Chapter 4
I follow the river for about an hour north, every sense on alert, attentive to any sign that I am being followed. When at last I am sure I am alone, I strike out east. I know the Pilgrim’s Trail is somewhere further west, and I want to stay as far as possible from people if I’m going to take on this challenge. Who knows how large this tracker is, how hard it will be to remove, or how long I will need to recuperate for after it’s gone.
I climb up the dry clay of the bluffs, then head out across a low, grassy meadow. Orange butterflies circle over waving flowers of gold and crimson. It is only a half hour before the banks of a large lake stretch before me. Just ahead of me is an island, perhaps thirty feet off shore, thick with trees.
Perfect.
I half-swim, half-wade the channel to get to the island. To my pleasure, I discover a small one-room shack at its center, with a neatly made fire pit out front. I push open the sturdy door to find a rough cot, a low table, and one straight-backed chair. A trio of shelves holds a small tin cup, an assortment of hooks, and a spool of fishing line. A rough but serviceable rod leans against a wall. The place is coated in dust. It seems the owner, whoever he was, has been away for a while.
I drop the bar across the door and draw the shutters shut against the setting sun. The small metal latch won’t hold out a determined attacker, but it would at least alert me to his presence.
My stomach grumbles again, but the sun is at the horizon now, and shadowy darkness has fallen across the lake. Food will have to wait.
Red lights flash in my eyes, blinding me, accompanied by the blaring of an alarm and harsh laughter. A sharp pain stabs at my hip, but I hold myself still, knowing that motion could bring death.
The matted hair of the woman swings as she laughs at me, her eyes glaring with hatred. “Red!” she screams. “Red, red, red!”
Then, the softest of whispers, the warmth of breath against my neck. “Shhhhhh ….”
The dream tumbles away.
I stand before my shack in the early morning sunlight, my arms high over my head, soaking in the warmth of the glowing light. My calf still gives its low throb, but for some reason I am absolutely sure it is the sharper stab at my hip which indicates the tracker. If I am going to take this on, I will need to plan out supplies.
I fish for a few hours, ending up with two walleye and a large-mouthed bass. I set them up to smoke over the campfire, then turn to my next task.
There are chokeberry bushes, and I find a mound of the dark green, wide leaves that indicate American groundnuts beneath. I brush the dirt off of one of the small, onion-like roots and take a bite.
Just right.
Next, I track down a fluff of St. John’s Wort growing under a stand of birch trees. Certainly not as good as whiskey for what I am planning, but it will have to do. I grind it up into a paste, mixing in some of the clay-mud from the river bank. Hopefully its mild antiseptic qualities will serve me well.
The large-mouthed bass makes a good meal.
I take off my shirt, wet it in the lake, and then go inch by inch through the cabin, clearing out all dust and grime. By the time late afternoon comes, I am satisfied. The place is certainly no operating room, but it will serve.
The hook and shiv get sterilized in the fire, and I am ready.
I lay the smoked fish, berries, and other supplies on the table within easy reach. I prop myself up on the cot, leaning back against the wall, and give one final look down to my hip. The smooth surface of my skin beckons to me, the stillness of a placid summer lake, waiting for that first person to leap in with a delighted scream.
I draw the shiv in a straight line, parallel to my hip.
The blood bubbles up, like water from an underground stream, and my body arches against the pain which wells against it. I bite back the scream, focusing on the task at hand.
I slide my fingers along the moist, sticky length, seeking for any nodule, any irregularity. There is none. Only the slick skin and ripple of muscle beneath.
I cut again, deeper this time, pressing through the layer of muscle. The pain is intense, and I gasp for breath, groaning against the sensation. My fingers push through the liquid and sinew, and there is nothing. I wonder if the device is microscopic, beyond my ability to find. I could be stuck with this thing in me forever.
Not on your life.
I pull the shiv again, a scream rips out of me, and the world goes crimson and flickers toward dark. I struggle to retain consciousness. I drive my fingers in, and the pain is more than I thought possible. I push, push, and I hear my voice call out a desperate plea, although for who or what I cannot tell.
“Ishtato!”
My fingers close around a capsule, small, hard, perhaps a half-inch in length.
I collapse back against the cot. I put the object on the table, then use my shirt to wipe back the blood. Taking up the hook and line, I carefully sew the skin shut, each stitch more agonizing than the last. At last I tie off the knot with shaking hands. Then I scoop a handful of the antiseptic mud and layer it on top, bandaging it in place with my shirt.
My head falls back against the cot; shadows overtake me.
I am lying in a teepee, the fragrant smoke drifting lazily up through the hole in its center. My calf is throbbing with angry heat, but a cool cloth is drawn across my forehead, and I relax under the familiar touch.
I am lying on the cot in the run-down fishing shack, my hip twisting in agony. A cool cloth is pressed to my forehead, and my eyes flutter closed again.
A voice comes from above me, sure, steady. “Shhhhh ….”
Morning light is streaming in through the gaps in the shutter, and my side feels as if it is on fire. I bring a hand to my forehead, wincing at the heat I feel coming from it. I reach over to the cup, drinking down a swallow of the cool water, then eat the smoked sunfish with my hands.
The world fades away.
The rich smell of vervain surrounds me. I am in a shadowy cave, the walls curving up and around me. Delicate traceries of curls, like twisting smoke, decorate the walls. There is warmth at my back, and I nestle into it, my shoulders easing.
The morning light pulls me into wakefulness. I draw in a breath, then groan. The light smoking I gave the fish has run its course; it is past safe for eating. I run a hand shakily through my hair. The chokeberries will have to do.
There’s a thunk at the door.
My hand reaches automatically for the gun on the table, and I glance down at my bandaged hip before carefully rolling on my side. I push up on my opposite leg and hop the short distance over to the door. I wait a long moment, listening.
The wind whistles across the lake, but other than that there is only silence.
At last I push the bar aside and carefully crack the door open. A mourning dove lies at my feet, its neck at an odd angle. Apparently it had flown by mistake into the door.
I give a smile of gratitude, then hobble forward to the ring of stones. In short order I have a fire going, and the dove, while small, makes a good meal of protein. Paired with the chokeberries, I almost feel full.
I check the bandages, and to my relief there is no sign of infection on the wound. Its edges are still sensitive, but the skin appears to be knitting properly.
I climb back into the cot and let sleep take me.
I step into a large cave. Its walls painted green, and a sense of ease sweeps over me. I am home; I am safe.
I blink my eyes open in the dark night, and a pair of eyes are watching over me, dark green, steady, serious. My lids flutter closed again.
I am safe.
I use my shiv to carve a small rectangle of fabric from the bottom of my shirt, then use the hook and fishing line to sew it into a nickel-sized pouch. I rinse off the small capsule and peer at it beneath the morning light. It is transparent, and I can see a wealth of wires and glowing crimson lights within it, sparkling. I can’t let them know I have it out of me, not just yet, not until I figure out some sort of a plan. I tuck
the capsule into the pouch, and then use line to create a lanyard to wear it around my neck.
I look at the remaining hooks, and I sit in the morning sun, fashioning them into a bracelet, stringing them around my wrist in a winding pattern. I tie the loop of fishing line to my belt. One more day and I should be good to go.
I catch a catfish, roast it over my campfire, and enjoy it with a handful of groundnuts. Then the shadows lengthen, and I climb back into the cot.
The stag guards high on its overlook, his eyes sweeping the valley below, attentively keeping watch. His eyes turn to hold mine, and they are deep green.
A hawk circles overhead, protecting his nest and mate in the crevice below. I assure him that I would not disturb the fledglings, that I am only here for the feathers. He gives a long, drawn-out cry, and his green eyes hold mine.
A hand draws across my brow.
I swim the short distance from the island to the mainland. My hip is at a low throb, but nothing I cannot handle. My hand goes to the pouch at my chest, and I let out a breath. First to find something to do with this tracker, and then to get to that gate.