-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-4533-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-4535-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012905906

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/20/2012

Contents

Acknowledgements

School’s Out

Making Camp

The Arrival

New Boarder

Discoveries

The Northern Kingdom

Into the Wood

Secrets to Keep

The Invasion Begins

On the Trail

Darkness

Strange Homecomings

Fortress Family

Nowhere to Hide

Night on Demon Bald

Among the Osage

The Vales

A Problem with the Water

Race to Taum Sauk

Darkness Revealed

Rookery Glen

Final Reckoning

Coming Home

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

I am deeply indebted to my family for all of their love and support as I sequestered myself in my den to write this volume; particularly, to Anna and Meagen for their encouragement, inspiration, and for never relinquishing a firm grip on imagination; to Terry and Cliff, for their quick read and insights; to Mom, who made certain our house and long trips in the car were filled with music and laughter; finally, to Rosanne, for her invaluable input and who has been overly generous in indulging my ever-changing hobbies with patience, support, constancy, and unfaltering love.

Richard Brian Cain

2011

For Dad, Grandmom, and Granddad,

and for memories of golden summers in the

big white house above the train station.

"In summer’s dawn, blue cornflowers grow,

While rivers run from mountain snow,

The One will cross, forever lost,

Dark paths, my love, on neo, sho’!"

Chapter 1

School’s Out

Moonbeams probed the canopy of leaves, finding their way to the forest floor, creating blue and gray phantoms that moved constantly under her feet. The girl ran among the shadows as quickly as she dared, trying to avoid fallen leaves and twigs as she moved up the hollow. Her heart was pounding in her throat. In spite of all of her skill, she had been unable to shake the things that pursued her, and the terror that now gripped her was causing her to make mistakes. She was left with only one option… to run for the bald.

Turning off of her traverse, she dug in, heading straight up the steep hillside, grasping at limbs and saplings to keep from falling. She threw off any pretense of stealth. They were getting close now, and though she had not yet seen what it was that chased her, she could hear the increased excitement in their cries as they slowly closed the distance.

She burst through the trees into the clearing, moonlight illuminating her slight form amid the dark trunks of the trees behind her. The entire top of the mountain was an open meadow, a bald her people called it. Beyond the bald, through a gap in the trees, she could see the soft light of the moon shimmering on a lake far below. Above the meadow, hundreds of fireflies danced on a soft breeze that caressed the top of the mountain.

She sped through the grass, making little noise now as dew softened her footfalls. When she was three-quarters of the way across the meadow, she froze—they were here.

As she turned, four creatures emerged from the trees and stopped, lowering their snouts to the ground, baring long teeth. They were very large, hairless and gray, with moonlight glistening on a stringy, wet substance that covered their bodies. Their thin skin was stretched over a frame that looked to be bones mutated into odd angles. Above all were their eyes, larger than they should be and cavernously black, empty spaces that held her gaze so strongly that it was difficult to look away, and the sucking hoarseness of their panting was the voice of death. As the hounds turned their heads, the moonlight reflecting in their eyes made them look as though they were on fire. Fear gripped her even tighter as she looked upon this waking nightmare.

Help me! she screamed into the night.

Slowly, the hounds moved around the perimeter of the bald to surround their prey.

The girl stood perfectly still and, summoning all of her courage, began to recite the ancient words she had been taught from childhood, words only to be used in time of great need or peril; a prayer from the ancients that once held meaning—that meaning now lost in antiquity. The words came haltingly at first, but then flowed from her memory, flooding back into her mind,

Oooh! sarrrrrruuuuuk sho, ha, neooooo, sho’ aaaaal, en taaaaaam sakooo, oooh saaaageooooo, en arkshu, moooooooh, zuuuurah ha!

The words flowed into a song repeating over and over, and slowly grew stronger. With difficulty, she forced her eyes closed, not wanting fear to stop her voice, but her rising panic made her look again. The hounds were halfway around the perimeter now, moving slowly, salivating in anticipation of the kill. As her song drifted above the trees, a golden halo formed around her, its light shining in her gentle blue eyes. A tear spilled down her cheek and she shuddered as a strong wind came across the bald, the great trees on the perimeter swaying and groaning to its arrival. A sudden loud crack burst through the air above her head like lightening from a cloudless sky. The hounds cowered in fear, sensing something was wrong, then cried and lunged across the meadow. As her song reached its summit, the light engulfed her, outlining her form against the forest behind. The hounds had closed the distance in seconds and sprang on their prey with intense hatred.

The song ceased, the fireflies scattered, and their jaws bit only air. In their anger they turned on each other, biting and snapping, throwing back their heads as their sickened howls lifted into the night sky. She was gone, and where there had been four hounds—now there were only three.

The clock was round with a white face and black numbers, a gray metal case enclosing its malice. It hung above the blackboard at the front of the classroom, its hands crawling with excruciating slowness. It was the enemy, staring at him from the pale green walls above the droning voice of Mr. Pickard, Josh McCavendish’s tenth-grade science teacher. The days of school and study had languished on, but today was different. Today was the last day of school before summer vacation. Three blessed months of freedom. No homework, no teachers, just freedom, and freedom was something Josh McCavendish longed for, above all else.

The big hand reached its summit at three o’clock and the last bell of the school year rang. He was on his feet reaching for his backpack when he heard Mr. Pickard’s voice.

Mr. McCavendish! Please sit back down!

Josh squeezed his eyes shut and slowly sank back into his chair.

Mr. McCavendish, are you aware that class is not dismissed until I have given permission for you to leave? Mr. Pickard said.

He could feel the glaring eyes of the other students in the class burn into his skin.

Yes sir, Josh said. I’m sorry, Mr. Pickard.

I would suggest you remember that in the future and it will save you a lot of trouble—and Josh?

Yes, sir?

Have a great summer, Mr. Pickard smiled. Have a great summer all of you. Class dismissed!

Hundreds of kids poured into the hallways, laughing with delight.

McCavendish, you’re such a jerk! It was the voice of Billy Stover coming up behind him. When we get off the bus—you’re dead! He took a swing at Josh’s shoulder and missed as Josh ducked and sprinted down the hall.

He was quickly past his now empty locker, and out the door to the waiting buses. Here he hesitated with one foot on the bottom step. Josh had put up with abuse from Stover inside this rolling, yellow prison all year and knew what would happen if he climbed aboard now.

Billy Stover was a classic bully, and bullies don’t need a reason for what they do, they just are. Like mold that thrives on the moist surfaces under the rim of a toilet, you can always find them at the back of the bus searching for their next victim. Stover was just the variety who happened to inhabit this small part of the world and he had been making life miserable for Josh since the fifth grade.

Josh weighed his options. It was only a few miles home and the weather was beautiful.

Not again. Not today, he thought, and headed for the sidewalk in front of the school. He was in the crosswalk at the intersection by the corner of the school when he looked back and saw Stover and his buddy, Mike Blake, step off the bus scanning their surroundings. Their eyes met. Stover pointed at Josh and the two smiled as they hoisted their backpacks and trotted toward him.

Oh no, his heart sank as he started running, praying for the light to change, and thankfully, it did just as the other boys reached the intersection, stranding them on the far side.

Josh did not slow down as he followed a zigzag path through the neighborhoods surrounding the school—sometimes down alleys, jumping backyard fences, and ducking under laundry lines.

His side was beginning to ache as he reached the edge of the woods and found the familiar trail that led across the railroad tracks and down to the small river valley that ran below Roark Ridge. He looked back and saw no sign of his pursuers. So, feeling empowered that he had given them the slip, he jumped onto the gravel trail and skidded the short distance to the railroad tracks below.

Just above the tracks, a hand reached through the bushes and grabbed the collar of his shirt. The next thing he felt was sharp pain on the right side of his mouth and an intense stinging in his bottom lip. He was pushed to the ground hard and could hear Billy Stover laughing as he turned to look up at him.

I’ve wanted to do this all year! Stover said, as he lunged for Josh again.

Josh rolled to the side and Billy came up with gravel and blood on the palms of his hands. Josh was so angry he was shaking.

Billy screamed at him, looking at his bloody hands. He lunged again and the two grappled with each other.

Hit him! Mike shouted, as they rolled back and forth beside the trail. Billy managed to hit Josh again before rising to his feet.

Get up! he spat. I said get up! He reached down and pulled Josh to his feet. Mike now approached as well, laughing as Josh tried his best to stop shaking.

Leave me alone! Josh growled, spitting the blood freely running from the corner of his mouth and nose.

His two attackers were very close now, shoving and poking at his shoulder.

I’ll leave you alone as soon as I can’t recognize your ugly face any more! said Stover.

Josh’s eyes began to water as anger and frustration welled up inside of him.

Awe, is the baby gonna cry now? Mike said, and the two laughed together.

Josh raised his eyes, looking past the boys, and saw his salvation. He had to be strong just once, or his quickly formulated plan would not succeed. He dropped his head and waited for them.

The mocking continued until Mike stepped forward, throwing a punch Josh easily dodged. Josh came right back and landed a shot squarely, cutting Mike’s left brow; swelling soon followed. Mike looked at Billy in disbelief as the two turned and stepped forward side-by-side, intent on finishing the job. Josh leaned in and took a roundhouse swing he knew would pass in front of them. The boys easily dodged it and threw back their heads, laughing. They had swallowed the bait.

Now! Josh said to himself and, mustering all his might and anger, he lunged forward pushing both boys as hard as he could. Billy and Mike flew off of their feet, tumbling backward from the trail, lost to his sight in some very tall weeds. Josh knew those weeds well. He had encountered them many times in his travels through the woods. Both boys jumped up yelling in pain. The nettles had done their work. Thousands of tiny needles were now imbedded in their skin causing intense stinging and burning. The two tried to move out of the snare, but with each movement came more attacks from the swaying plants. They remained in the confines of their unyielding, green jail, not knowing what to do to gain release.

Josh had no intention of sticking around to revel in his victory. He sprinted across the tracks and down the trail to the creek that would lead up the valley to his house. The right knee of his pants was torn; increasing pain coming from under the tear. Through the hole he could see raw flesh and blood was beginning to soak into his jeans.

Mom’s gonna kill me, he thought, as he limped up the creek toward home.

Two hours later, the sun was beginning to drop behind the trees on the steep hills above the Roark Valley. Josh waded slowly up the creek carrying his shoes, the water on his feet acting as a natural air conditioner in the heat of early summer. He had learned this many years ago during his first forays into the woods, although the practice did not come without risk. Water moccasins loved to lounge on shore, sunning their shiny scales on the warm rocks, until they decide to chase you for getting too close. One had robbed Josh of a stringer of fish some summers ago while fishing with his granddad. Their bite was extremely venomous, so he always approached the banks cautiously.

He spent the next couple of hours hiking the creek bed, chasing crawdads and minnows. His knee continued to ache, so he sat down on a large rock beside the stream slowly bending and straightening it to work out the stiffness. He reached down and washed his face with the water from the stream, drying his hands on his shirt. A gentle breeze brushed his dampened face as the cicadas began their evening song. He remained for a few quiet moments surveying his surroundings, resting in the quiet of the woods until, he determined, that staying any longer could cause his mother concern.

The valley and creek would continue on without him as he reluctantly turned to head up the hill toward the housing development on the ridge above the river valley. The trees gave way to a small, open meadow at the top of the hill; a line of houses at the far side, edging the forest. He searched with his eyes until at the farthest end, he spotted his house. Warm, yellow light came from the windows contrasting with a sky that was turning light indigo as the first stars faintly blinked above him. Crickets and tree frogs joined the drone of cicadas in a twilight chorus as he trotted across the meadow, limping slightly on his bloodied knee. Four steps up to his back porch and he was at the door to his house. He paused for a moment, regretting he did not have more time to spend in the woods. As he turned to look back, he caught his breath. Thousands of fireflies filled the meadow grass and played among the trees. He stood motionless watching them break in neon waves on the meadow until he heard the front door open.

Josh? his mother called.

He opened the back door and yelled through the house, I’m home Mom. I’m home! He turned for one last look at the meadow, the fireflies dancing in the darkness, and then went inside, closing the door behind him.

Joshua Stephen McCavendish what in the world happened to you? You’ve ruined yourself!

Mom, it’s okay. I fell down in the woods. He made a poor attempt at fashioning a story to avoid a long lecture about the hazards of fighting, hanging out with the wrong people, and whether or not he had done anything that might have prompted the encounter.

And your new jeans! Look at your new jeans! You jump straight into the shower and scrub those wounds with soap and water.

After his shower, he sat wrapped in a towel, fumbling with bandages to cover his knee. His mother returned to the bathroom unexpectedly.

It needs merthiolate, she said, retrieving the small bottle from the medicine cabinet.

Mom! he protested, pulling his towel tighter around him. His mother, however, had plans of her own. As many times before, in his childhood, she pulled out the small glass stick attached to the inside of the lid of that dreaded little brown glass bottle. She began applying the hot pink-orange, hell-fire antiseptic to the raw flesh on his knee. Instantly, Josh bit his bottom lip in pain, only to remind himself of the other wound there.

Mom! I’m almost sixteen! Josh said.

You’ll always be my baby. Please, indulge me? She bandaged the knee before further inspecting his lip, nose, and eye, as he submitted to her mothering.

Well, it’s a good thing that young men heal fast, his mother said, You have to leave for your grandparent’s house day after tomorrow.

His grandparent’s house? He had almost forgotten. He was to spend three weeks at his grandparent’s house in Neosho while his mother went to the West Coast to visit her aging parents. His nineteen-year-old sister, Tammy, had already left on a trip to Europe with her college choir, and his brother Spence, twenty months his senior, was off to a wilderness experience camp in the mountains out West.

Mom, why can’t I go with you?

I’m sorry Josh, but since your father died you know we can’t afford two plane tickets. Besides, you like going to your grandparent’s house. They love having you and you always have fun there. Granddad is going to teach you to build a rabbit snare this trip like he promised, his mother said, though she sounded as though she was trying to convince herself more than her youngest son.

Yeah, I know. But—well—Spence gets to go out to the mountains, Tammy gets to go to Europe, and you—you get to go to California and I’m stuck here at home.

Your time will come, Josh. We can only afford so much right now and your brother and sister will be off on their own soon. You will have the same opportunities in a couple of years. I have to get to California and this summer is the only time I could get away from work. You understand don’t you? his mother sighed.

Yeah, okay, Josh said as he reached over and gave his mother a hug, but I am going to miss you.

She beamed at him and ruffled his hair. Just for that, young man, I’m going to fix you your favorite pot pie tonight!

Later that evening, Josh sat on the living room floor eating his supper, a rare treat since their meals were always taken at the dining room table where watching television was strictly forbidden. He held his bowl of pot pie on a hot pad and stared at the television set as scenes from the war in Vietnam flashed across the evening news cast, followed by a report on the race riots in the south.

Why is everyone fighting? he said quietly.

What? his mother called from the kitchen.

Josh looked up at his mother who was busy searching inside a cabinet in the kitchen.

Everyone is fighting. Why is everyone fighting all the time?

His mother stopped what she was doing and gave him a sympathetic look. It’s how it has always been. She moved over to the chair and sat down as the scenes continued on the screen. Josh set the empty bowl down and leaned his head back as his mother ran her fingers through his hair. People are mean and selfish, Josh. One thing leads to another and they start fighting.

If this is the way things are going to be, I don’t want any part of it.

Well you can’t just run off to your bedroom and stay in there for the rest of your life, his mother said, leaning forward to look him in the eye.

What does that mean?

When you were little, and your brother and sister left and went off to school, I used to get worried about you because the house was so quiet. When I went looking for you, I would find you playing quietly in your room all by yourself. You didn’t pout or throw tantrums, just went off by yourself and forgot about the world.

Josh’s eyes returned to the images on the screen. Dad knew. He took us into the woods. That is where I will go, if I can.

Tough place to earn a living these days, his mother said.

Not for a ranger. I’ll be a park ranger and stay as far away from that as possible, he said, pointing to the screen.

Well, I’d say that makes you a pretty smart kid then, his mom said smiling. She leaned forward and gave him a hug.

After supper, Josh spent the remainder of the evening packing his old scout camp box. At one month shy of his sixteenth birthday, he was a seasoned outdoorsman having spent his formidable years hiking and exploring mountains, forests, rivers, and caves. His physique was changing from that of a boy to a young man, though he was not yet aware of his own capabilities, nor how much all of the climbing and hiking had honed his muscles. He had yet to achieve the maturity to trust his strength and ability, for had he known, the outcome of the fight would likely have resulted in his favor without the assistance of the nettles. He excelled at knot making and had two-hundred feet of climbing rope along with a full set of climbing gear. He packed these along with his carbide light, an extra can of carbide, an old paper clip he used to clean the nozzle, and his hunting and pocket knives, compass, bug spray, waterproof matches, water purification tablets, and clothes. Last he threw in his canteen and poncho. He tossed his backpack and small pup tent on top. He was ready.

Josh spent the next day in the woods. The morning was mostly gone by the time he entered the forest, since he had slept so late. He worked his way down to the riverbed and followed its course deeper into the forest. At one point a small flying squirrel swooped from tree to tree across his path; a rare sight, even for him. As Josh walked by, the tiny creature with fur the same color as Josh’s hair, regarded him, flicking his tail, seemingly unafraid.

He arrived at the railroad bridge that spanned the stream and then turned uphill. It was now that he began to work. The sides of these ancient mountains were incredibly steep, but the years spent here had strengthened his legs to be adequate to the task. Even so, with the pace he maintained, he became winded and sweaty fairly quickly. Far above the railroad and the river, he came through the edge of the forest to a vast clearing at the summit of his ascent, the top of Jenny Bald. Across the clearing, the sunlight was bright and warm. He resisted the urge to venture out, instead crawling through a small thicket leading into a cave of vines open to the forest. There was enough room to lie on his stomach and peer out through a small hole. From this vantage point he would wait and watch as he had many times before in this nature-made blind. Patience would pay off, his dad had taught, if he sat quietly. It is only when the forest is quiet that creatures will begin to move. From here he had seen deer, wild turkey, a fox, a badger, and of course, squirrels. There were always squirrels. Red-tailed hawks constantly patrolled the skies overhead, periodically crying out. He settled back and waited to see what the day would bring.

The screaming woke him abruptly. He had fallen asleep, not realizing how much the let-down from school and the stress of the previous day’s fight had affected him. The cry came from across the bald. He had only heard a sound like it once before in his life; his heart began beating rapidly in his chest. It was getting late already and the light was failing. He held his breath. There, on the far side of the bald, a gray, furry creature with pointed tufts on its ears emerged from the trees; its bobbed tail twitching as it carefully lifted and moved paws seeming twice as large as they should be for its size. Intense eyes scanned the tall grass. It let out a growl, then lowered its head and became very quiet, staring at one spot in the grass. Josh could barely breath, worried any slight sound would scare it away. The cat suddenly leaped high into the air and disappeared in the grass. A ruckus between it and something else ended when the cat emerged from the grass with a large, brown rabbit in its jaws.

Yes! Josh yelped, and then covered his mouth realizing he had revealed his presence. The cat froze, looking his direction as Josh remained as still as he could. But then, the strangest thing happened. The cat put down its kill and started creeping slowly in his direction. Josh’s heart was pounding in his ears as he watched the cat approach to within twenty feet of where he sat hidden. The two looked at each other through the vines for what seemed to be an eternity. Finally, Josh decided to introduce himself, though worried about what a full-grown bobcat could do to a human.

Hello there he said hesitantly, thinking the cat would run. Instead, it laid its ears back and sniffed a few times. It then sneezed and shook its head, turned, and walked away as if nothing whatsoever was out of the ordinary. After retrieving its furry dinner, it disappeared into the woods.

Back at his house, Josh lay on his bunk, thinking about the cat. He had never seen one before but had tracked them many times without success. Everything his father and grandfather had taught him about being quiet in the woods and treading softly was paying off, but the unnerving sound of that bobcat’s scream would haunt his dreams for many nights to come.

The black, two-lane highway wound back and forth as the Chrysler station wagon navigated through the countryside on the two-hour drive to Neosho. Josh was quiet as he daydreamed, his hand flat, flying effortlessly up and down on the wind rushing past his car window. He used to do this as a child and couldn’t resist the temptation to do so now. He thought of his dad, a pilot during the war in the Pacific many years ago. His mother looked over and smiled.

Josh, remember your manners and help you grandparents as much as you can with things around the house, she said, waking him from his dream. Josh brought his hand back inside the window.

Okay Mom. You know I always do.

A small reminder never hurts, young man.

The highway took a long slow turn to the left, the last big curve before entering town, framed by high, wooded hills and a mature, solitary oak that marked the right turn to the train station. Josh’s mom turned the corner and started up the hill. To their left, row upon row of glass buildings stood housing thousands of flowers and shrubs, their colors exploding behind the panes. The nursery was one of the biggest companies in this town best known for its flowers, and it supplied florists all over the southwest part of the state.

The car continued up over a series of railroad tracks with the train depot coming into view on their right. They then crossed a small bridge and reached the corner of Oak Street and Washington Avenue where the big house sat waiting for them. It was a two-story, white frame home constructed around the turn of the last century with a massive front porch made of stone and mortar. Dormer windows looked out from the attic. The car turned right onto Oak Street in front of the house and then left onto the grass drive that ran up the north side. Josh’s mom stopped the car at the back of the house. A large, concrete porch was sandwiched between the house and a shed with attached carport, and a giant walnut tree behind the carport spread its branches over the porch providing a shady ceiling of green.

The screen door opened and Josh’s grandmom came out wiping her hands on her apron, beaming at her new arrivals. She was a slight woman with white hair pinned up with a silver comb and a pleasant face that testified to a rare beauty, now etched by the effects of time.

Grandmom! Josh yelled as he ran into her arms.

Hello, honey. It’s so very good to see you. We’re gonna have a good time together. She took his face in both her hands, kissed his forehead and then frowned. Lands child how you’ve grown. Your Granddad won’t recognize you. And it appears you’ve been in a tangle with a she-bear. I trust you won?

Well, Josh blushed, it was something like that. It’s great to be here, Grandmom.

Josh, get your things out of the car while I talk with your grandmother, his mom said.

Josh hugged his grandmother again and ran back to the car while the two women disappeared into the house. He pulled his camp box out of the back of the car and carried it to the porch, setting it on the concrete patio and stood for a moment taking in his surroundings. It was incredibly quiet here. The only sound was that of the leaves in the trees surrounding the house as they moved in a breeze, and the singing of birds. The strong smell of the walnut tree mingled with the smell of flowers. There were flowers everywhere. Large beds of peonies surrounded the walnut. Beyond them, row after row of iris in a kaleidoscope of color covered the gentle slope behind the shed and carport. His granddad raised iris for competition, prizing them for their beauty. There were flower boxes lining the patio and hanging under the windows. Farther up hill, a line of apple trees separated the far side of the iris beds from the upper lot, the other side of which led into the woods. Above his head a pair of squirrels raced from limb to limb in the walnut tree. Josh eyed them with envy, coveting the ease with which they navigated their tree-top highway. They moved effortlessly, as though flying on currents of bark and twig, and then with one great leap, disappeared into the pear tree that held hands with the walnut across the garden path. Josh sighed and carried his things to the kitchen door.

This house was enormous compared to his home back in Roark Hills. It was the only house he had ever seen with two back doors and two front doors. The back door nearest the drive led into the den and was seldom used. The other led into the kitchen. Just inside the screen door, white metal cabinets wrapped around the wall to his right with a window over the sink that looked out onto the patio. A small island of cabinets and stove stood in the middle of the floor and a kitchen table sat beyond them under two windows looking out onto the south yard. To his left, immediately inside the back door, was a small half-bathroom where his granddad always kept a bar of pumice soap for easy cleanup after working in the garden. Beyond the bathroom sat the icebox with rounded corners of glistening white metal and chrome trim. On the far side of the icebox sat a yellow metal stool with a backrest and two steps that folded in under the seat. Josh smiled as he looked at it. He always fought with his brother and sister to see who got the yellow stool. This trip he would have no competition.

His grandmom was pouring hot water into two teacups from the large metal kettle that resided on the stove while his mother sat at the kitchen table and chatted about the other kids and their summer activities.

He moved past them and entered the dining room where he could see one of the front doors across the room and to his left, at the base of the staircase. The massive staircase rising up behind the piano was made of heavy wood with a black banister that had given long hours of service as a slide for Josh, his brother and sister, and their two cousins, Penny and Katie, who would always join them at the old house for Thanksgiving. Beyond the staircase the living room held two large sofas, a TV, and next to his granddad’s favorite chair, his granddad’s favorite pipes.

Josh hauled his gear up to the second floor and placed his things in the first room on the left. There were four bedrooms in the four corners of the upper floor with a small bathroom directly at the top of the stairs. Josh stopped for a quick wash-up before he unpacked. The old claw-foot bathtub, with its drain stopper hanging from a chain, sat to one side of the bathroom refusing to relinquish its Victorian charm, copper pipes running into the floor at its head. Next to the bathroom was the playroom with an old bed in one corner and a crib in the other. This was where Josh usually slept with his brother when they were all here. It was directly above the kitchen and the window to the right of the bed looked out on the back porch, the great walnut tree and the peony beds. Proceeding counterclockwise around the upper floor was his grandparent’s room, his father’s old bedroom, and his aunt’s bedroom, completing the circle back to the other side of the bathroom.

Before leaving the playroom he glanced up at the wall opposite the foot of the bed. Though he knew what was there, he hesitated to look at it, and if he did look, he did not want to do so for long. Yet, there was that door. It sat resolutely daring him to open it, an action no child in a right mind would do. It was an odd thing. It was halfway up the wall, small and square, with an oblong brass knob on the right side. The bottom of the door was a good five feet above the floor and it looked like a place where one might store blankets, but Josh had never asked what was in there. He only knew that as a child, he didn’t like it being there at night, as if something horrible might live inside and only come out after dark to visit children in their beds while they slept. Now, too old to admit it, the memory of that fear would likely find him again tonight, before sleep found him.

He headed back down the stairs past the two front doors and, turning left, entered the living room. He stopped to sit in his granddad’s chair and picked up one of several pipes sitting on the table next to it. They stood in a wooden rack mounted to a base that held an amber-colored ashtray with a bell-shaped piece of cork attached in the center for the tapping out of one’s ashes. The smell of fresh pipe tobacco entertained his nose as he thought to himself, what a wonderful pastime this would be, with its collection of tooled wooden pipes made from briar and various other hardwoods, the finished wooden rack to hold them, and the mixtures of aromatic tobacco, all carried in a glove-leather pouch with cleaning and tamping tool. His granddad had let him hold his pipe a few times when it was lit, the warm bowl in his hand and the comforting aroma hovering about his head. Yes, a very great comfort for a gentleman to engage in, particularly in difficult times. Unfortunately he was too young to try it, and he knew that it was likely smoking that had taken the life of his father at such a young age. Why was it that many of the things that gave people the greatest pleasure were bad for them?

He replaced the pipe and moved into the den. It was a smaller room with its shelves of ancient books and two paintings of birch trees hanging above the small couch. Among the books was an old ashtray shaped like a skull with a snake climbing in and out of one eye socket. The lower jaw was hinged and if touched, would swing up and down, as though the dreadful thing was laughing at you. This too had always given him the shivers as a young boy, but he had never spoken of it. He gently touched the bone jaw and was rewarded with silent laughter coming from the long-time resident of the den. Perhaps it had been prophetic in a way that this thing used for smoking sat laughing at him now, a harbinger of death, in the house where his father grew up, the house his father would never return to, never laugh in, and never leave again to go fishing with his boys. Josh could feel hot tears forming in his eyes and a horrible emptiness, a hollow feeling in his stomach. He fought back the tears and slowly reached up and stopped the still laughing face. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He could see his mother down the hall, past the cellar door across from the washing machine, still sitting at the kitchen table. She had not noticed his moment of sorrow and that was good. He didn’t want to upset her. He turned from the bookcase and looked to the opposite side of the room. He could see the back patio through sheer white curtains and his grandmom’s car sitting under the carport.

Everything where you left it? he heard his grandmom ask.

Yep Josh said, coming back to the kitchen where he planted himself on the yellow stool. His mother eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing. His red eyes, however, had not escaped her notice.

Want something to drink? she asked. She got up and opened the icebox, pulling out a tray of ice cubes.

Yes, please. Josh said, as she pulled on the little handle that would release the cubes from their mold. She opened the metal cabinet above the counter and pulled down one of several colored aluminum glasses from the Lazy Susan and filled it with some of the powdered grape mix that his grandmom had made in anticipation of his arrival. The cool, sweet liquid tasted good, and though he had long since given up drinking this child’s beverage, he would never be so rude as to refuse what his grandmother had already prepared for him. Josh listened to his mom who continued to talk about what his brother and sister were doing. Her frequent scrutiny of his face made him uncomfortable, so he looked for escape. He downed the rest of the liquid and moved for the back door.

I’m going outside, okay?

Oh, would you fill up the bird bath while you are out there? his grandmom asked.

Sure, he said as he went through the screen door.

Crossing the patio, a small grass trail led past the south side of the shed and there, opposite the shed, was the birdbath setting beside a water spigot and a hose. Josh turned on the spigot, rinsed out the bath and filled it with clean water. He coiled the hose and moved on up the trail. Instantly the scent of peonies filled his nose. He walked over and stood beside the bed of flowers that ran beside the walnut tree. He remembered how he used to think they were huge plants when he was younger, since at the time they nearly reached his waist. Now, they barely reached the height of his knee. He dropped down on his belly and observed them from a low angle. Yes, he remembered. Things used to be so much bigger. He could easily see himself in this forest of dark green foliage with giant flowers, being pursued by angry bees, and in desperation, making a sword for himself from a short pine needle. With such a weapon he could fend off any attack. He chuckled to himself and stood. Such were the memories of the imagination of his youth. It was a better time, a time of fewer complications, and of less pain; just a pure golden time of freedom.

He turned toward the tree and jumped, grabbing its lowest limb. From this hanging position he easily swung his legs up over the limb and began to climb. Very quickly he was at the level of the carport roof. He thought briefly about stepping out onto it, but he had received a stern reprimand that involved his grandmom and a hickory switch applied liberally to his backside when he had done it some years before, so he decided not to. He knew he was way too old for spanking now, but he would never again do anything that he thought would disappoint them, not on purpose anyway. He continued climbing easily and quietly until he was at the level of the second story windows of the house. He watched as a couple walked down the street and delighted that they took no notice of him in his place of concealment among the leaves. But, he did not escape the notice of the squirrels that sat at the end of the limbs, beyond his reach, complaining about his intrusion into their home. There he sat for some time with his back resting against the trunk and thought, This is great. No school, no homework, no fights. Just me and the trees, and his eyes turned to the woods beyond the upper lot.

He made his way down the tree as easily as he had gone up and continued up the trail past the iris beds. To his right, on the far side of the beds was another grass trail running parallel, and beyond that, some grape vines growing on wooden frames. To his left, beyond the iris bed was a large ditch and then the street heading uphill away from the railroad yard. Here he stopped to listen as the crescendo and decrescendo of a diesel locomotive sounded in the railroad yard below, powering up and down, moving back and forth, the great clanking noise of collision as the cars were coupled together and prepared for a long journey to parts unknown. The train sounded its horn and the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks increased as the train accelerated out of town until it was again quiet and the only sound was that of cardinals singing in the trees, and distant blue jays sounding an alarm deep in the forest beyond. He pushed up the gentle slope, through the line of apple trees and found himself standing on the edge of a large open field. On the far side and to the left, the road swung back toward town and disappeared. Straight ahead of him and to the right stood a line of massive trees that framed the other two sides of the field. There were oak trees mostly, but also maple, hickory, sweet gum, walnut, and the smaller dogwoods. And there in the far corner, he could just make out a dark opening in the trees, like a small door with a curved top formed by the branches of the trees, just big enough for one person to step through. A threshold of large roots zigzagged across the entrance. It stood there waiting for him, calling to him it seemed.

He was half-way across the field when he heard a car motor below. Josh turned reluctantly and trotted back to the line of apple trees. He paused briefly to turn and look back at the forest doorway. Not enough time today, he thought as the sun disappeared behind the wall of trees.

Josh! Your grandfather’s home! his mother’s voice came up the hill as he stood watching fireflies appear, dancing among the trees around the dark forest doorway like a moving porch light. They were beckoning to him as he turned his back and headed down the path.

His granddad was smiling and walking toward the porch from his old blue Chevy as Josh came down the path by the grapevines. Granddad gave him a bear hug, lifting him off of his feet, and rubbed his knuckles on the side of his head as he did so.

Howdy, bub, he said, eyes sparkling as he clenched an unlit pipe between his teeth. He wore an old pair of jeans, a plaid cotton shirt, and his ever-present buckskin colored work boots. His frame was still straight and strong, belying his seventy some years, and his weathered hand felt like iron when he shook Josh’s hand. He smelled of shaving soap and pipe tobacco laced with aftershave.

Sure am glad you’re finally here. We have got a lot of stuff to do!

Josh smiled. Does any of it have to do with mangy rabbits?

You bet, but first thing tomorrow we need to go into town and pick up a few things. Okay? Granddad said.

Great! Josh replied.

They spent the rest of the evening after supper sitting on the back porch in hammock chairs under the glow of oriental lantern lights that his granddad had strung between the house and the carport. His mother was to spend the night and leave the next morning. They laughed and reminisced about days gone by, trying to embarrass Josh as much as possible with stories from his early childhood.

Before bed they moved back into the house. Josh sat with his granddad at the kitchen table and helped him mix his own special blend of tobacco consisting of one pouch of Field & Stream, one of Half & Half, one of Granger, and one of Cherry Blend. All of this was poured out in the center of the table with great ceremony and gently mixed together by hand before placing it in a miniature, wooden barrel that would seal up air tight to keep it from drying out. Besides shaving together in the mornings (using a safety razor with no blade) when they were little, this was one of the most cherished activities in the place.

His granddad sat back and lit his pipe. The women had since moved upstairs to prepare for bed, so Josh sat and told his grandfather about his encounter with the bobcat, enjoying the aroma of the tobacco.

Now that is quite a prize! It’s been years since I have seen a cat. Hear ’em scream in the woods sometimes. Makes your blood kind of shiver, doesn’t it? And that’s exactly what they intend to do. Make anything else in the woods stop and do an assessment of their lives—because death is coming, his granddad said. You hold that prize tight ’cause the good Lord only grants those experiences to his most cherished followers. Come to think of it, this deserves a special remembrance item.

He got up and moved to the small, white metal cabinet standing on the floor to the left of the dining room door. This cabinet held most of his smoking paraphernalia. Out of it he produced a small pipe and a worn, brown leather tobacco pouch. He filled the pouch with some fresh tobacco and handed them to Josh.

This was one of my first pipes. I always liked it. Of course, you can’t smoke it but you can have it for your things; something to remember your old Granddad by and your encounter with that cat. Did I ever tell you about the time I was attacked by a cougar? No? Well, I guess I was about your age and riding a horse back from town with some groceries for my folks when…

He continued the story that Josh had heard many times before. Josh ran his fingers back and forth over the burled wooden bowl of the short pipe with a slightly curved stem. It was made of a reddish-brown briarwood and had a short wide bowl with a rough texture of wood that Josh much preferred to the highly polished ones. The pouch was very soft, like glove leather, and a small zipper in the bottom concealed a pocket for the pipe and a tamping tool. This would be cherished and kept safe. This was a sign of manhood. It was something from his family, and family was pretty much everything.

. . . and I barely got away without losing my hide. Granddad paused and grinned. Better put that away. Your grandmom and mother might not be real happy with me for giving it to you. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, so we should hit the hay.

All right, Granddad, Josh said. Thanks for the pipe. I won’t let anything happen to it.

I know you won’t son. Run along now, Granddad said smiling. See you in the morning.

Later that night Josh lay on his bed thinking about the day. How odd it was that the fight two days before seemed so far away. He glanced over, lying on his back with one arm behind his head, and could see the top of the stairs through his door. Everyone else was asleep. The few cars traveling up and down the street caused light to dance through the banister rails as their headlights came and went through the downstairs windows. All of the windows on the upper story were open since there was no air conditioning, so Josh listened to the crickets chirp and other night sounds. Suddenly, silver light shown down the hall and past his door from the direction of his grandparent’s room. He quietly got up and crept down the hall toward the light. Standing by the open window between the far bedrooms, he looked out. A light breeze was coming from the east, the sheer white curtains lightly brushing his skin, as a full moon rose above the distant hills. He could see a portion of the railroad station far below through the trees, and from a great distance a freight train sounded its horn announcing its eventual arrival in the yard. The rest of the world lay quiet, peaceful, and safe. Josh stood for a time in the magic of the moment.

I love it here, he thought, even though tomorrow the rest of his immediate family would be far away. Returning to the playroom, he settled back onto the bed and thought of campfires and bobcats and the beauty of a briarwood pipe, as he drifted on the edge of sleep. Through his window came the low rumble of distant thunder. A summer storm was approaching.

She was spinning and tumbling in dark, cold water, arms outstretched to ward off the teeth that were snapping close to her face. The thing kept lunging at her, though it could not do so effectively in the water. She screamed from both the terror before her and the disorientation of the place. They were in a rapid current and it was getting stronger. Her head bumped on the rock above as the ceiling of the room became lower, forcing her under water. The channel narrowed and the current became so strong that it ripped the two of them apart. She found herself totally at the mercy of the river now as it flew through the narrow channel of darkness beneath the earth. She was terribly air hungry and her lungs began to hurt, but she was helpless to do anything about it as she had become an unwilling rider on a water slide of horror. She slowly resigned herself to death when she was suddenly thrown upward by the current, her head breaking the surface of the water. She began gulping in great mouthfuls of air, coughing and spitting, and looking up, saw stars overhead through the limbs of trees. The hound surfaced ten feet away, thrashing in the water, moving to the opposite shore. She swam away quickly, pulled herself out onto the bank, and stayed there for a moment trying to recover her breath. A growling, whimpering sound came from behind her, and she turned to see the monstrosity struggling to climb out on the opposite bank. With a muffled cry, she hurried into the woods, stumbling as she went. Stealing a glance back through the trees, she saw the hound pacing back and forth with its head down looking her direction. Then, it let out a howl at the same time sharp pain shot through her left arm. She looked down to find a black gash across her bicep. There was no blood, but the pain was tremendous. The hound’s head snapped back around again when she felt the pain and it began growling. It approached the water and hesitantly slid down into the current. The girl fled into the woods away from the river. She noticed that the forest smelled different here, but she kept moving. Ahead she could hear a low rumbling noise that seemed to be getting louder, and though it frightened her, she kept moving, whispering a prayer for strength as she went. Eventually, she stumbled into a clearing that looked as though a huge scar had been cut across the earth, and here she hesitated. The rumbling was getting louder and was coming from her left where she could see a small light approaching, though it was hard to judge the distance in the darkness. She stopped, raised her hand, and cried out.

Guardian, I am here!

Another howl came from behind and fear sent her running across the open space where she tripped over something hard, her hands and knees striking rocks and funny-smelling wood, sending pain through her limbs. She looked back and saw the shiny, smooth rib of stone that had caused her fall. There was another one just like it in front of her. The ground was beginning to shake and the rumbling was very loud, the light bearing down on her, quickly.

Guardian, please help me! she screamed, tears spilling from her eyes, but she realized this was not a Guardian at all. This was something else, altogether. With her head spinning, she managed to climb across the clearing and scramble down the bank of small, loose stones. Reaching the bottom, she looked back and saw the head of the hound appear above her. It stood there snarling, seemingly oblivious to the huge monster bearing down on it. Out of the light, sound bellowed like the trumpet of a great sea monster rising from the deep.

The hound looked too late.

She covered her ears and screamed, dropped her head and resigned herself to death once more as the great beast roared past with a deafening rumble, the rhythmic clack of its hooves reverberating through the trees. Its sound completely covered her screams. For a long time she sat there, clutching her ears, and tightly squeezing her eyes shut, as its awful breath blew through her hair. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, it passed on, and the sounds of the night forest began to return. She sat momentarily waiting for the hound to take her, but it never came. Very slowly, the girl stood up and turned to look at the two lengths of polished stone above her. There, hanging over the one closest to her were pieces of skin and bone. She cautiously climbed back up the incline until she was looking down on the mutilated remains. She turned her head to watch the huge beast run away down its trail, growing smaller and smaller as the distance between them increased.

How very odd, she thought. From behind it didn’t look like a living thing at all. It looked more like a large rocking box, with a person holding some sort of torch clinging to its back. She stood there, staring at it in wonder as it bellowed once more in the night.

The sound of howling returned, but it was much more distant this time. A feeling of hopelessness came over her. She began trembling with the realization that there were more of the hideous creatures here, wherever here was. Stumbling into the woods, she came to a huge oak, and, putting her hand on the tree, she whispered to it and waited. There was no answer. Tears streamed down her face as her trembling became more violent and she spoke again, more urgently this time. The oak stood like a sentinel in the moonlight and said nothing; dark clouds now racing in bunches above its limbs. In the distance, what seemed a very great distance, she heard the howling again but it was different somehow. Had they stopped chasing her? Or, was it perhaps calling; calling to others of its kind?

A loud rumble of thunder off to the west drowned out the howling. Drops of rain, beginning slowly at first and then becoming more frequent, began slapping the tree leaves and the forest floor. The wind picked up as more thunder cracked, closer this time. Suddenly, everything around her was moving in a dance to the music of the approaching storm. The girl got up slowly, and after pausing another moment with her hand on the oak, stumbled off into the darkness.

Chapter 2

Making Camp

The sound of mourning doves always seemed to be the first thing he heard. He rolled to his side and looked out the window. Bright sunbeams were filtering through the leaves of the walnut tree, the back porch still wet from last night’s storm. The squirrels were frolicking again among the massive branches, chattering at the neighbor’s cat that had wandered over and sat just beyond the porch intent on making a meal of them if it could. Josh could see his grandmom in her apron cleaning out the birdbath beside the path. He