Jewelweed (41 page)

August stared into the map.

“Check out this area,” said the hermit, directing August's attention to the upper-middle portion of the map. “This is where we are right now, and the map covers the major forested areas for fifty miles around.”

“What are these
X
's?”

“I hoped you'd notice those, August. There are more than one hundred of them on this map.”

“They don't seem to form any particular pattern,” said August.

“I noticed that myself, and so did everyone else in my family. See, after Uncle Ray passed away the family set to squabbling over everything in his estate, which was worth a considerable amount. I don't mean Uncle Ray was wealthy by any means, but over the years he had acquired more than most, certainly more than the other loggers working with him. And no one understood exactly how he'd managed to do that. He had never married, he didn't leave a will, and he had no children. Still, open warfare broke out between the different factions of my family over who would get his house, investments, savings account, twenty acres of walnut trees, and a number of valuable pieces of antique furniture and silver inherited from his grandparents.”

“And that's when they found this map?” asked August.

“Exactly,” said the hermit. “They found it in his safe, and they chose to ignore the fact that it was inside a manila envelope with
For Lester
written on it. Everyone recognized right away that it was a map of this area, and by consulting with Uncle Ray's diary they identified the plots where he'd been assigned to cut trees, and some of them corresponded to places marked with
X
's on the map. So off they all went, hunting for the money they thought Uncle Ray must have buried in those locations, digging up everything in sight.”

“Seems highly unlikely,” said August.

“I agree,” said the hermit. “And sure enough, they found nothing. Just weeds, they said, just dumb weeds. They gave up after three or four days. After they decided the map had no financial value, they presented it to me in a brief show of pomp and sentiment, and returned to squabbling over the rest of Uncle Ray's estate. See, they all knew Uncle Ray and I saw eye to eye on most things, and naturally they hated me for it.”

“Why did they hate you for it, Mr. Mortal?”

“Because the friendship between Uncle Ray and me was truly valuable, and they knew they could never have it. I'm afraid that's the way most of my family is. At some level they are capable of recognizing truth, but they never involve themselves with it.”

“And you probably asked yourself,” said August, “why would a man
keep a record of the places he'd visited if he didn't intend to return someday?”

“Exactly,” replied the hermit. “I had the map for over a year, and then it came to me.”

“I know,” said August, apologizing for interrupting by nodding. “Those
X
's indicate the places where your uncle noticed ginseng growing in the woods. That was his gift to you.”

“August, you're a gifted human being. No wonder you have a friend like Ivan. You figured it out. One of the reasons I've been able to live out here like this is by cultivating plants that grow in the places my uncle first discovered. This has been my secret and my joy.”

August looked away, drawn back into his despair. “I'm afraid my life no longer contains any joy, Mr. Mortal, and I don't think it ever will again. Thank you for sharing your map and attempting to turn my attention from the horrors of living without the companionship of my beloved Milton, but I'm afraid it hasn't helped.”

“Give yourself some time to get over this, August. You can't think your way out of this kind of pain. It takes time.”

“You don't understand, Mr. Mortal. I stand at the root of the most terrible facts. I am the one who betrayed Milton. I took him out of my pocket and turned him over myself. Why did I do that?”

“Okay,” said the hermit. “Why did you do that?”

“At first I told my mom no. But then she said in an angry voice that I had to hand him over, so I did. But why did I?”

“Because your mother told you to, August.”

“I know, but it wasn't her fault. I should have protected Milton. I never should have agreed, no matter what anyone said. He was my bat and he depended on me. It's all my fault. If I hadn't brought Milton to the fair, he'd still be here. It was me, Mr. Mortal, it was me. I was given a sacred trust, and I failed miserably.”

“You couldn't go against your mother, August.”

“I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Mortal. What's wrong with me? July Montgomery never would have betrayed a sacred trust.”

“July Montgomery?”

“He was a friend of my father's who used to live around here. He had principles and he never betrayed them, even unto death.”

“Do you mean that shy guy who used to milk a few cows on a little farm outside Words? The one who sometimes hid when the mailman delivered his mail?”

“Did you know him?”

“A little.”

“Then you know that he never would have done what I did. His cords were tied with much stronger fiber.”

“To the best of my knowledge, July never had a pet bat.”

“Well, if he did, he never would have betrayed him. He wasn't a sniveling coward like me.”

“But he didn't have one, so nobody knows what he would have done.”

“Milton would be alive today if I had only resisted, but the better part of me didn't speak up. It went into hiding, and the other part of me, the demon part of me—the believe-what-you're-told-and-do-what-they-say part of me—took over. I could have taken a stand. I could have . . .” August's voice trailed off.

“Come on, let's get out of here,” said the hermit. “I'll show you some of my ginseng plants, teach you how to identify them, how to tell when the roots are ready to come up.”

“Is this another attempt to change the subject from the horrors of being August Helm?”

“No, it's a way for me to have some company while I check on my plants.”

“Fine,” said August. “But let's look for the Wild Boy too. I've decided to join up with him. I've lived in civilization too long.”

They walked across the melon field and into the woods, moving slowly through the oppressive heat, stopping frequently to drink from August's canteen. Here and there, the hermit pointed out ginseng plants, growing in shady, moist areas and along hillside runoffs.

“They like wet conditions,” he said. “You can't pick them until there are at least five rings on the neck and three sets of leaves. It's not legal to sell anything younger than that.”

“Who buys ginseng?” asked August.

“Most of Wisconsin's ginseng goes to Asia. And oddly enough, if you buy ginseng in Wisconsin it probably came from Asia.”

“Why?”

“Wisconsin is one of the few places in the world where ginseng grows wild, and wild ginseng is worth ten times what the cultivated varieties bring. Asians value it more than we do.”

“How can anyone tell the difference?”

“By the root color. Wild-grown is darker, the rings on the neck closer together.”

“Why are you snipping the leaves off that one?” asked August, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Other ginseng hunters started coming through here after the DNR began charging license fees, and I don't want them to find this one. The root still grows, even without the leaves. In fact, when a field has been grazed for many years and then the livestock are taken away, very old ginseng sometimes comes up again the following spring.”

“Why does buying a license mean there will be more hunters?”

“Not necessarily more, just more determined. When people pay for a license they expect some return. It used to be that ginseng hunters were more casual. Most of the people who found it were loggers or fence builders. But the new license requirements changed all that. Now people think, By god, if I bought a license I'm going to find some.”

“What are you doing now?” asked August, watching him crush red seed berries.

“These seeds have matured early, so we'll pick them, crush them, and plant them in a circle around the mother plant, starting a future crop. It takes about ten years to grow a big root.”

“What's that plant?” asked August, pointing down.

“Jewelweed,” said the hermit.

“It looks like little pieces of jewelry strung on heavy green thread.”

He reached for the plant.

“Easy there, August. Jewelweed is a touch-me-not, a succulent. They shrink up if you pick them. Best to enjoy them where they are. Their juice is also a natural treatment for poison ivy.”

They moved along slowly, observing more plant life, and after several hours the air became even more humid. The milky haze covering the sun darkened to greenish purple, and the lazy breeze died. The birds, squirrels, and insects grew silent. It was as if the entire valley were holding its breath, waiting.

“You'd better be getting home,” said the hermit. “A big storm's coming.”

“I don't care if I never go home again,” said August. “I want to join the Wild Boy.”

“Well, I'm heading back myself. Come with me if you want. This is going to be a gully-washer.”

They climbed up onto the nearest ridge and followed it in the direction of the hermit's hut, then descended into an open meadow where even the butterflies remained still, clutching the tops of coneflowers, their wings folded tight.

The hermit stopped. “Listen,” he said.

“What?” asked August, looking into the darkening sky.

“The plants are talking to each other about the approaching rain. They can already taste it.”

The heads of prairie grasses jiggled and danced, and the leaves on distant trees turned on their stems and began to rattle and hum. The ground quivered. A few warm drops fell out of the sky, plummeting to the ground like arrows of clear glass, disappearing without a trace.

They picked up the pace, moving quickly through the thigh-high prairie grass. The drops increased, along with a louder rattling of leaves and faint, distant thunder. Layers of the greenish purple western sky ignited briefly along the horizon.

Reaching the end of the prairie, the hermit and August followed a deer trail uphill, climbing through bracken, young white pine, and scrub oak. Up ahead of them on the trail, a shape darted in and out of view. A little ways farther, August saw it again, moving between trees.

“It's—”

“I know,” said the hermit. “The child's been with us for an hour or so.”

“How can you know that?” asked August. “It's not like I haven't been paying attention.”

“You have to know what to pay attention to.”

The rain picked up in intensity, and thunder shook the limbs of trees, then tore into the sky. The first bolt of lightning leaped into jagged view, bright and searing.

As the hermit started into the next valley, the Wild Boy stepped into plain sight in the distance. He stood on a piece of rock at the top of the hill.

“It would be best for you to go home now,” said the hermit, looking from the child on the rock to August. “We're going to get a lot of water here.”

“I told you,” said August. “I want to join up with him.”

And then August took off, running uphill.

The hermit continued into the next valley while August ran up the hill. But when he reached the top the Wild Boy was gone.

That makes sense, thought August, feeling abandoned and winded. What would he want with me, anyway? I'm nothing but a traitor and a coward. I don't even want myself.

The full fury of the storm was now directly overhead, and the locomotive sound of the wind against the trees was broken only by the thunder and lightning. The rain fell in buckets, blown into slanting sheets and waves.

August felt his way under a protective overhang in the rock. He tried to bring his breathing under control. He swung his legs over the ledge, leaned back on his arms, and watched the wall of rain.

An hour or so later the rain began to let up. The sky turned from black to gray.

The earth had absorbed all it could, and now water poured out of the rocky sides of the hills across the valley, turning the little creek at the bottom into a raging torrent. August watched on as the water moved beyond its banks, forming a river beneath him. Soon the valley floor was covered by brown rushing water, carrying limbs, branches, rocks, leaves, and uprooted plants.

After another twenty minutes, the clouds cleared enough to allow the sun to break through, and a double rainbow arched across the sky. Still, the valley floor remained under roaring water, and the smell of soaked earth rose up.

August left the protection of the overhang and slowly began to make his way down the hill. By the time he reached the bottom, the river had returned nearly to the banks of the stream, surrounded by a muddy prairie. The prairie grass had been flattened, and clumps of moss, twigs, and leaves deposited in woody shrubs about two feet in the air, marking the earlier water level.