Free Night Wings by Joseph Bruchac

on up the trail.
    Oh yeah, the pack: Field strapped it to me before we started on the trail. I’m not sure what it contains, but there has to be at least forty pounds of stuff in it. I’m used to backpacking, so I’m not having much trouble carrying it, though I do resent being both a doomed captive and a beast of burden. Yet another reason for me to glare at Field’s broad back as he strides up the trail ahead of me, unencumbered by anything other than a walking stick.
    When we set out, I’d wondered how the four of them would do hiking a trail. I sort of hoped that they’d be soft and not used to this kind of mountain walking. I imagined them stumbling and falling and getting worn out to the point where Grampa Peter and I could slip away from them.
    No such luck. The four of them seem to be experienced hikers, and even Louise changed into well-worn hiking boots before we startedon our trek. I guess they have all gotten toughened up by searching out forbidden mysteries in other parts of the world and gracing other indigenous people like me and Grampa Peter with their friendly presence. From what I’ve overheard, it sounds as if being chosen to be a guide for this group of psycho documentarians is like being invited for a swim in a shark tank. For example, one of the cliff faces we just passed reminded Louise of “the one that Quechua guy in Peru fell off when we were filming ‘Lost City of Gold.’”
    How have they gotten away with it? I suppose I don’t have to ask that question, do I? These days the world is full of remote and dangerous places where law and order don’t mean much if you are a poor, uneducated peasant. No one pays attention when one more peon meets with an unfortunate accident. Especially if the people that peasant was working for are famous and wealthy westerners.
    So Field and his gang have gotten used to it, I guess. And they think it’ll be just as easy to get rid of us when we are no longer useful to them. They’re wrong about that. They don’t know who my parents are. If anything happens to me, my mother and father won’t rest untilthey’ve tracked down the people responsible for my death.
    Whoa! This thought is not at all comforting. I’m already writing my own obituary. I look over at Grampa Peter, who is trudging along with his head down. He looked so old and frail before that they didn’t even try to put one of the packs on his back. Field didn’t want to take a chance on Grampa Peter giving out before he had showed them the way to go. So he is pretty much being left alone, aside from Field coming back to ask him at each turn in the trail which way to go and Grampa Peter lifting up his shaking, infirm, taped-together hands to point out the right direction.
    I’ve heard about stress making people grow old overnight. About people’s hair turning white from fright. Stuff like that. But I never thought I would see that in my own grandfather, who has always been as tough and resilient as an old cedar tree. Is it possible that he might be faking it?
    There’s a big rock across the trail. We can’t go around it, because the brush is thick here on both sides. Grampa Peter is having a hard time getting up over the boulder. If my hands were not still taped together, too, I’d reach outmy arm to help him. Instead I lean my shoulder against him as a support. His foot skids on the rock and falls back against me, both of us stumbling partway off the trail into the brush. The scent of crushed cedar needles fills my nostrils, and then the smoky leather scent that always clings to my grandfather. He’s landed right on top of me. I find myself looking up into his smiling face. Then I feel his hands pressing against mine. He whispers a word into my ear.

    Stazi, who has been bringing up the rear of our little party, wades into the brush to pull us out. First Grampa Peter, who seems so shaken by his fall that he grabs holds of Stazi’s shirt and has to be pried off. Then he has to sit down,