Crossbow

  Crossbow

  Dayle Campbell Gaetz

  orca currents

  Copyright © Dayle Campbell Gaetz 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Gaetz, Dayle, 1947-

  Crossbow / written by Dayle Campbell Gaetz

  (Orca currents)

  ISBN 978-1-55143-843-6 (bound)

  ISBN 978-1-155143-841-2 (pbk.)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8563A25317C76 2007 jC813’.54 C2007-903834-4

  Summary: Matt needs more than a crossbow to survive.

  First published in the United States, 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007930415

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design: Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography: Masterfile

  Orca Book Publishers Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station BPO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  010 09 08 07 • 4 3 2 1

  For Russ, born outdoorsman and builder of cabins in the woods.

  chapter one

  I was a cougar slinking through the forest. Silent. Unseen. Bushes parted to let me pass and closed behind me like lacy green curtains. I marched uphill with long even strides, my feet as soundless as a big cat’s paws on the forest floor.

  Massive tree trunks soared from the thick undergrowth like a thousand giant pillars. High above my head their branches hid the sky. This was where I belonged. No one could bother me here. Trees never whispered behind my back.

  I felt light and free, like an escaped prisoner. Tonight, for the first time ever, I would sleep up here on my own. Just me and the wilderness. I wanted to bellow out in triumph, like a big old bull elk. But I had almost reached my cabin, so I loped along on silent feet. Like a creature of the wild, I approached my lair in silence. I slowed down, advanced cautiously, stayed on high alert to keep my territory safe from predators.

  I raised my head, sniffed the air and knew something was wrong. Mixed with the musty odor of damp earth and the Christmas-tree scent of firs, was a trace of wood smoke. A chill spread up the back of my neck. Here in the forest, smoke could come from only one place. My cabin. Someone must be there. I stopped and peered through a veil of green branches, listening hard. Then I smiled grimly.

  Stop. Look. Listen. That’s what they teach you in kindergarten. Good advice. It’s the most important thing I ever learned at school. They forgot smell, though. Stop. Look. Listen. Smell. The smoke smell was stronger now and mixed with an enticing aroma. Meat. Someone was cooking meat. It smelled so good I started to drool.

  Nothing looked out of place. Gray strands of mist floated around the tree branches and masked any smoky haze. The only sound was constant drip-drip-dripping of water from mist-wet trees. Then, so close I jumped, I heard a soft growl. I held my breath, strained to hear. The growl came again, louder, closer than before.

  A grin crept across my face, and I pressed my hand against my stomach. What a dope! The growls came from my own empty belly. My grin froze when I heard the clunk. The thud of an axe striking a chunk of wood. My wood.

  Someone had found my cabin. But who? How? I had always been so careful. I built it miles back in the forest where no one would ever find it. But someone had, so what was I going to do about it?

  Decision time. I couldn’t hide in the bushes all night. I had two choices. I could slink away and pretend I’d never been here or I could confront the guy. My heart pounded in my ears. I turned away.

  The next thud was followed by the shriek of wood splitting apart. Light dry kindling bounced and clattered against stone. The stone by my door, next to my fire pit. Fear burned into anger. Keeping low, hidden by thick brush, I crept forward. I reached a young cedar near the side of my cabin and hid behind its low branches.

  Only a small part of one wall showed through the low-hanging branches. The logs, about five inches across, were sealed together with thick clay-like mud. The logs came from a clear-cut nearby. They were the wrong species, or too small, or too crooked, so the logging company that mowed them down had left them to rot. Only the perfect ones were worth keeping. Kind of like kids— if you weren’t perfect you got left behind.

  I had started building my cabin in July, after my father was gone. I borrowed his chainsaw. He wouldn’t need it for a long time. I chose the best of the junk trees, cut off their branches and chopped them into ten-foot lengths. I hauled them, one at a time, to my site. The job took all summer and into the fall, but it was worth all that hard work to have a place of my own. A place to be alone.

  Since my main ambition in life was to be a hermit, I figured it was time to get some work experience. My mom said I should work hard at school, but she didn’t understand the importance of on-the-job training. She didn’t understand why this cabin was so important to me either. I brought her up here when it was almost finished. She looked at the four square walls, the tarpaper roof, my little plastic-covered window and the old door I dragged up from home.

  “It’s a nice fort,” she had said.

  Like I was some little kid, playing games.

  My attention swung back to a fire that crackled in my fire pit. Above the fire, on a tripod made of stout green sticks, hung a chunk of meat big enough to feed ten people. It looked like a roast beef, sizzling over the flames. A tempting aroma drifted through the bushes and reminded me of my grandma’s kitchen on a Sunday evening.

  My stomach churned, the smell of cooking meat sickened me now. I held my breath and tried not to think about the good old days, before the accident. I hadn’t tasted roast beef since then.

  I carefully slid my backpack from one arm and then the other, lowering it to the thick carpet of brown fir needles. I had formed a plan, but I didn’t want the backpack slowing me down if I needed to run.

  chapter two

  I heard him before I saw him. He was just whistling some tune from ancient history, an old song that reminded me of my father. I felt like throttling him. Two black hiking boots stopped near the fire, legs as solid as tree trunks, arms loaded with wood. My wood. Wood he had chopped with my axe. Anger rose in my throat. How could I not be mad? This guy came from nowhere and took over my cabin. I clenched my teeth and tried to ignore his disgusting whistling.

  I searched the ground for a strong stick, found a good solid one and crouched behind the tree. I waited for him to turn his back.

  No luck. Still facing my hiding spot, he let his bundle of wood clatter to the ground near his boots. He bent to pick up one good-sized piece, then another, and then he placed them on the fire.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to race out there and tackle him. He looked big. Well, okay, he was no football player, but he was bigger than me. In a year or two I could take him, but at fourteen I still had some growing to do.

  He looked about six feet tall and was built like a truck. He had wide shoulders under his green camo shirt. His pants were hitched up with dirty red suspenders. No joke, real suspenders! Like Santa Claus. When you have a potbelly like Santa Claus you need more than a belt to hold your pants up. But this guy didn’t have a potbelly, he was a lean, mean fighting machine. His scraggly brown beard matched the long stringy hair that stuck out below his hunting cap. The cap was bright orange and had wide earflaps.

  The guy had to be out of his mind. What kind of idiot wore camouflage topped off with red suspenders and an orange hunting cap? Like a chameleon wearing a bright red ribbon.

  He picked up a long piece of wood and poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. Then he reached over the fire and stuck his finger on the meat. He raised the finger to his mouth, tasted it and licked his lips.

  My mouth watered. The revulsion I had felt was pushed away by hunger. My knees ached from crouching for too long. I shifted my weight, wishing I could stand up and stretch my legs. When I looked back, the guy was staring right at me.

  He couldn’t see me. That’s what I told myself anyway. I was hidden in thick bush behind the cedar. My dark jacket and pants blended in with the late afternoon shadows. I took quick shallow breaths and clutched the heavy stick like a club.

  The man looked away. He laid his piece of wood on top of the fire. Then he stood and walked toward the cabin door, out of sight from my hiding spot.

  So, now what was I supposed to do? My only chance was to take him by surprise. Sneak up behind and gonk him on the head. But could I do it? Did I want to? Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was following the code of the bush: If you’re lost or hungry and need shelter for the night, any cabin is open to you.

  Before I could decide what to do, he was back. This time he carried a couple of tin plates with something on them, maybe potatoes or onions, I couldn’t quite see. He moved around the fire and crouched with his back to me. One at a time he placed the items from the plates onto the hot c
oals.

  This was my chance. I could run forward and smack him right on top of that orange hunting cap. With any luck he would fall forward into the fire. And then what? I’d be stuck up here with a stranger who had a burned face and a bad headache. What was I supposed to do with him then?

  Besides, what chance did I have to take him by surprise? I needed to get through these thick bushes and gonk him hard before he heard a thing. Impossible. I had the feeling this man knew what he was doing. He looked as wary as a wolf.

  I should just leave. First chance I got I would creep away, grab my pack and head home. Tomorrow I would come back and hope he was gone.

  “This your cabin?”

  The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. It rose out of the mist and floated down from the trees. I froze, my heart pounding, and stared down at the club in my hand. It looked useless now. Feeble. The fire crackled cheerfully in front of me. Behind me the forest hung silent and cold.

  The stranger stood up. He turned toward my hiding place. His pale eyes seemed to bore right into mine. “I asked you a question, boy. Is this your cabin?”

  My eyes fell to his black boots. I swallowed and knew I couldn’t speak. You can’t speak when your throat seizes up so bad you can barely breathe. How did he know I was here? Did he hear the leaves rustle when I shifted position? Even then, how could he know I was a boy? He couldn’t see me, I was sure of that. So I could be anything—a bird, a cougar, a man.

  “You may as well come out.” He didn’t move, he simply stood there, waiting.

  My eyes rolled up to his face again. He was looking right at me and smiling. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he said as if he’d been expecting me all along.

  chapter three

  I pushed myself awkwardly to my feet. a cedar branch brushed the back of my neck and sent a shiver of cold water down my spine. I pressed forward, pushing branches aside, ducking under the thick foliage.

  The man reached out to hold back a curtain of dark green. “Come on in,” he smiled like he was greeting me at his front door.

  But it wasn’t a door, and it sure wasn’t his. “What are you doing in my cabin?” I growled.

  He dropped his arm and stepped back, looking surprised and hurt. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s so wet out here, and I had nowhere else to go.”

  I nodded. The code of the bush. “So, you’re staying here all night?”

  “If that’s okay with you.”

  I shrugged and pushed past him to the fire. I laid the stick near my feet and stretched my hands over the hot flames.

  “Because, if you want me to go I’ll leave right now.” He moved to the far side of the fire, where he could see my face. But I refused to look up.

  This was where I was supposed to say something like, No, please stay, you can’t sleep out in the rain all night. But I didn’t want him here. This was my first night in the cabin after all that hard work, and I wanted to be alone. I stared into the leaping orange flames where a pair of fat potatoes and two round onions roasted on glowing coals. The roast sizzled and spit fat into the flames, making them flare up. It smelled awesome.

  “I’ll even leave you my venison. It’s almost done,” he said.

  “No,” I heard myself say, “that wouldn’t be fair. It’s your meat.”

  “It’s your cabin.”

  I looked across the fire at him. Warm light flickered across his face. The bright orange peak of his hunting cap glowed and his pale eyes glimmered. He watched me, his mouth open only a slit, waiting for my answer as if his life depended on my decision. But would he really leave if I asked him to?

  Crunch time. If I told him to go he might get angry and tell me to take off. On the other hand, he might simply leave. I had to know. “You’re right,” I told him. “This is my cabin and you have no business being here.” I glared at him, while the fire burned hot on my face. At the first sign of anger from him I was ready to bolt, but I didn’t move a muscle. I kept a fierce look on my face, while my heart pounded in my ears.

  His shoulders slumped. “Fine, I understand,” he said. “You must be planning to sleep here tonight?”

  My fierce look slipped a little. I hadn’t expected another question. What I wanted was a clear answer, either he’d stay or pack up and go. Why did he care if I was staying here all night?

  It hit me then that he could be a deranged killer on the loose. I mean, who knew where he came from? So I shook my head. “No, I told my mom I was only going to check on the cabin. She’s expecting me back soon.”

  He nodded, rubbed his hands over the fire and said, “All right then, I’ll clear out of here.” He reached up to pull the orange earflaps over his ears and turned toward the cabin.

  “Wait!” I called. “You may as well eat your dinner first, after all it is your food.”

  He turned back. A wide grin split his face. In spite of his beard, his stringy hair and a black smudge across one cheek, there was something appealing about his face. He had a thoughtful look about him, as if he knew a whole lot about life.

  The thing that got me though, was the way he waited for me to speak as if my opinion mattered. As if we were equals. My father used to treat me like that before everything fell apart.

  “Can you join me for dinner?” he asked. “Or will your mom call out a search party?”

  I laughed. “She’ll be okay for an hour or two.”

  “Good, then it’s settled. Want to turn those potatoes and onions over? I’ll get a couple of mugs for the coffee.”

  That’s when I noticed the blackened coffee pot perched on a rock up close to the fire. A trickle of steam puffed from its spout. As I bent to turn the vegetables a whiff of coffee assaulted my nostrils. And I do mean assaulted. I never much liked coffee, but when Mom made it at home it always smelled wonderful. This stuff smelled like burnt grease. It smelled like a stomachache.

  By then the man was walking back from the cabin with my mug and a tin cup that must have been his. Without asking if I wanted any, he filled both mugs. “I hope you don’t take cream and sugar,” he said as he handed me my mug, “because you’d be out of luck.”

  I shook my head. “This is fine.” I gazed down at the black goop that filled the chipped white mug I had brought from home. I wrapped my hands around its warmth and tried to prepare my stomach for the onslaught.

  “People call me Forrest.” He perched on a short cedar log and raised his mug with both hands. He took a sip, shuddered and took another one. “Ah,” he said, “now that’s coffee.”

  “I’m Matthew.” I settled on a log. I raised my mug, sniffed the coffee and quickly lowered it again. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Simple. I heard you rattling through the bushes,” he said.

  “But I was being quiet!” “

  Quieter than most. Not so quiet as you might think.”

  “I suppose you can do better?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I’ve had more practice.”

  “So, how come you stared right at me?” I asked. “You couldn’t see me.”

  He sipped his coffee, didn’t answer.

  “Could you?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “See me?”

  “Nah, not exactly,” he said. “Heard you breathing, though. Saw your breath too. No one takes Forrest by surprise.”

  I stared at him. A trail of vapor curled up from his coffee, as did a puff of moist air from his nostrils. But I had been hidden by cedar branches. Or not. This guy was good.

  chapter four

  When the venison was done, Forrest cut off a thick slab and slapped it on a tin plate. He grabbed a charcoal potato and a black ball of an onion from the fire, tossed them on top and handed the plate to me. The meat was crisp black on the outside and juicy pink in the middle.

  I sawed through a quarter inch of hard black crust around my potato. Inside it was so soft and fluffy it tasted great, even without butter or salt. The onion wasn’t bad either, filled with squishy tender layers. The charcoal added a flavor of its own.

  But the roast. Oh, man! Maybe not so tender as Grandma used to cook, but it had a wild, exciting taste that I loved. I gobbled everything down in record time and swallowed half of that disgusting coffee along with it. “Man, was that good! Thanks, Forrest.”