Last Chants (22 page)

Living here a long time? Wasn't he supposed to be an industrial spy? Or was Galen Nelson wrong?

He produced a canteen. I drank from it.

“You don't look good,” he observed. “Come on, let's get you into the shade. Let's relax a minute.”

I let him lead me into his lean-to. I sat on a carpet apparently of rabbit fur. I looked around, noticing several things I hadn't seen yesterday: a small, leaf-lined hole full of water, some paperbacks, a store of tinder and a flinty stone, a few folded clothes. One of the paperbacks, I noticed, was open, spine broken.

He knelt. “Just relax a minute. You're probably dehydrated. It's a hot day, that can be dangerous.”

I felt tears well up. I blinked them away. I could see by the fading daylight that hours had passed. Long, critical hours.

“I don't know, I don't know. He picked her up, and I ran off, and I just don't know. I don't know what happened to her. When
I realized, when I stopped and turned around, I couldn't find the spot anymore. I couldn't find them.”

“Start with Pan.” He didn't look fully convinced I'd seen him. He kept looking at my cheeks and lips. “Have a sip of water, and tell me about him.”

I took another sip. “Pan. Oh, God, let's see. We saw him in the woods, and he told us this long story about how he wanted Syrinx.” I recalled with a start that this man had told us the same story. “Is that what Pan's mostly known for?”

“No.” His eyes were pale green with the blackest of brows and lashes. His lean cheeks were tan, slightly paler where he shaved. “But it's supposedly why he ended up here on this mountain. It's a big part of the local legend.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. He talked a lot. He seemed obsessed with Syrinx.”

“So you really saw him?” He didn't seem convinced. “And he talked to you?”

“He's a man with a British accent. He seems very well spoken and well educated. But delusional, obviously. Completely naked, plays the pipes, really seems to believe it's true.”

“Well,” the young man observed, “if he believes it enough to live it, he's making it true. Maybe not for you or me, but for himself.”

“That's why I'm worried. He said he'd seen Syrinx. And Toni looks like Syrinx.”

The man looked skeptical. “Did he describe Syrinx?”

“No. Does the myth describe her?”

He shrugged. “Not that my dad ever mentioned. And this Toni? What does she look like?”

“She's got hip-length blond hair. She looks like a statue of Venus.”

His brows shot up. “Is that the reason you think he meant her? Or did he say something?”

“No.” I tried to hope. “I mean, he never mentioned her specifically. It's just she looks so mythological.”

“To you. But you said yourself he's delusional. You don't know how he sees things.”

I took another sip of water, touching my cheeks because he kept staring at them. My skin was hot even in the shade.

“I've known a lot of delusional people,” he continued, as if that would console me. “There's no point in guessing what they think. You have to focus on what they do.”

“He picked her up from behind. He has enormous arms. He's short, but he's massive. He pinned her arms and lifted her right off the ground.”

“Is she small? Your size?”

“What's your name?” I asked him.

“Martin.” He smiled. “Martin Late Rain.”

“Is that your real name?”

“I took it when I lived with the Tsimshians. Not that they have that type of name, but . . . I get a little tired of disgracing my father's name.” He grinned. “So does my father.”

“Joel Baker.” I watched for a reaction.

“Who's that?” There was no glint of recognition in his eyes, no twist of displeasure on his lips, no tensing of his shoulders.

“Didn't you say that was your name? Yesterday?”

He shook his head. “You know, I'm thinking you should lie down. My first aid isn't the best.”

“I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm just worried.”

“What about your first impression—can you trust it? You ran, so obviously you thought he was . . . dangerous? Acting crazy? But maybe that was based on what he said about Syrinx.” He shrugged. “I wasn't there. I'm not trying to second-guess you.”

I didn't want to go into all of it—my fight with Toni, my impression Pan was saving me from her.

I was still touching my cheek. I suddenly realized what felt wrong about it. It had swollen where Toni hit me. No wonder Martin treated me as if I'd had a tough hike.

It was sympathy I didn't deserve: “I shouldn't have run off and left her.”

“Maybe she got away from him. And you don't really know what he was planning. Maybe he wanted to talk. Maybe that was his way of getting an audience.”

I accepted his solace because I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to waste the time.

“Try to visualize where it happened,” he urged. “Maybe I'll know where it is.”

I poured a little water over my hand, touching it to my face. “I was walking above town. I was on the street past the turnoff for Big Basin.” Where Toni had taken me just the day before. Why hadn't I remembered? Why hadn't I avoided it?

“I know the one. Houses with meadows. Horses grazing.”

“I didn't see horses. But I did cut through a meadow. I went behind a house, then I doubled back. I took a turn, and I headed for the woods—oaks and firs, I—we—hadn't gone far, not that far into the woods. But afterward I ran farther. That's when I got turned around.”

“Okay, let's slow down. You went into an oak and fir forest. That's good. Let's just talk about what you saw.”

It was difficult to recall details because I'd been running. I closed my eyes; I had to try—or be overwhelmed by guilt.

I began listing what I remembered, whatever appeared to my mind's eye. By the time I was through, Martin was nodding, looking excited.

“I think I know. I'm not sure. But I think I know because of the stumps.”

“The stumps?” I'd described running through a forest of big trees and stumps.

“Yes. Private property is my plague, my scourge—I hate getting busted for trespassing. A lot of times you can tell you're on private land. If it's parkland, you have no cut trees. If it's timber-land, you get clear cutting. But on private property, you have owners cutting here and there for more sun or for firewood or for a few extra bucks or whatever.”

“Isn't there a lot of private property around here?”

“A lot of everything—protected land, state land, timberland. But it tells me the direction you took from the houses into the forest. I think.”

He stood.

“You've lived here that long?” How devoted could industrial spies be?

“This is the fourth year I've come here. Canada's having a late winter, or I'd be gone already.”

I tried to stand, but I got dizzy.

“No, stay. I'll go check it out,” he said. “Not to worry. I'll be
back.” He frowned. “I can call someone for you. Go into town for you. You want me to do that?”

What was the name of the resort Edward had chosen? Should I describe it? Or would that put Arthur in jeopardy?

Martin saw my hesitation. “You can trust me.” When I still didn't answer, he added, “I understand why you don't want to. I know what this”—he gestured at the meat-smoking racks, the campfire ring—“looks like to most people.”

“Did you know Billy Seawuit?”

His expression brightened. I thought he was about to say yes—though he'd denied it yesterday.

Instead he answered, “Do you want me to call him for you?”

I shook my head. “No. No, don't call anyone. I'll come with you. I don't want to be alone.”

“It's a ways. I don't know if you'll . . . ”

“I'll be okay.”

“If you want me to hurry, you'd better let me go alone,” he pointed out. “You'll be fine here. You're welcome to some jerky. Although it's a little hard on the system if you're not used to it.”

“You won't know if you're in the wrong spot.”

“Do you really think you'd recognize it?”

He was right; I'd wandered for hours today not recognizing anything.

I could hardly bear the indecision: I didn't want to stay here, I didn't want to move.

“Can I be honest with you?” Martin said.

“Yes.”

“You don't look good. You look pretty bad, in fact. If there's anyone I can call, anyone with an off-road vehicle? We could get them within three-quarters of a mile of here.”

I stood. Everything ached. If I could just get back, find out about Toni, I'd spend the night soaking in a bath.

“I'm a fast walker,” he insisted. “I could be back here in two hours. A little longer, if you want me to make a call for you. We could get someone here to help you.”

Still I waffled.

“Even if there's no one you want me to call—or you don't want to give me a phone number or whatever—you'll be in better
shape to hike out later. I can get you back at night, that's no problem. Night hiking's easy on a clear night like this.”

I looked up at the sky. Sundown yellows mingled with evening blues.

I'd been running, fighting, walking all day, since maybe ten-thirty. He was probably right.

I described the spot for him again, everything I could recall about where I'd left Toni Nelson. “And you won't mind hiking me into town when you get back?”

“No, I won't mind.”

“I'll be able to handle it by then.” This was more for my ears than for his. “But you should call the Nelsons. Call and see if Toni's home yet. If she isn't . . . ” What if Galen Nelson was right? What if “Martin Late Rain” really was an industrial spy named Joel Baker? Would he call?

Or would he take off and leave me here?

“What's the matter? Person to person, okay? I know you probably live in some city, and you haven't been able to trust anyone for as long as you can remember. But this is the woods.” He looked around. “The high chaparral. The way it used to be when the Great Spirit and the Great Mother got a little respect. I'm not going to hurt you.”

“Can you call someone for me anonymously?”

“I don't care if you're in trouble or what your trip is. Really. I'm happy to help you. That's how simple it can be. Okay?”

“Okay.” What could I have him tell Galen Nelson? If Toni hadn't come home, what message would Nelson take seriously, take straight to the police?

“Call Galen Nelson. If he's not in the phone book, ask around town; people seem to know each other. He runs Cyberdelics—he might still be there. You could check?”

“Okay.”

“But even if he's there, even if Cyberdelics is still open, phone it, okay? Don't go in.”

“I don't have to tell him the message is from you.” He removed his hat, fanning his face. His stubbled scalp was much whiter than his cheeks. “Sometimes a message seems more important if it walks in. Versus phones.”

“No, you don't want to talk to Galen Nelson in person,” I insisted. “Call Cyberdelics if it's still open. Or get the number of his house. If Toni's not back, tell him Pan grabbed her in the woods. Tell him the spot. Tell him it was around ten-thirty this morning.”

Hat still in hand, he executed an elaborate bow. Then, he took off through the scrub. He was right: He walked very damn fast.

I returned to the small lean-to, picking up Martin's paperback while there was still enough light to read. I checked it and every other paperback there, looking for an inscription or a name. One was stamped Rutgers University Library.

I looked through his clothes—yesterday's white shirt and blue vest, dark pants, two pairs of socks—looking for ID. I didn't find any.

He had a few cooking utensils and a small store of spices: salt, sugar, pepper, dried mushrooms. He also had water purifying tablets and, inexplicably, a handful of mothballs.

I found no notebook or walkie-talkie or laptop computer; nothing to suggest industrial spying.

I thought I remembered seeing the fire ring and drying rack on the other side of the lean-to yesterday, but other than that, nothing struck me as odd or amiss.

I lay down, keeping my hand between my cheek and the dirty rabbit fur. Maybe I could trust him, after all.

I hoped so. It was getting dark quickly. And I'd never felt so alone or insecure.

I lay still. The air smelled of dust and hot plants cooling in the night. I heard the scritching of birds or mice, the tap of a woodpecker.

The tapping was rhythmic, as quick as a racing pulse. It reminded me of Arthur's drumming last night. It reminded me of my strange waking dream.

I had seen a mountain lion, not unlike Tuesday morning's. I had looked it in the eye, and it had communicated something to me.

It had told me to follow Arthur.

It had taken me over a surreally natural landscape, but that was the only statement it had made. To follow Arthur.

I wondered what it meant. I wondered if my subconscious mind had noticed something, heard something, worried about something. I wondered if it had been a warning, a clue, a guide-post.

And then I fell asleep.

I was shaken awake—moments later, I thought. But it was pitch black outside a circle of lantern light. A man squatted in front of the lantern, close by me. I could see his silhouette.

“Martin?” I could hear the quaver in my voice. I blinked, hoping it wasn't the spurious backpackers instead.

“Martin?” Edward's voice was impatient. “Who the hell's Martin, and what are you doing up here? Jesus, I've been looking for you everywhere. Everywhere. For hours. What did you come up here for?”

I threw my arms around him.

He stiffened. “What's wrong? What happened?”