The Forgotten Door (2 page)

The staff made walking easier for a while, and he trudged painfully on, stopping at times to rest or to drink from one of the many springs. The sun, which he could glimpse only at intervals through the trees, began to sink behind him. He was very hungry, and his eyes searched continually for food. There ought to be berries. He had noticed some earlier, growing near the barbed-wire fence where the man had caught him.

Edible things, he decided finally, must grow in the open places, lower down.

Warily, slowly, he began to angle toward the valley. He reached the bottom of the slope much sooner than he had expected, only to discover that the valley had vanished. Another slope rose immediately ahead. In sudden alarm he realized he could no longer see the sun. With every step the gloom was deepening. The forest had chilled, and for the first time he saw the gray mist creeping down from above.

The gloom, the chill, and the creeping mist in this strange and bewildering land, together with his growing hunger and lameness, were almost too much. A sob broke from his lips, and he began to tremble with a black dread. He couldn't go much farther. What would he do when darkness came?

Then, like a glow of warmth in the chill, he felt the comforting knowledge of wild creatures near. They were friendly, but timid. He was on the point of calling to them when he heard the distant sound of a motor. He stiffened, his hands clenched tightly on his staff. Memory of the angry man and the ugly woman rose like a warning. He shook off the thought of them. He
had
to go on. It was the only way …

Abruptly he began plunging toward the sound, following the narrow gully that curved away on his right.

A half hour later he broke through a tangle of evergreens and stared in amazement at the scene ahead.

He was on the edge of a steep bank that dropped down to a winding gravel road. Beyond the road a broad valley opened. The valley was ringed by wave on wave of blue and purple mountains that rose to the clouds. The valley was in shadow, but he could make out the farms with their little white houses, and see animals grazing in the pastures.

The motor he had heard earlier had passed, but a second one was approaching. Instantly his mind went out to it, exploring. There were several people in the vehicle, and they were very different from the ones he had met — but not different in a way that mattered. As the machine swung into sight, he allowed himself only a curious glimpse of its bright newness, before he cowered back into the tangle.

The shadows deepened in the valley, and began to creep over the distant mountains. Three more vehicles passed, and once a man on a horse went by. The horse sensed his presence and whinnied. Little Jon liked the horse, but he fought down the urge to call to it, for the man filled him with uneasiness.

It was nearly dark when he heard the final motor. This time, aware of the friendliness of its occupants — and something beyond friendliness — he did not hesitate. It was a small truck, and as it swung around the bend in the road, he slipped quickly down the bank to meet it.

He Gains a Home

A
S HIS BOOTS
struck the edge of the road, his bad ankle gave way under him, and Little Jon fell in a heap. For a moment he was afraid the truck would go past without anyone noticing him. Its headlights were on, but the beams were sweeping beyond him around the curve.

He managed to struggle upright for a moment, then sank weakly to his knees. He had dropped his staff, and found that he could hardly stand without it.

The truck braked suddenly, and stopped. A man leaned out and said in quick concern, “Hey there, young fellow! What seems to be wrong?”

Little Jon opened his mouth soundlessly, and raised one hand. He heard a woman's voice say, “For heaven's sake, children, let me out — I think the boy's hurt!”

Both doors of the truck flew open. The man stepped from the driver's side, and a boy and a girl tumbled from the other, followed by the woman. Little Jon saw that the girl was about his own size. The boy was much larger, but he seemed no older than himself. Both wore jackets and blue jeans, like the woman.

Though the man was nearer, he moved with a slight limp, and the woman reached him first. “My goodness, honey,” she said, stooping and raising him gently, “your face and hands are all scraped. Did you have a fall?”

He nodded, and the man asked, “Are you hurt badly?”

Little Jon shook his head. His eyes swung quickly from one to the other. The woman wore a green scarf around her bright hair. There were freckles across her lean cheeks, and small laughter creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The man had a thick shock of dark hair graying at the temples; his face was ruddy, but deeply lined.

The man said, “Can you tell us where you live, sonny?”

Little Jon shook his head again. There was sudden silence. The woman bit her lip, then asked quietly, “Can you understand what we are saying?”

Again he nodded, and she said, “Thomas, I believe he's had a bad shock that keeps him from speaking. I — I hate to take him to the hospital. They — they're so impersonal. I think all he needs is a hot meal and some rest.”

“We're taking him home with us,” the man said definitely. “If he's been lost in the mountains all day, he's had it.” He jerked his head at the boy and girl. “Sally, you and Brooks ride in the back of the truck. Mary —”

“I'll carry him,” she said. “He hardly weighs what Sally does.”

“Mommy,” said Sally, speaking for the first time. “Is — is he an Indian?”

“I doubt it, and it wouldn't make any difference if he were a horned Andalusian with scales. All aboard!”

She swung Little Jon into the truck and settled him on the seat beside her. The two children scrambled into the back, and the man slid behind the wheel.

While the truck wound along the road, Little Jon sat with his hands clenched, trying to suppress the sudden tears of thankfulness that ran down his cheeks. It was so wonderful to find people who were, well, like people should be. If only he could talk to them and explain …

He tried to fit their spoken words to the thoughts he had felt in them. Their names he knew: Thomas, Mary, Sally, Brooks. His quick ears had already picked out scores of words for his eager memory to hold, but fitting them to the right thoughts would take time. He wished they would speak more to one another, but they said little during the short drive.

Even so, he was aware of questions in all of them. The man:
Odd
—
never saw a boy like him. Can't be from around here
. The woman:
There's something very strange about him. It isn't just his long hair. His features are so
—
so sensitive. And his jacket
—
where in the world can you find material like that?

The truck slowed presently, and the headlights swept a small brown building with a sign that read B
EAN'S
R
OCK
S
HOP
, S
MOKY
M
OUNTAIN
G
EMS
. The truck turned into a lane beside it, and climbed in second gear to a house nearly hidden by evergreens. There was a barn some distance behind the house, and Little Jon was aware of animals there, waiting. A dog barked furiously at them until he gave it an answering thought of friendliness.

They got out, and the woman carried him to the door, which the man opened with a key. Lights came on, and he was placed on a couch by a fireplace. It was a comfortable room, paneled in brown wood. He was aware of a flicker of pride in the man, who had built this home with his own hands.

The man said, “Brooks, you and Sally unload the groceries, then look after the stock.”

“Aw, Dad,” Brooks grumbled. “Please, can't we —”

“Do as I say, and I'll handle the milking later. There'll be plenty of time to get acquainted with him. And if your mother will whip up some supper for us, I'll build a fire and play doctor. This boy needs attention.”

While the man kindled a fire, Little Jon removed his woven boots and carefully rolled his trousers above his knees.

The man, turning, saw the bruises and whistled softly. He examined them carefully. “You sure got banged up, young fellow, but I don't believe any bones are broken. Some of the Bean family liniment ought to do the trick. Good for everything from hornet stings to housemaid's knee.”

At that moment, as Brooks and his sister were bringing in the last of the groceries, a truck turned into the lane outside. Little Jon sat up quickly, his lips compressed. There was no mistaking the particular sound of that truck.

Brooks peered out of the window. “I think it's Mr. Gilby Pitts, Dad.”

Thomas Bean frowned. “Wonder what Gilby—” He stopped, and exclaimed, “Hey, young fellow, what's come over you?”

Little Jon was on his feet, trembling, trying to limp away. It was not fear that made him tremble, but a sudden return of the morning's shock, when he had met an evil that was beyond his understanding.

Mary Bean, entering from the kitchen, put her arm around him and asked softly, “Have you had trouble with Mr. Pitts, dear?”

At his tight face and nod, she frowned at her husband. “Thomas, he's afraid of Gilby. I don't know what's happened, but I don't like —”

“Take him into our bedroom and close the door,” Thomas Bean said quickly. “Knowing Gilby, I'd just as soon not —”

Save for the forgotten boots near the sofa, the room was clear when the knock sounded.

After an exchange of greetings, Gilby Pitts entered.

“You folks just git home, Tom?” he asked.

“Oh, a short while ago.”

“See anything kinda unusual on the way back?”

“Saw a nice sunset. Why?”

“H'mp! I don't pay no mind to sunsets.” Gilby shuffled toward the fireplace, rubbing his unshaven jaw against his high shoulder. His narrow eyes darted about the room. “There's queer things goin' on around here, Tom. I don't like it. You still got that bloodhound you raised?”

“No. Traded it to Ben Whipple over at Windy Gap for a calf. Trying to train another dog, but he's a tough one. About got me licked.”

“Sure wish you had that hound. I got a mind to go over to Whipple's an' borrow him.”

“What on earth for?” Thomas Bean looked at Gilby curiously.

“Might as well tell you, Tom. There's a wild boy loose in this country. Seen 'im with my own eyes. Emma can tell you. I caught the little varmint, but Emma an' me couldn't git nothin' out of him. While we were tryin' to make 'im talk, he tore loose an' took off like a streak. Never seen nothin' like it! Cleared a fence like — like —”

“A wild boy!” Thomas exclaimed. Then he asked softly, “What was he doing when you caught him, Gilby?”

“Trespassin'. An' I got signs up. I —”

“Oh, come now. No one worries about trespassing signs except in hunting season. You know that. We cross each other's land all the time. Saves miles of travel by the roads. I do it all the time when I'm out rock-hunting.”

“This is a heap different. I been missing things. I —”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Thomas Bean interrupted, “that this boy you're talking about could be lost, and in need of help? Why, he could be badly hurt —”

“
He
weren't hurt! You shoulda seen 'im jump!”

“Then you must have frightened him badly. Why did you frighten him?”

“The varmint come sneakin' down to that west field o' mine with the deer. He —”

“With the
deer!
”

“That's what I said.
With the deer
. Just like he was one of 'em!”

Thomas pursed his lips, then said dryly, “You wouldn't have been taking a shot at one, would you, Gilby?”

Gilby Pitts spat angrily into the fireplace. “Fool deer been ruinin' my field. Man's got a right to scare 'em away.”

“But the boy —”

“He took off, an' got tangled in the barbed-wire fence, or I'd never acaught 'im. Acted like he didn't know the barbed wire was there. But he knowed it the second time, when he busted loose. Sailed right over it like he had wings. I tell you he's wild. Wild as they come.” Gilby stopped. In a lower tone he added, “An' that's not all.
He ain't natural
. I don't like
unnatural
things around. If there's more like 'im, we ought to know about it.”

There was a moment's silence. In the adjoining bedroom, where every word of the conversation could be heard, Mary Bean had opened the liniment bottle and was rubbing Little Jon's bruises. There was wonder in her eyes as she whispered, “Is that true about the deer? You were — friendly with them?”

He nodded, and struggled to fit new words to thoughts. But the words were too few.

“You're an odd one,” she whispered. “I wish you could remember your name. Try real hard.”

“J — Jon,” he said. The name came unbidden to his lips. There was more to it, but the rest would not come.

They fell silent, for Thomas Bean was talking.

“Gilby,” said Thomas, “if I were you, I'd go sort of easy about this. Suppose a stray kid from over at the government camp got lost. If he fell and hurt himself, he could wander around in a daze, not even knowing who he was. If you actually found him, and scared him away instead of trying to help him, you'd be in for a lot of criticism.”

“Well, mebbe …”

“What's more, this isn't hunting season, and you'd be in for more trouble if people thought you were trying to sneak some venison.”

“Now lissen to me, Tom —”

“I'm only telling you the truth, Gilby. Anyway, it's quite possible that some Cherokee boys from the Reservation came over this way on a hike. You know how they are in the spring.”

“Aw, I dunno. Emma didn't think he was no Cherokee.” Gilby shuffled around, and suddenly muttered, “I declare. Them's queer-lookin' boots yonder.”