with me that I could talk all this over with, Gina Cartwright maybe, although why Gina would flash into my mind at that time was another mystery. There’s no reason that Gina would think any differently than—
I became aware of faint sounds behind me. Voices, but not from the direction I had just traveled, but from further down the trail. The voices were a ways off yet, but coming closer. I quickly took up my bow and moved to a position behind the oak, which was broad enough to hide three of me. I crouched silently, listening. Presently I heard hurried footsteps and was able to make out a few words.
“ . . . see us!”
“No way. Sunday morning, remember?”
The first voice was feminine, the other masculine. Young, but not children. They passed along the trail, without stopping at the clearing. After a few seconds I ventured a glance around the tree. The girl had wild and fluffy hair the color of the inside of a peach, and was wearing athletic trainers and a long, flowery dress. The guy wore jeans and a t-shirt with a big red tongue silkscreened on the back. Long hair, but not shaggy. Neither appeared to be much taller than I am and both were wearing backpacks. That was all I saw before they disappeared around the path out of sight. I hadn’t seen their faces. I stood up to follow them, then had another idea. I crept back to the path and headed in the direction they had come from.
The trail I followed was distinct, but bordered by thick brush and high grass. It wound through the pines and oaks the town was named for. Occasionally it opened out into a grassy glade, but always the forest eventually closed back around me. I walked as briskly as I could for half an hour without seeing or hearing anything unusual. My heart was beating rapidly, but I was enjoying myself. I was closing in on a story that no one else believed existed, trying to solve a mystery that only I recognized.
The trail sloped slightly upward into a grove of cedars. The air was clean and fresh and the leaves were brilliant green. Great old logs and trunks were evident here and there. On one of these I spotted a pine cone, although the nearest pine tree was fifty yards distant. Someone must have put it there; maybe one of the two hikers I had seen, maybe someone else. I stopped to listen, but heard nothing but the wind and a few crows calling far in the distance. I knew I was being careless, but years of stumpshooting wouldn’t let me leave such an obvious target unmolested.
I took an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, aimed at the pine cone, and let the string flow off my fingers. It sailed high by a few inches and swicked into the ground. I pulled another arrow from the quiver and pierced the pinecone through, sending it flying several feet, still impaled by the arrow. I smiled. Not too bad for someone sick and out of shape.
I stepped over brush and limbs and retrieved the arrows, pulling the pine cone loose and tossing it away. I sat down on the log to rest for a moment before I went on. The path I was following went through the cedar grove into an unusually thick growth of ground cover. Beyond that, there was more forest, dark and brooding. What would I find there? A hunting lodge? A logging trail? Maybe a swamp or small lake. It seemed impossible to think that there could be houses, farms, or civilization of any kind way out here, yet there must be something; Clarence had hinted at it when he told me about the farmers who had once peopled these woods. I figured that as long as there was a path to follow, I would keep on.
I had been sitting quietly enough to hear the wind wafting through the tops of the cedars, but now I heard something else—the rustle of leaves. It was coming from behind a huge cedar maybe twenty feet from where I sat; too quiet a sound for a human to make but too loud for the wind. I slowly stood up and peered intently in the
I became aware of faint sounds behind me. Voices, but not from the direction I had just traveled, but from further down the trail. The voices were a ways off yet, but coming closer. I quickly took up my bow and moved to a position behind the oak, which was broad enough to hide three of me. I crouched silently, listening. Presently I heard hurried footsteps and was able to make out a few words.
“ . . . see us!”
“No way. Sunday morning, remember?”
The first voice was feminine, the other masculine. Young, but not children. They passed along the trail, without stopping at the clearing. After a few seconds I ventured a glance around the tree. The girl had wild and fluffy hair the color of the inside of a peach, and was wearing athletic trainers and a long, flowery dress. The guy wore jeans and a t-shirt with a big red tongue silkscreened on the back. Long hair, but not shaggy. Neither appeared to be much taller than I am and both were wearing backpacks. That was all I saw before they disappeared around the path out of sight. I hadn’t seen their faces. I stood up to follow them, then had another idea. I crept back to the path and headed in the direction they had come from.
The trail I followed was distinct, but bordered by thick brush and high grass. It wound through the pines and oaks the town was named for. Occasionally it opened out into a grassy glade, but always the forest eventually closed back around me. I walked as briskly as I could for half an hour without seeing or hearing anything unusual. My heart was beating rapidly, but I was enjoying myself. I was closing in on a story that no one else believed existed, trying to solve a mystery that only I recognized.
The trail sloped slightly upward into a grove of cedars. The air was clean and fresh and the leaves were brilliant green. Great old logs and trunks were evident here and there. On one of these I spotted a pine cone, although the nearest pine tree was fifty yards distant. Someone must have put it there; maybe one of the two hikers I had seen, maybe someone else. I stopped to listen, but heard nothing but the wind and a few crows calling far in the distance. I knew I was being careless, but years of stumpshooting wouldn’t let me leave such an obvious target unmolested.
I took an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, aimed at the pine cone, and let the string flow off my fingers. It sailed high by a few inches and swicked into the ground. I pulled another arrow from the quiver and pierced the pinecone through, sending it flying several feet, still impaled by the arrow. I smiled. Not too bad for someone sick and out of shape.
I stepped over brush and limbs and retrieved the arrows, pulling the pine cone loose and tossing it away. I sat down on the log to rest for a moment before I went on. The path I was following went through the cedar grove into an unusually thick growth of ground cover. Beyond that, there was more forest, dark and brooding. What would I find there? A hunting lodge? A logging trail? Maybe a swamp or small lake. It seemed impossible to think that there could be houses, farms, or civilization of any kind way out here, yet there must be something; Clarence had hinted at it when he told me about the farmers who had once peopled these woods. I figured that as long as there was a path to follow, I would keep on.
I had been sitting quietly enough to hear the wind wafting through the tops of the cedars, but now I heard something else—the rustle of leaves. It was coming from behind a huge cedar maybe twenty feet from where I sat; too quiet a sound for a human to make but too loud for the wind. I slowly stood up and peered intently in the
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