He nosed the kayak up onto the beach, clambered out, and hauled it up above the water’s edge. What time is it? he wondered, then checked the notion that time mattered. Did the Cowichan (Quw’utsun) people consult watches or mobiles to fix hours, minutes, and seconds to every degree of the earth’s rotation, or did they look at the position of the sun, moon, and stars, the welling and waning of light on the horizon, the length and inclination of shadows, to inform them?
Shivering, he pulled on his pants and socks, shoved his feet into his boots, and began searching the gloom for the trail that went up between the dancing trees to the Looner Module, feeling his way through the tangle of roots. He’d just scrambled up the embankment when a sound from inside the forest stopped him cold. It was a dog barking, a small, yappy dog. It troubled him that the creature seemed to be moving through the forest, apparently not tied up in one of the campsites.
Buddy made his way toward the whitish blob of the camper, trying to figure out how to get into the truck’s cab without the clatter and rocking of his entry waking Harry and Bernice. He felt his way down the side of the truck until he found the passenger door handle. Pushing in with his right hand, he unlatched the door with his left, opening it gingerly.
So far, so good!
Carefully as he could, he climbed up and slid into his sleeping bag on the bench seat, wrapped it round himself, and waited for sleep to envelop him. It had been a long, intense day, and he was tired.
It felt like he’d only just passed out when another frenzied burst of barking woke him. Buddy levered himself up on his elbow, peering through the cab window into the forested darkness on the far side of the campground road. There! The faintest traces of movement. Something was gliding amongst the trees, a form Buddy could only describe as a white shadow, a thing that could not be.
Then a trailing sound froze him.
“Gypsy!” someone called, a child’s laughing voice. “Gypsy!”
“What the…” Buddy disentangled himself from his bag, scrambled out of the cab, and headed east along the dirt road, his quickening steps thudding on the resonant earth. An urgency, building to panic, propelled him into the night. His senses sharpened, instincts telling him the direction he needed to go to cut off the boy and his dog.
Am I going crazy? He couldn’t hazard a guess. If the child and dog were real, they were certainly at risk. He had to find them.
“Hello!” he called out, trying to sound friendly and relaxed, not alarmed.
The road arced to the right. Buddy followed its curvature, partly from memory, partly in response to the shadowy forms looming in his peripheral vision. It straightened out, heading southeast. They’ll cross here, he figured. Wait! He stopped, calling out again, softly now. Crouching to dampen his footfalls, he inched forward. Suddenly the white shadow bounded into view about fifty yards ahead; Buddy crept closer, waiting for the boy to follow. The dog danced excitedly in circles, yipping and beckoning the boy to follow.
“Gypsy!” the boy commanded, and the white shadow darted back into the forest.
“Wait!” Buddy sprinted to the place where the dog had been. “Gypsy!” he yelled. “Arthur!” But they had vanished, and he knew what he had witnessed was illusion—another name for madness!’
He bolted upright on the bench seat, his heart pounding, gasping as if he’d been holding his breath. It took a few seconds for him to figure out where he was. In the cab of the Sandersons’ pickup.
Dream! he panted. Just a dream.
Next: Lost and Found