"But there's nothing wrong with today's kids. Different values, that's all. Hell, most of the kids I went on protest marches with are working for IBM now, or somebody like that. Not Jones. I'm forty years old, ought to know better, but I still believe that if the world's going to be made better, it won't be the big corporations that do it. That's why they call me the crazy hermit."
Jones shouldered his way through a dense growth of scrub pine, and suddenly they were in a clearing. There was a neatly tended patch of grass, dotted with wildflowers. A smooth dirt path lead to a solid little cabin of rough logs. A wisp of blue smoke trailed from the chimney. A homey touch was added by soft curtains at the window.
"Be it ever so humble," Jones said, "this is it. There was a girl with me a few years back. Woman, I should say. She's responsible for the curtains. And the flowers. Used to be more of them, but I'm not so great at flower gardening. Veggies yes, flowers no. Her name was Beverly. Blond hair, the longest legs you ever saw. Dedicated, too. Peace Corps. Save the whales. All that. Beverly thought she wanted to try the natural life. I was glad to oblige."
"What happened to her?" Malcolm's voice was weak and quavery. He had not used it in a long time.
"She moved out." Jones answered casually, as though they had been enjoying a two-way conversation all along.
"Turned out the natural life wasn't quite what she thought it would be. The rain got to her, for one thing. She was a San Diego girl. Never in her life saw it rain more than two days running. Up here sometimes it'll rain for a month, more or less. Doesn't bother me, but Beverly about went crazy. Then there was the baby."
"You had a baby?"
"We did. Little boy. Beverly wanted to name him Star Child, but I wouldn't go for that. I'm not that spacey. Held out for John. Honest name. Solid. Biblical, if you're into that. He'd be a couple years younger than you now. You got a name?"
"I..." Malcolm's mind was suddenly empty, as though sucked clean by a giant vacuum. He was frightened. "I don't know."
"Doesn't matter. With only the two of us, there won't be any confusion about who I'm talking to. Back in town they'll want to know, but maybe you'll remember by then."
Jones carried the boy across the clearing to the door of the cabin. He pushed it open with his foot. Inside there were rough-hewn, comfortable-looking chairs, a table rescued from some thrift shop, sanded down and painted apple green, and a pair of army-style cots with stretched canvas on wooden frames. There was a cast-iron sink with a hand pump for water. On one wall was a stone fireplace with a great iron kettle simmering over the coals of a log fire. Whatever was in the kettle smelled wonderful.
"Beverly hadn't considered that living natural was going to mean no disposable diapers for John. No television to keep him occupied. No baby-sitter. She had to go all the way into Pinyon for the obstetrician. One day she just took him and left. Can't blame her. At least I did the kid one favor. I saved him from a life of being called Star Child."
Jones carried Malcolm into the cabin and kicked the door shut behind him. It was warm inside. The aroma from the simmering kettle wrapped around them.
"Stew," Jones said. "Turnips, zucchini, tomatoes, wild onion, plantain. Care to try some?"
Malcolm bobbed his head, then winced in sudden pain.
"First we'd better see what we can do about that ankle. I'll clean it up for you now. By tomorrow morning this rain will stop and we'll hike into Pinyon and get it fixed up properly."
Jones eased the boy down onto one of the cots. He brought over a basin of water and a soft cloth. Very gently he sponged the wounded ankle, keeping up a running chatter about nothing in particular.
He held the boy's leg in his strong, gentle hands and studied the torn flesh. "Looks like you've got a little infection going there," he said. "I'm going to put some stuff on it now that will sting a little. I boil it dawn from pine bark and a few other things. It'll clean out the infection fast. Better than iodine for sure."
From a shelf over the sink Jones took down a tightly corked bottle. He poured out a thick brown liquid onto a wadded cloth. The concoction smelled of pitch. He sponged it generously on the boy's wounded ankle. And it did sting like fury, but Malcolm never let on that it hurt.
"That ought to get it," Jones said. He wrapped a length of clean white cloth around Malcolm's ankle and foot. He ripped one end to make long strips and tied them in a knot.
"Too tight?"
Malcolm shook his head.
"Okay. Now how about some stew?"
"I am pretty hungry."
"I'll bet you are."
Jones served up the hot stew in wooden bowls along with chunks of coarse bread. To drink there was a steaming, bitter herb tea. Malcolm ate until he could hold no more. The tea, once it was down, warmed him and made him drowsy. The big man helped him ease his shattered ankle up onto the cot and brought a fresh khaki blanket to cover him.
"Get some sleep now, son. We've got to be up early tomorrow."
The pain in Malcolm's foot eased and gradually drained away. He relaxed, enjoying the feeling of a full belly for the first time in many days. The warmth of the cabin and the deep shadows from the dying fire, the soft splash of rain above him on the roof, all combined to lull the boy into a long, deep, untroubled sleep.
CHAPTER
SIX
For long hours after the boy had fallen asleep Jones sat in one of the chairs in the cabin and watched the dying coals. The chair of wood and woven reeds creaked and settled comfortably under his weight. Outside the rainfall softened. It would be clear in the morning. Jones frowned, thinking about the boy he had found in the trap.
In the years he had spent alone in the woods he had brushed the lives of many people with many different backgrounds. This boy was not like the others. Something strange about him. Despite the boy's reticence, Jones could sense a danger that lurked somewhere deep inside him. Something to be feared. Something not quite natural.
The big man dug out an old corncob pipe, stuck it in his mouth unlit, and chewed meditatively on the stem. He had not smoked anything since his teenage years, but it calmed him to chew on the old pipe. It helped him sort out his thoughts.
Tragic fact: the boy's foot was destroyed. No doctor living could save it. When he awoke Jones would give him another draft of the herb tea to keep him drowsy during the long trip they had to make into Pinyon. Jones was not worried about carrying the boy that far. He was confident of his own strength. But a certain amount of jostling would be unavoidable. His strength could not ease the boy's pain.
The kid had been exceedingly brave so far, but he was probably still in partial shock. When he fully realized the damage to his body, he would need a friend close by.
Jones' eyes narrowed and his great shoulders bunched as he thought of the men who had set the deadly trap. He had not struck another human being in anger for more years than he could recall, but at that moment Jones would have happily ripped the trappers' limbs from their bodies.
The boy stirred in his sleep and mumbled something unintelligible. Jones got up and walked over to the cot. He laid his big hand on the boy's forehead. There was a fever, but less than it had been. Jones pulled the blanket up snug around the boy's shoulders and walked back to his chair.
The presence of the boy in his cabin brought back thoughts to Jones of his own son. Sometimes, not often, the big man let himself think about John. What he would look like now. What kind of a young man he would become.