Wild is the Witch (22)
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
The song hits its final note, and the car fills with silence. Before I can ask to hear it again, Pike reaches out, presses Play, and the album starts over.
Nine
We pull off the main road and turn onto a narrow dirt path wide enough for a single car. The road is covered in potholes, and we bounce around as we make our way farther up the mountain. The gear in the back rattles, and I grip the handle on the door to steady myself.
“Almost there,” Pike says.
We drive for a few more minutes, then come to a small gravel parking strip. We are the only people here.
It’s been raining the whole drive but miraculously stops once we park. Pike takes out a map that shows all the trails in the area, and he studies it, looking for the best way up. He pushes his glasses up his nose and taps a pencil on the dashboard while I start unloading the gear from the back.
It’s overcast, thick gray clouds covering us, and it won’t be long before the rain starts again. Spring is when the weather in the Pacific Northwest gets confused, bouncing between hail and sun and rain all in the same day. Sometimes all in the same hour.
There’s something playful about it, as if the weather is enjoying every facet of its personality, appreciating all the ways in which it covers the earth.
I pull my backpack from the trunk and slip into it, securing the straps around my chest and waist. Pike seems to have found whatever he was looking for on the map, and he rolls it back up before grabbing his pack as well. He shrugs into it, and I have to try not to laugh when he stumbles back a step.
He adjusts the straps, then pulls a small cooler from the car.
“What’s in the cooler?” I ask, surprised that he wants to carry it all the way up with us.
“Food,” he says, grabbing a second container from the back before slamming the hatch closed. “I mean, it’s nothing compared to your stash of KIND bars, but it will have to do.”
“Okay, I get it, you don’t like KIND bars. If we’re stranded and they’re our only option for survival, I promise I won’t make you eat one.”
“That’s all I ask,” he says.
He hands me the second container, which looks like a pet carrier on further inspection, then locks his car and stuffs his keys into his pocket. “That one has food for the owl.”
He starts toward the trail, and I follow close behind. It’s late afternoon, but with all the cloud cover, it’s dark and cold. We’re silent for a while, and I listen to the sounds of our breaths as we climb higher and they come faster. It’s peaceful, though, and something about the protection of the trees makes the task at hand feel less daunting.
Maybe we’ll find the owl and bring him back.
Maybe my curse won’t be unleashed on the entire region.
Maybe Mom will be able to enjoy her happiness, to get so used to it that she forgets there was ever a time she was unhappy.
I take cautious, patient steps, not wanting to slip on the roots and rocks that are slick with rain. Drops of water fall from tree branches and land in my hair, and wet ferns catch my ankles, making my socks damp.
But I don’t mind the rain. I never have.
“Can I ask you something?” Pike says after not speaking for most of the hike. He doesn’t turn around or slow his steps.
“Sure,” I say.
“Why don’t you like me?” The question catches me off guard, and I hesitate before answering. We’re only a couple hours into this trip and he’s already asking hard questions.
We walk in silence for a few more steps while I figure out what to say. I decide to go with honesty. Having to hide so much of myself makes me ache to be honest with the rest of my life. “Because you’re arrogant. You think your way is the best way and anyone else who does it differently is wrong. You like to compete just for competition’s sake. And while you spend hours studying birds, you often fail to recognize the sheer wonder of their existence. You watch them with facts bouncing around in your head instead of awe. It often feels like you think you have something to teach them instead of the other way around. I think maybe that’s the biggest reason: you act as if you have nothing left to learn.”
Pike doesn’t say anything for several seconds, and I start to think he won’t respond at all. But then he does. “That’s a long list,” he says. He doesn’t sound hurt or upset. More indifferent, as if I was talking about someone other than him.
“Is it an unfair one?”
He stops at that, slowly turns and looks at me. Sweat is glistening along his forehead and his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. His eyes scan my face as if he’s searching for something. “No,” he finally says.
When his eyes land on mine, I refuse to look away. I owe him that after what I said, and we watch each other for several breaths. His facial expression reveals nothing, and after another moment, he turns and starts walking. We’re quiet the rest of the way up, and I follow when Pike cuts off the trail toward a clearing. It’s obviously meant for backpackers, with a pile of ash surrounded by rocks in the center of the site and level ground where we can set up our tents.
The river isn’t far, rushing in the distance, close enough for me to hear. Everything is wet, the earth and the trees and the rocks, and even though it isn’t raining yet, I can feel the water in the air. Pike takes off his pack and unclips his tent from the bottom, and I close my eyes and search for the owl. My heart beats faster and hope blooms in my chest when I realize how close he is, probably a twenty-minute walk deeper into the forest.