VAGABONDS: An American Fantasy

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Soon, a thick stand of post oak, black oak and mockernut hickory trees opened out into a huge clearing where the early morning light showed the tiniest things: red soldier lichens, emerging fiddle heads of a fern, and aphids on the buds of a wild rose. Galen had been just a baby the last time he was here and didn't remember these details. The roses, yes, because his mother always stopped to smell them. But not the variety of trees, lichens and other plants. Well, he was old enough to be a trekker, so he should notice more.

Off to one side of the Great Clearing, several females had gathered around the Four Sisters; the Sisters were already content without him. Seeing this, a wave of longing hit Galen: he wanted to turn around and march north. He had held off the curse for a couple months, but soon he would be forced to tell his Sisters good-bye. A pang of loneliness hit him. Without his Sisters, any den would be too silent.

The females had gathered grubs, berries, and snails, and Number Four was already eating. Food! Galen's stomach grumbled. But answers came first.

"El Garro? Has he already gone to his den for the day?" Galen asked Corrie.

She pointed a foreleg toward a large stone that lay in the Clearing's center. Half was covered with a fine gray lichen while the other half was cleared, and a map was scratched into the surface. Each armadillo Colony bore responsibility for such a map rock, and the location of the next map rock was one of the most important items shown. It was said an armadillo could travel all the way to the jungles of the southern continent by following one map rock to the next. Not that the curse let anyone try.

Resting on the lichen was El Garro. He was massive, perhaps twenty-five or thirty pounds. His armor was scarred, chipped and yellowed with age, and his nose was partially deformed from leprosy that had begun to cripple him. Dark, coarse hairs were scattered across his scarred leathery legs. On his right foreleg an open sore oozed; one claw was missing. At twenty-five years old, he was ancient, twice the age of most of the Colony. All his quad-brothers were dead, and El Garro's leprosy was spreading. No one dared wonder aloud how much longer he would be with them.

"Ah, good. You made it. I have been waiting for you." El Garro's deep voice drew Galen toward the rock. "Come, speak to me. Then we'll find a den for you and the babies."

Galen hastened to the map rock with a thudding heart. "El Garro, we have come at your bidding."

"Welcome, nephew," El Garro said. To the Colony leader, all armadillos were his nieces or nephews. "We have worried about you and your sisters for many days. Why didn't you bring them here so the family could help?"

Formalities first, then, Galen thought with frustration. They would talk of family before he could ask his questions-his important, all-consuming questions, the ones that would determine the rest of his life. He clenched his jaw and answered, "I knew what to do with the Sisters." He often thought about getting help but his parents taught them that trekkers must be self-reliant. They had done fine by themselves.

El Garro tilted his head and studied Galen. "And bringing them here tonight was easy, I suppose?"

"We had adventures, but we made it."

With gentle promptings, El Garro soon had Galen telling his story. While talking, Galen was engrossed, not just in the conversation, but in the aura that surrounded El Garro; a space of rarified air extended from El Garro to enfold him. His frustrations fell away, like a fog burning off before a bright sun. Time blurred. Galen found it impossible to judge how long he and El Garro talked. They spoke of how Galen had cared for his Sisters: what they ate, how well they slept, and how they had grown. They spoke of Galen's brothers: the day Garcia and Rafael started their treks and left Galen behind; the news Blaze brought weekly from the trekkers. They spoke of Galen's journey that night: the dogs and the river crossing. They spoke of changes in the Colony: many had gone trekking; others had gone missing, some had passed on to the Father of Souls; and many babies-including Corrie-had grown up. El Garro asked gentle questions and listened raptly to Galen's answers.

El Garro finally said, "Be quick, now, and eat. Corrie will show you to your brother's den, where your sisters have already gone. Tonight our whole Colony will gather."

It was Galen's chance. "Why did you tell Blaze I had to come?"

"Ah." El Garro leaned closer and locked eyes with Galen. "Do you want to trek?"

To hide his confusion, Galen shifted his gaze to the sky. Of course, he must trek-wanted to trek. But he suddenly saw just how special those days with his Sisters had been. His slavery to the curse had been strangely suspended for a space of time. Maybe it had been a gift, those small moments of sharing sassafras roots or leading the Sisters to a termite tree. The morning was growing warm, his eyes growing heavy. Number One-no-Belinda and Dulcinea and Alva and Marta-his small family was already in a borrowed den, sleeping. Tomorrow, he would have to set aside family for Colony business; tomorrow, there would only be the open road and dust and rumors that trickled back from the north. A puffy cloud drifted in a sky so blue it hurt his eyes and made them water. Even the morning star had disappeared. With a gulp, he avoided the question by asking his own. "Where will you send me?"

"Trekking is dangerous," El Garro murmured. Then, his voice grew stronger. "Though the compulsion to travel north is strong, trekkers know we need information. Some have always come home to report, stay for a few months or a year, then move on again. For the last three years, no one has returned. This year, we've asked the owls to help us keep track of those trekking for the first time."

With his emotions under better control, Galen nodded. Blaze and his owl cousins knew exactly where his quad-brothers were.

"Tomorrow, the owls will report about our trekkers. I'll leave the details for them," El Garro said. "But I expect we'll need trekkers for a special journey to wherever the owls direct. By the time I realized this, all the others were gone. I was comforted these last few weeks knowing you were still here caring for your sisters. Don't worry, Galen. You are a trekker, and you will have an assignment unlike any other."

Galen's armor felt suddenly heavy. He was embarrassed by his earlier sadness at the thought of trekking. The Father of Souls gave armadillos tough armor, he decided, so no one would know what we feel.

"Tomorrow, you'll understand. For now-go and eat. Your stomach has grumbled this whole time." El Garro winked at Galen, then laboriously climbed down from the map rock and hobbled toward his den.

Galen shook himself and seemed to come back to the Clearing from a great distance away, as if the meeting with the Colony leader had been a trek itself. What would the owls report, and where would he be sent? Tomorrow, he thought with satisfaction, he would have answers. One more day's sleep didn't seem long to wait for an answer. Or perhaps, it was just that he felt secure, knowing that El Garro was in charge. The meeting had done the impossible: it had calmed him, made him content. He would trek, all in good time.

Corrie stood beside him. "Your supper is waiting." She nodded her head toward a strip of bark that held snails.

While he ate, Galen thought about El Garro. His voice was still mellow and strong, but rougher than Galen had remembered. Was it weaker, as well? El Garro's quad-brothers had succumbed to leprosy earlier than he. The two youngest died ten years ago, and the next-to-oldest died three years ago. What would the Colony do when the leprosy took El Garro?

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