Norton, Andre - Anthology (11 page)

 
          
 
Still, I wondered. Had I killed the night
creature? Or—had it been my imagination? Had a whirlpool of wind tugged at my
body while fear itself shaped sight and sensation into an unearthly monster? I
was old enough to know that fear could make the unknown seem very real. Was
that what Ronald meant when he said the night creature wasn't anything to be
afraid of?

 
          
 
Today, years later, I still roam the sky,
usually in the early morning hours as the town sleeps. I cannot let a little
thing like a fear of the unknown keep me from the vast realm of the sky.

 
          
 
But I always carry my knife-light, and I watch
the clouds for a sign of the night creature.

            
I wasn't enjoying the
fishing that afternoon with my Uncle Bob because I knew what was coming. But if
I'd really known what was in store for me . . .

            
What I expected was a
lecture. The fishing was just to get me relaxed and, Uncle Bob probably hoped,
receptive. Of all the people in the
McCullum
family,
Uncle Bob was just about my favorite. But I doubted if even he would understand
my problem.

            
Grandpa
McCullum
claimed that I, as the runt of the clan, carried a
chip on my shoulder because I figured I had to knock down anything bigger than
me. In a way he was

right
. I was constantly in trouble, and even my own brothers and sisters
refused to play with me, claiming I was always starting fights.

            
At school things were
no better. My teachers said that though I was capable of getting good grades, I
expected too many indulgences because of my size. But as I saw it, they only
had time for their "pets." I was not one of them.

 
          
 
In fact, the only person who really tried to
understand how it was with me was my Aunt Beth. She is a tiny woman who raises
Chinese pugs—toy-sized dogs that look like bulldogs but aren't—and until a few
years ago, she and the dogs and I got along real fine.

 
          
 
But on our way to a dog show one weekend, it
all came to an end. We had stopped to exercise three of the pugs when a
mongrel, its lips curled, approached. Aunt Beth hurried her two dogs back to
the car, but I saw the cur as a challenge. I thought Mingo would feel the same
way. So I slipped off his collar and commanded, "Sic '
im
,
Mingo!" Instead of charging, Mingo fled.

 
          
 
We spent the rest of that day searching and
calling. When we had no luck, Aunt Beth hired other people to hunt for him. She
offered a big reward for Mingo's return, but when no one succeeded, Aunt Beth
gave up. She hasn't spoken to me since.

 
          
 
It's been like that all my life. Challenges I
meet head-on have a way of boomeranging. The latest came about in Scouts when a
new kid in town joined our troop. In the midst of first aid instruction, the
scoutmaster was called to the telephone. Since I had earned a merit badge in
first aid, I assumed he'd want me to take over. So I decided to demonstrate the
fireman's carry. The new boy was big—a challenge—and I chose him as my
"victim." When he backed away, trying to argue, I ducked under his
arms and doubled him up over my left shoulder. He screamed and struggled.

 
          
 
By the time the scoutmaster came running it
was too late. The boy had recently had an appendicitis operation and my
"demonstration" had ripped open the incision. Everyone, of course,
acted like I should be expelled from the troop. And the boy's parents
threatened to sue the Scouts and my parents. That's when I was shipped off to
9i Uncle Bob. He was a last resort.

           
 
Trying not to embarrass me, Uncle Bob acted as
though there was no special reason for my visit. First he took me fishing. I
knew it was just a stalling tactic. If we hadn't been interrupted by a deer
crashing through the brush, a lecture most certainly would have followed.
Instead, Uncle Bob only frowned and watched the deer leap over the stream and
bound up the hill behind me. "They usually bed down this time of
day," he said. "Something's panicked
it.
. .
must be chasing it."

 
          
 
We stared up the hill across the stream. A
weasel and a couple of rabbits came fleeing down. "It must be something
big to make a weasel run," I said.
"Maybe a
bear."

 
          
 
"No bears around here," Uncle Bob
muttered. "As I told you on the way out here, there hasn't been much
wildlife in this area until recently because—"

 
          
 
The screaming clamor of blue jays, crows, and
other birds drowned him out. But I knew what he'd been about to say.

 
          
 
Several years ago, after a nuclear explosion
had started a radioactive cloud drifting across the Pacific, a heavy rain had
brought most of the fallout down here, killing and misshaping wildlife and
plants. No one had been allowed into this dangerous area for some time, but
recent tests had shown the woods and hills to be safe. The area was once again
opened for fishing, hiking, and camping.

 
          
 
"If it isn't a bear, then what ..."
I began, staring up toward a leafless tree killed by the fallout.

 
          
 
Uncle Bob reeled in his line. "What do
you say we go back to the
pickup.
" His voice had
a false cheeriness about it and I wondered whether he was as scared as I was.

 
          
 
A heavy grunting made us jump. Looking up
toward the rim of the hill, we both gasped. Looming into view, the sun behind
it,
a
huge black silhouette stood snorting.

 
          
 
Squinting into the sun made it hard for us to
see details, but drooping ears that flapped in the breeze like an elephant's.

 
          
 
That was frightening enough. But when it
turned its head to face us, its flattened nose and bulging, bowling-ball eyes
made me feel weak in the knees. Each eye seemed to be surrounded by black fur,
and a deep growl came from its tawny chest.

 
          
 
"Uncle Bob," I whispered. "What
is it?" "I don't know," he muttered. His voice shook.
"Don't make any fast moves. Don't raise your voice. I don't think it's
seen us yet. Let's move away . . . quietly . . . slowly . . . carefully. . .
."

 
          
 
Gingerly I started to reel in my line. The
ratchety
click sounded awfully loud.
"Never
mind that!"
Uncle Bob snapped, keeping his voice down. "Just
lay it down—leave it."

 
          
 
The sun must have glinted on my fishing rod,
because the beast peered straight down at us. Growling deep in its throat, it stepped
toward us. More of the immense body came into view. A tail, outlined in the
gold of the sun, curled over its back. It waved menacingly from side to side.

 
          
 
As the beast stalked down into the shadows of
the hill, we could see it in frightening detail. The fur was short for so huge
a
beast,
and the face and ears were black. Dark
furrows radiated from the broad brow to the top of the huge skull. I stood
transfixed. "Uncle Bob!"

 
          
 
He yanked my arm. "Come on
. "

 
          
 
When we moved, the beast came faster. So did
its growls. "It's too big—we'll never make it to the car," Uncle Bob
cried.

 
          
 
"But Uncle Bob," I shouted.
"Listen to me! I have an idea—"

 
          
 
I tripped over a boulder and went down. Uncle
Bob hauled me to my feet. We raced ahead. I glanced back over crashing through
the bushes as though they were mere weeds.

 
          
 
Uncle Bob pointed ahead toward a thick grove
of
lodgepole
pines. "Get in there."

 
          
 
"But Uncle Bob!"
The bounding beast was almost upon us.

 
          
 
"Keep going," he yelled, shoving me.
He twisted around to face the charging beast. Waving his arms, he yelled. The
beast knocked him tumbling, then swerved away beyond the bushes.

 
          
 
Uncle Bob didn't move. He just lay there,
moaning. When I ran back I saw that his face was sweaty and sort of greenish
white, and his leg, bent at an angle that shouldn't have been possible, looked
even worse. His trouser leg was torn above the knee, and something jagged and
white thrust through it. Blood stained the torn cloth. I knew from my first aid
that this was a compound fracture.

 
          
 
"Uncle Bob," I gasped, not wanting
to look. "There isn't time to splint. Can you try to hold on while I get
you into the pines?"

 
          
 
He opened his pain-filled eyes and gestured
with his head. "Never mind me. Get in there yourself. The trees are too
close together for it to follow."

 
          
 
"That's okay," I said, and I tried
to sit him up. Although he was heavy, I thought that if I could get him up into
a fireman's carry we'd both make it.

 
          
 
"Get in there," he repeated as the
growling grew louder. I was so
scared,
the temptation
to obey was almost overwhelming. But I couldn't leave Uncle Bob. I'd never be
able to live with myself if I did.

 
          
 
Bushes crashed behind me and I spun around to
face those monster eyes. Maybe it was bravery, or maybe I just reacted like a
defiant mouse that squeaks when it's cornered. But for some reason, from deep
inside me came a powerful yell. The beast braced to a stop. Yelling once more, I

           
 
grabbed
a piece of
broken limb and threw it. Surprisingly, the beast whirled back from sight into
the bushes.

 
          
 
Jumping behind Uncle Bob, I got my hands in
his armpits. Digging in my heels, I dragged him toward the
lodgepole
pines. He helped by shoving with his good leg. Once or twice he let go of his
thigh to grasp trees to help me pull him to safety. At last we were deep into
the grove of tall, close-growing trees. Outside, the mammoth animal sniffed and
growled, stalking back and forth, looking for a way in after us.

 
          
 
Uncle Bob had fainted. His pants were soggy
with blood, and when I tore his trouser leg open wider, the blood spurted. I
knew then, from the first aid movie I'd seen in Scouts, that Uncle Bob needed a
tourniquet.

 
          
 
Slipping off his belt, I looped it around his
thigh close to the crotch, placed a wadded handkerchief over where the severed
artery should be, then used a stick to twist and tighten the belt. When I
finished, Uncle Bob regained consciousness.

 
          
 
"Thanks," he murmured. When I asked
if he could hold the tourniquet, he nodded.

 
          
 
By the time I had gathered pine needles to
make a softer bed for him, it was almost dark. I crept toward the edge of the
grove. The beast was waiting. Though it was lying down with its head resting on
gigantic clawed feet, its eyes were wide open and alert. It must have spotted
me because immediately it jerked its head in my direction. Bouncing to its
feet, it growled, and I fled back to Uncle Bob.