McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales - Michael Chabon [63]
Loo is teaching me how to be a child. Or perhaps we’re teaching each other. I make the doll dance, and then she does it. Suppertimes, I wave a tidbit . . . a dried crawdad or some such, in front of her and let her snap at it. I throw a walnut up and catch it in my mouth. She tries but she can’t do it. I make pancakes and flip them almost to the ceiling when I turn them. I remember the peasant dances my men used to do and, though I’ve never tried to do one, I try now. I take Loo’s hand and make her dance with me. I growl out a song. We even make Grandma smile. We even make her sing.
They’re both getting fatter. I’ll leave in the spring. In the spring Loo can gather all sorts of sprouts, fiddlehead ferns, mushrooms. . . . She’s gotten good at fishing. I’ll cross the pass and go home—if I can find it—if anything remains. I haven’t thought of home for a long time. I hadn’t thought I had one, nor did I want one. Perhaps I should look for the remains of my army. Though . . . I’d like to be finished with that sort of life. Perhaps I’ll live the rest of my life home, if it still exists. Or here.
A group of our people hoping for the reward found him on the trail. (They thought the reward was still operative. All the better then, if people do.) Or perhaps he found them. It might have been him, but could he grow that much hair and that much beard in this length of time? There might be other fugitives on the mountain. However that may be, this man jumped them at the perfect spot and pushed them over, all three. None died but all slid down and were found at the bottom, scratched and bruised. Harassing us is just the sort of thing he would do. We had thought he was much higher up by now. Perhaps even over on the other side. But then again, we aren’t sure this man was him. Perhaps it wasn’t the General at all but some other man with something else against us. How many wild men roam the mountains looking for their chances at us? The mountains could be full of them. We’ll not waste any more time on him—or them.
But then Loo wakes me in the middle of the night. Grandma is trying to talk but can’t. The whole right side of her face is lopsided. I recognize right away she’s had a stroke. I’ll need to get help. No, they’ll arrest me before I have a chance to bring up a doctor. I’ll have to get her down to town. It will be the quickest anyway. I’ve already made a skid for hauling logs. I wrap Grandma in all our quilts and blankets and tie her to it. There’s still quite a bit of snow here on the upper slopes; that’ll make the first part easier. I feed Loo cold smoked fish and goat’s milk, grab whatever food is handy to bring along, wrap Loo up in scarves, and start out. I see to it she doesn’t forget her doll and she sees to it I don’t forget my pipe. (At the last minute I throw in Grandma’s scissors and Loo’s father’s razor.) Though it’s still hardly dawn, I grab the rope and we start out. I won’t be careful this time; I’ll just be fast.
The farther down we get the warmer it’ll be. We’ll hit true spring in a day.
We spend the first night in an empty cabin. We burn their wood, not worried who sees the smoke. We use their barley to make gruel. There’s a small mirror. I shave my beard and I have Loo help me shave my head. I don’t tell her why and