the tree was covered with large white splinters. The big black and white woodpecker slowly fluttered to the tree. Instead of hammering at the tree or sending a call, the red crested bird turned his head and watched me drift past. The hammering didn't start till I was out of sight.
“That was interesting,” said a soft voice from the shore. I jerked so fast I nearly tipped the canoe.
“Ben! I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me.” I nosed the canoe into the bank. My uncle pulled his old scarred canoe out from behind some brush and we paddled off in silence. He led me off the river up a small stream. The stream cut its way through a floating bog. Every year the channel through the bog would change, as the floating vegetation would drift to new locations. Finally we came to a section of land that looked like all the rest of the bog, but instead of being just a few inches of dirt and roots floating on water it was a bar of sand and rock. Ben's shack lay just behind a screen of brush a couple of dozen feet from the stream.
My uncle never talked till after the supplies were unloaded and stored away. One of the first things he did was open a can of coffee. He set it brewing in a pot on the old rusty barrel stove he had in the shack. When we finished, he poured me a cup of the scalding hot brew. I had the only cup in the place. Ben poured his own coffee in an old Campbell's soup can. I couldn't help but notice he had a whole rabbit, fur and all, simmering in a pot next to the coffee. I knew I wouldn't be staying for supper.
As we drank, I felt eyes upon me. I started to search the shack. I found the watching eyes. In the corner under an old wood crate, a mouse sat watching me. His little paws groomed his whiskers. His eyes never left my face.
A whisper came from my uncle. “You know, Dan. It was my third time as point man before they started watching me.'
“Point Man?'
“When our squad went on patrol, there had to be a man out front. He was the eyes of the squad. If the point man wasn't good, he would get either himself or the squad killed. He had to see the enemy before they saw him. He had to evade the booby traps and mark them for the rest of the squad to avoid.
“The first time I worked the point I nearly got everyone killed in an ambush, but I learned. I liked the point. It was just me and the jungle. It was my third time at point. I was maybe a hundred meters ahead of the rest of the squad. I noticed that the birds had stopped making a ruckus when I walked past. They would watch me pass. Later when the squad followed, they complained but with me they just watched.
“It happened during my second tour ... During that patrol, I walked out of the jungle and started across a rice paddy. I felt eyes. The eyes came from my left. I turned and looked back at the edge of the jungle. Finally, I saw the eyes. A VC sniper was watching the paddy. I locked onto his eyes. We must have stared at each other for ten minutes. I could hear the squad coming out of the jungle behind me. The sniper just backed away into the trees.
“The only one of the squad who ever learned about the watching was the sergeant. He was a Nisei from San Francisco. He saw the birds watching me at point halfway through my last tour. He called the birds, Yosei, Japanese fairies. I still remember him whispering, “ Don't tell the rest ofthe squad.” A mortar round got the sarge a week later. Blew him in half.'
Old Ben took another swallow of coffee. That was the longest he had ever spoken to me at one time. He looked so sad sipping the coffee. The mouse still watched.
Ben got up and rummaged around under the pile of old clothes and tree boughs he called his bed. I always considered it more of a nest than a bed. He came back with a leather sheathed knife. He handed it to me. “This is your Great Grandfather Ilmari's puukko. He brought it with him when he emigrated from Finland. He gave it to me when I was ten. He said that I would need to know how to use a knife. He was right... '
He drank another swallow of coffee. I could see the pain of old memories in his face. With eyes filled with sadness, he said, “It is yours now.'
The old leather sheath was scuffed and blackened with age. The varnish on the wood hilt was worn off in places. I pulled the knife from the sheath. In my hand the old knife felt lighter than the knives I had in my kitchen although the blade was nearly twice as thick. The clip blade was a dark rippled gray—the color high-grade hand- forged carbon steel fades to with age. The edge was honed bright. I turned the blade up. The sharpened edge disappeared. I knew if I just touched the blade with my thumb blood would flow. I turned.
The mouse still watched.
Chapter 2
Waiting
The Chameleon had decided on a community. As far as he could tell, it was the richest and strongest in the whole area. His next decision would be where to infiltrate. The economic heart had a large turnover of individuals. A new face would easily be lost in the crowds. But the economic center also had greater security. The outlying area had less new people moving in but also much less security. Where would be the best place to infiltrate?
Females seemed to have nearly as much access to sensitive materials with less security questions. Males had the most access. Gays were in the minority but would they have the benefit of both the sexes? Which would help the group the most, greater access or less questions?
The Chameleon had time. He waited and watched.
* * * *
When I got home, Move-over was on the computer again. I could feel his eyes on my back as I proofread portions of a college algebra textbook. For some reason, I couldn't concentrate on the reading. I kept remembering back to when I was little. It was summer. I recalled seeing a Disney type Davy Crockett movie or show; I don't remember which. In the show, Davy was in some contest where he threw a knife and an axe at a target. I had an old pocketknife and was trying to throw it at a tree. Dad came up to me.
“Son. You are using the wrong kind of knife for throwing.'
He went into the house and came back with an old straight-backed paring knife. We threw the knife for what seemed like hours. He stuck it in the tree every time he threw. At the end, I got it to stick in the tree three times in a row. I vaguely remember keeping up the practice for the rest of the summer but I could only clearly remember that first time with Dad. It was one of the few times we were alone and not arguing.
I got the puukko. In the backyard, the stump of the tree I used for practice so many years ago stood by the foundations of the old burned barn. The first throw—the knife bounced off the stump. The second stuck. I threw again and again. The blade was starting to sink a half-inch into the wood, three quarters, a full inch.
I suddenly felt eyes. I turned and looked. A crow sat on a fence post his black eye watching. The crow had only one good eye; the other was frosted over. I yelled. He didn't budge but two more crows flew in to join him on the fence line. I notice my arm was sore and I was drenched in sweat. I went inside wondering about Ben, the knife and those watching animals.
As I was making supper, Move-over showed up. For the first time in days, eyes watching me did not
give me the willies. Move-over always watched me whenever food was involved. The only movement out of the cat as he watched was the twitching of his tail. It started to snap back and forth when I dished out the food on my plate. As I sat down to eat, the cat gave a mournful yowl. When I didn't acknowledge him, he climbed up on my lap and went to sleep. For some reason, cats feel that they can absorb food directly from someone's stomach if they are lying on it during eating. I don't know. They may be right. With Move-over on my lap, I never feel quite as full after a meal.
The familiarity of the animal's actions had finally permitted me to forget about being watched. I was able to finish my work for the week with only the continual problem of Net accessing on my Internet computer.
* * * *
Tabitha loved her morning runs. The autumn and spring air was the best. She liked running at home better than when she was at college. The air at school had a tinge of automobile fumes, which clogged her sinuses and at times made her eyes water. This was her fifth year at school trying to get a four-year college degree. Two things were keeping her in school for so long. Her track scholarship was forcing her to keep her spring and fall classes light. Also, the recent budget cuts required that some courses were offered every other year. Even some full-time students had to work five and six years for a standard four-year degree.
