Tracker's Canyon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Of Related Interest

  Copyright

  For Alix Jane de Ruydts

  CHAPTER 1

  Bare feet are soundless. Combined with stealth, they can buy a sliver of freedom. A daily sliver of freedom is all I need, but I need it like oxygen. Seriously.

  So, being the Sultan of Stealth, I sneak out of my bedroom before dawn and pad ninja-like down the hallway.

  First I peer into my mother’s room, where the weak glow of her bedside clock identifies her shape, shrouded by twisted sheets. A hand dangles beside the nightstand, crowded with pill bottles.

  I sigh, then catch myself. I’ve sworn off sad and don’t do “down” anymore. Instead, I remind myself to take comfort in the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

  Hang in there, Mom. And forgive me, but I’ve got to get a breath of fresh air. I move away from her like a shadow down the worn stair treads. My nose scrunches up as it passes the unwashed dishes in the sink; my bare feet expertly negotiate the greasy kitchen floor.

  I know just how to open the back door without its rusty hinges squealing. Oiling them is somewhere on my to-do list. But the dishes and scrubbing the kitchen floor are higher priority — as in, I’ve got to check off these new Head of the Household duties in between this jailbreak and the high school’s morning bell.

  Like a fake sumo wrestler who bounces trouble off his cool rubber suit, I’m finding the chunk of chores and attempt at a new attitude easier every week. If Mom were more with it, she’d be proud of me. If Dad hadn’t disappeared — well, then I wouldn’t need the rubber suit or have to face these new obligations. But yeah, he’d be proud of me, too.

  If only a raise came with the promotion.

  I jog barefoot down the forest trail, pine cones cushioning my calluses, early birdsong filling my ears, first sunrays lighting up the corrugated trunks of cedar trees. I like to go barefoot ’cause it puts my feet in closer touch with the ground.

  Soon it’s time to pause and let my old self come out and play. I become the skilled tracker my father helped me become. Guilt, get lost for now!

  Some guys pursue fame. Some chase girls. I stalk animals. Not to hurt them, of course. Trackers just track. So I stop and crouch in the dewy grass, breathe in the forest, and funnel all my senses into finding a creature to follow. Small hoofprints — bingo! Soon I’m trailing a mother deer and two fawns.

  The size, distance between the tracks, and how clear the imprint is help me calculate how far ahead the deer are and how fast they’re moving. Perfect: I’ll sight them and be home before Mom wakes up.

  Within twenty minutes, salal bushes are scratching my thighs and flies are haloing my head, but patience being my specialty, I don’t move an inch. Yes! There they are. For five sweet minutes, happiness flows through me just watching two spotted fawns prance about the meadow, under the watchful almond eyes of their mother.

  As they munch the spring grass, I mentally brush my fingers against the warmth of the smaller fawn’s smooth, brown neck.

  Embrace calm, my father always urged. Slow down, clear your mind, make yourself invisible.

  Waiting for the right second to move, I ignore the tickle of ants crawling up my leg, the sting of mosquitoes feeding on my neck, the sweat trickling down my back. A breeze whispers through the trees, a faraway frog croaks, a fleeing chickadee scolds. Nature is like a drug to me. Being outdoors, smelling and hearing everything close-up, and challenging my senses: it’s the best high ever.

  I scan past the meadow to the wash of orange-yellow brightening the horizon and glance left, right, and down, just like Dad taught me. Damn. The prick of pain that comes with any memory of him distracts me just long enough that I fail to notice the forest going quiet. Very quiet.

  Too late, the mother deer’s head lifts and stiffens; her tail quivers. Then, with only the slightest of creaks from a branch a few trees behind me, a blur of gold arcs through the air, takes two bounds, and lands on the smallest fawn.

  Holy crap. Mother and surviving fawn bolt. The cougar’s teeth sink into the fawn’s neck — the neck I’d been imagining stroking. I choke off a cry.

  “Hey!” The shout from behind makes me jump.

  As the cougar drags his prey to the edge of the meadow, boots pound toward me. Before I can spin around, two firm hands lock on my shoulders and haul me back.

  “Kid, what do you think you are playing at? That cougar could have just as easily jumped you!” A European accent.

  I shake myself free, turn, square my shoulders, and eye this tall stranger in camouflage clothes. Who does he think he is, attempting to lecture a near guru of this terrain? He’s no more than twenty-five years old, I decide. He has short curly brown hair and a thin moustache on his not-unfriendly face.

  “I’m not a kid,” I declare with my hands on my hips.

  “No?” He half smiles. “What are you — like, fifteen?”

  The interloper is tall and as solid as a middle-weight champ. My gut says the guy’s okay. Still, I judge it best to be polite but firm.

  “Sixteen.” I level my eyes at him. “And you just ruined everything. I’ve been tracking those deer for half an hour.” I look toward the meadow; the cougar has disappeared with its catch. I turn back.

  The man leans against a tree with a smirk. “Oh, so you think you are a tracker, do you? Not such a great one, if you did not notice the cougar or me, kid. Classic case of the hunter becoming the hunted.”

  “Well, I guess I must be pretty special to have two hunters following me.”

  His smile widens. “I was tracking the cat when I saw you trying to follow the deer. Figured I had better speed up, in case the cougar updated his breakfast plans.”

  I relax a little. “Whatever. Thanks, I guess.”

  “You are welcome. Your parents know where you are?”

  I shift my bare feet in the dirt and study the last hoofprints of the unlucky fawn. “I don’t have parents.”

  “No parents, huh?” He smothers a laugh. “So, let me guess. You live on your own in a cave near here, and you skin and eat any deer the cougar does not get? A real wannabe Indian tracker!”

  “Better than someone who tracks trackers,” I say evenly. “Tristan Gordon,” I add, extending my hand.

  “Dominik Goralski,” he responds, crushing my palm in his. “I did not mean to offend you. You actually did pretty well tracking that deer for a guy your age.”

  “You think?” I pause, then ask, “Do you live around here?”

  “I do Search and Rescue work in Poland; I’m here on vacation. Let me give you a tip or two. First, never focus on just one thing. You should be working on sensing an animal, even if it is downwind. Second, when I saw you scanning the horizon back there, you looked left, right, and down. Exactly like you should have. You just forgot to look up, too.”

  I bristle at some stranger telling me how to track, but damn, the guy’s sharp. How many times did I hear that from my dad? “Yeah. Good advice.
My weak point, I’ve been told,” I admit.

  “Look up now, and tell me what you see.”

  I lift my face and watch a flock of slender birds with long, pointed wings, hunting insects in the air. “Swallows.”

  “Good. And where are they headed?”

  “West, duh.”

  “No, I mean where, exactly? I am not from around here.”

  My chest tightens. Where are they headed? Worst question he could ask. “Swallow Canyon.”

  “Ah, the famous Swallow Canyon. You have been there?”

  I purse my lips to seal all emo inside. “Yes.”

  Something gives me away. His eyes are clamped on me like he’s going to unlock my secret.

  “Sorry. I’ve got to go,” I say hurriedly. “I’ve got a mountain of chores to do before school. But enjoy your time in British Columbia, and I appreciate the tracking tips.”

  “Okay, Tristan, see you around. Stay safe.”

  As my feet turn homeward and speed up, I wonder if I’ll see the guy again. I forgot to ask how long he’d be around. Oh well. When I lift my head for a second, I see that the swallows, like my dad, have disappeared.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Tristan, my man. A rare sighting! Where’ve you been lately?”

  I pause as I’m locking my bike to the school rack and slap my friend lightly on the back. “Nowhere, Phil. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing much.” He shifts his mud-spattered backpack and punches me back. “When’re you going to show your mug at climbing club, eh? It’s been forever.”

  I chuckle and look away. “Soon. Hey, I’m giving the other guys a chance with the girls in the club.”

  “As if. Last time I saw you, you said the girls are too into mothering you since — uh, how is your mom?”

  “She’s great,” I say, feeling my mouth press into a tight line.

  “Awesome! It’s been eight months, after all.” He’s studying me closely despite my upbeat tone.

  “Minus two weeks,” I correct him.

  “Okay. I’m so hyped you’re finally coming back. When? Can’t wait to tell the guys.”

  “Any day,” I lie. No way can I tell him about the lack of cash for club fees and the shortage of hours in the day, thanks to chores. I don’t mind this more restricted life, I try to tell myself, because nothing matters more than helping Mom right now. But hell if I’m going to let anyone know what’s really up in the Gordon household.

  “It’s been boring on the climbing wall without you,” he continues as we move into the school.

  “No doubt.” I smile. “Except for the new kid, Dean. Mini Spider-Man.” The last time I showed up at the club was two months ago, the same day as a brand-new kid in town asked to join. I still recall the boy’s natural talent and have seen him around once or twice since. “Who’d have thought a twelve-year-old could climb like that? Or that we’d ever let a seventh grader into the club?”

  Phil shrugs. “Only ’cause you suggested it that first day he showed. I admit he’s amazing. I’ve actually learned a few moves from him. But you were the star, man. We need you back.”

  “Were, eh! Guess I’d better get my ass back in there.”

  The bell sounds. We hurry to our lockers, grab our books, and slam the locker doors shut.

  “Later, man,” Phil says as he heads up the hall to class.

  “Later,” I say. Books in arms, I wait till Phil has gone before I press my forehead against the cool steel of my locker. I miss climbing club and my friends so much it hurts. But I must not think about it. I count to five till the funk disappears. Then, shoulders back and head held high, I breathe deeply and wade through the crowds to class.

  • • •

  An hour into Math, students point out the window.

  “Class!” snaps Mr. Winters, to no effect.

  A fire truck wails up the main street of our little town (population two thousand), its flashing red lights bouncing off the school’s football field posts, where it stops. I leap up to join the students crowding the window; even Mr. Winters stands there gawking. One look and I’m out of the classroom, through the main school doors, and onto the football field, sprinting over its sweet-smelling, fresh-mown grass.

  Our school, edged by evergreens, has a bunch of tall Douglas firs beside the playing field, one of them maybe eighty feet high. Mini Spider-Man — Dean the amazing climber kid — has somehow managed to climb three-quarters of the way to the top of that one.

  “Don’t move!” Principal Tolmie calls up to him.

  Teachers and a ton of kids have circled the tree. Every panicked voice has a different set of instructions.

  “Don’t look down!”

  “Hold tight!”

  “Wait for the firefighters!”

  There’s a shrill whine as the fire truck lifts its mech­anical ladder to the branch where the boy with bushy black hair sits. He’s smiling and as calm as a Buddha statue.

  Way to go, Dean, I think, half proud of my former club mate, even though I hardly know him. Except you’re going to be in a shitload of trouble. I do a fast assessment of the tree trunk between the ground and the boy, ready to climb up and coach him down if needed.

  Then a mountain bike catches my eye — someone wheeling at gravel-spitting speed toward the school. The bike clatters to the pavement, and a tall, thin woman maybe twenty years old and wearing black fitness gear strides to the tree, lifts her head, and shades her eyes.

  “Dean!” she shouts matter-of-factly, like she has seen it a thousand times before.

  Dean actually smiles down at her, pulls a stick of black licorice from his shorts pocket, and starts chewing on it. She’s barely old enough to be out of high school herself, I think. Babysitter? Sister?

  She tosses her long, black hair over her shoulders and marches toward the fire truck, all business-like. I edge closer.

  “I suggest you retract the ladder … safer if he climbs down on his own.”

  Some nerve, telling the fire department what to do.

  To my amazement, a firefighter reverses the truck ladder, and the woman in black strolls to the base of the tree.

  “So sorry,” she apologizes along the way to the teachers and principal, then signals Dean.

  He nods, pockets his licorice, and down-climbs, never hesitating, never faltering, like the closest relative to a monkey I’ve seen. I’m tempted to burst out cheering.

  On the ground, before the principal reaches them, the young woman embraces the boy and he hugs her back fiercely. Like, way too tightly for a twelve-year-old with half the school staring at him.

  Then she grips his shoulders, puts her forehead against his, and delivers some kind of quiet lecture. He just nods, blinks, and glances up at Principal Tolmie, who is headed their way looking like a police officer itching to clamp handcuffs on someone.

  “All yours.” The woman hands Dean over and takes her time striding back to her bike, thanking the firefighters on the way.

  Seriously? So this sister or whatever she is just arrives, takes over, orders him down, then leaves? No, not yet, as it turns out. What she does next will haunt me for hours. She picks up her bike, turns, and glares at me. A long, slow, vicious look. I turn to see if there’s someone behind me, maybe some enemy she has bad blood with.

  I’ve never seen the woman before, so there’s clearly some mistake. It’s only as she turns to ride off — tires spewing gravel, once again — that I catch the logo on her T-shirt. It sends shivers through my body: Swallow Canyon Expeditions.

  • • •

  Spring means the days are getting warmer and longer. By the time I’ve biked home from the supermarket and drugstore, I’m imagining pulling the dented barbeque out of our garage and grilling Mom a hamburger. Maybe it’s red meat she needs. Or just a reason to come downstairs and sit on the back patio with me. Later we could watch
the stars come out and discuss which constellations are which, like the three of us used to do. Dad would have his stargazing chart laid out on the picnic table and his garage-sale telescope set up on a rickety tripod. He’d sit back on the wood bench he and I built, wearing that worn green sweater Mom knit him, a grin on his face and an arm around each of us. I swallow hard, remembering the clean, damp-wool smell and prickliness of his sweater when he hugged me.

  When I see her bedroom window is open, curtains flapping in the breeze, my heart lifts. Then I spot Elspeth’s moped by the back door, and my mood does a crash landing. What’s the witch up to now? She should’ve gone home an hour ago.

  I heave my backpack onto the linoleum kitchen counter and frown at the dirty dishes piled in the sink. Elspeth is happy to eat our food while fixing lunch for Mom — but do dishes? Not.

  Never mind; she’s too busy looking after Mom, and I’m the official dishes guy, it seems.

  Something smells weird. Lavender?

  “Tristan, honey. So glad you’re home. Your mother’s sleeping, but I stayed late so you and I could talk.”

  Talk? I glance at the new hair colour: pink. It clashes with her rainbow smock, purple miniskirt, and red clogs, but it brightens up the place, for sure. Where my uncle found this thirty-year-old space cadet and why Mom has fallen under Elspeth’s spell is beyond me. Oops. My negatory detect-o-meter is beeping.

  “Hi, Elspeth. Interesting hair colour. Hey, am I imagining it, or is there a fascinating fragrance in the air?”

  “Lavender, darling. It’s part of our aromatherapy session. It calms her.”

  “Cool. But is it possible she doesn’t need to be calmed? Maybe she needs to get up and move, instead.”

  Elspeth reaches out to pat my hand; I slide it away and begin storing groceries. Aromatherapy, hypnotherapy, horoscope-reading, crystal-touching: these are what my uncle’s paying for out of what I think should go toward groceries, repair bills — and my climbing club fees. But Elspeth is Mom’s caretaker for now. And who knows? If she ever convinces me aromatherapy can make Mom better, I’ll be the first to haul wheelbarrows of lavender home.