The Wild Path

by Sarah R. Baughman

  In the quiet of the forest, Mr. Hamilton closes his eyes. I take deep breaths of cold fall air, the musty smell of dying maple leaves mixing with the spicy cedars that will keep growing all winter long. Come on, I think. Show us where you are.

  Then I hear a snuffling in the trees behind us, the soft thud of a hoof sinking into dirt. A wisp of black tail disappears around a hemlock.

  “Did you see that?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” Mr. Hamilton says. But he stands up and peers over to where the horse sprang away, and says, “Oh. This is interesting.”

  He holds up a horseshoe, rusted and flaking. It’s so large, much too big for Sunny or Sam. They aren’t draft horses—not like Jack’s were. Not like these wild horses could be.

  Mr. Hamilton gently hands me the horseshoe. “You might want to save that. Who knows how it got here—maybe from a logger, a long time ago.”

  “Or maybe it’s from Jack’s horses,” I say. “Maybe it got buried here when they escaped.”

  Mr. Hamilton smiles. “Your imagination’s about as impressive as Dad’s.”

  “If we just wait a little longer, we’ll see the horses again,” I say. “They always come back.”

  Minutes pass. Two more times I swear I see a silver-dappled leg or back moving through the trees, and twice Mr. Hamilton says, “Maybe. Maybe you’re right.”

  Then it’s getting colder, and I know it’s time to go. “Thanks for coming with me, Mr. Hamilton,” I say. I can’t hide my disappointment, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Claire,” he says. “It’s true that I don’t know what I saw. But that also means I’m not sure I didn’t see what you think is there. Do you know the difference?”

  My throat burns, and I can only nod instead of speaking.

  “It will make even more sense as you get older,” Mr. Hamilton says. “There will be so many situations you’re not quite sure of. Eventually you realize that uncertainty is just part of the deal. And you do the best you can.”

  We leave the woods in silence, the horseshoe dangling from my fingers.

  After Mr. Hamilton drives away, I tell Mom and Dad I’m going back to the barn to finish up with a few chores.

  But that’s not the whole truth.

  Mr. Hamilton said it was hard to be sure about everything in life, but if I can get a closer look at the ring of stones by the lake, I can figure out if it is what I think it is: the opening to a tunnel. I think Jack was right—the items from the box came from Pine Lake. And the horses did fall through Cedar Lake. They just found their way from one to the other, and a tunnel would explain how. I saddle Sam quickly.

  As we head into the woods, I take a deep breath, letting the cold, clean smells of late fall fill my nose. The sunlight’s fading, though, the sky overhead the color of a bruise. I don’t have much time.

  Sam almost seems used to the dappled horses now. As they curl through the tree trunks, their hoofprints landing softly, he just nods and snuffles. And they seem to know exactly where we need to go, because they stay a few steps ahead, pressing up the path until we reach the woods and the border with state land that leads to the lake.

  A text pings, and I pull out my phone. It’s Mom.

  Where are you?

  Oh no. I never texted to tell her I was heading out.

  Finishing up chores.

  Hopefully Mom isn’t out at the barn to catch me in a lie.

  OK. But come back soon. It’s getting dark.

  Whew. She must still be at the house. But still, this is risky.

  Sam and I pick our way past branches until we reach a small clearing, just before the trees thicken and cluster close to the water. I don’t have time or light to figure out the best route with him, so I pull a halter over Sam’s head and loop the lead rope I brought around a sturdy low-hanging branch. It’s important not to tie it tight—even with calm, steady Sam, I wouldn’t risk having him startle and pull himself into a trap. Horses have died that way.

  “Stay here, buddy,” I whisper. It’s getting darker. I look past my shoulder and just barely see the horses waiting in the distance, their sides lifting in and out as they breathe. In the fading light their dappled bodies seem transparent and soft as fog, but solid too. Then I walk toward the lake.

  The ring of stones is still there, stacked and layered, held in place like a black waterfall laced with silver. I edge as close as I can to the water without stepping into it. Now I’m near enough to touch one of the stones, and I do, feeling its cold, smooth surface. I reach one foot out to a strip of sand jutting past the rock and balance on that, my other foot squarely planted on the bank. From there I can peer into the space between the stones, where darkness gathers.

  As I look into it, blinking, my eyes slowly adjust.

  I turn on my phone’s flashlight to be sure, and it’s exactly what I thought. Packed sand lines the bottom, making a path. The top is bound close with the stretching, thickly woven roots of trees. And the sides are covered with stones.

  I can’t tell how far back it goes. I can’t tell where it leads. But if Cedar Lake is at the other end, it’s not hard to imagine weary horses sinking down, then finding a hidden path beyond the frozen water, a way out when everyone thought there couldn’t be.

  It’s not hard to imagine the horses ending up right here.

  Even though the tunnel is set back into the bank, even though it’s masked by trees that bend so close to the water that they freeze into the ice when winter comes, I can’t believe I’ve never seen it. Because looking at it now, some small and secret part of me feels that I’ve always known it was here.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Dinner!” Dad calls from downstairs. I was going to wait to talk with Mom and Dad about my equine therapy plan until I got a response from Andy, but hearing Mr. Hamilton’s words about uncertainty makes me think I should keep going after all. The sooner we get started, the better we’ll all be.

  Dad slides a pan of lasagna out of the oven while Mom fills water glasses. I set plates and napkins on the table while the sparrows inside me cluster and swirl. Once we’ve all sat down and Dad’s sliced big helpings for all of us, I take a deep breath and start.

  “I have an idea.” I cut my fork into melty cheese, watching the silver handle catch light from the overhead lamp. “I already wrote Andy about it, but I haven’t heard back.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mom asks. Dad looks up. The air hangs heavy with their waiting.

  Seeing their eyes change as I tell them about Nari and her sister, about equine therapy, and about my plan for Andy and our family feels like watching clouds shift over the mountains. When I’m done, they look at each other, then back at me.

  “Wow,” Mom says. “Honey, that’s”—she looks at Dad again, but he’s leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like he does when he’s thinking hard—“definitely not what I expected you to say. Not at all. I’m shocked actually. But…” She clasps her hands under her chin and looks at me, her forehead all wrinkly like she’s trying to figure me out. “I’m also impressed.”

  Pride pushes the sparrows away and they close their eyes to sleep under its warm glow.

  “Can you tell me a little more about this equine therapy, though?” Mom asks. “I know you said it can help people who are struggling with addiction and other issues. But how, exactly?”

  “Working with animals has been proven to be therapeutic,” I say. “Like, with scientific studies. I’ve done a lot of research on it, for my project.”

  “This is part of your history project too?” Mom asks. “How interesting.”

  “We’re supposed to connect history to the present anyway,” I explain. “And this is something people still use horses for. We could set up a program where people would make regular appointments. We could teach them how to take care of the horses, even the really basic stuff, and then how to ride.”

  “Would these be private appointments?” Mom asks. “Or would people come in groups?”

/>   “I think we could do either one eventually,” I say. “But at first I would want to do private appointments, so people could really develop a relationship with our horses.”

  “You’ve thought this through.” Mom’s eyes gleam.

  But Dad’s looking at me differently, and I can’t quite figure it out. In a way it feels like he’s seeing me as another grown-up. But in another way, it feels like my idea’s on the other side of a window he’s about to slam shut.

  I wish he would say something. But he stays quiet, so I fill the empty space with more words.

  “When people work with horses,” I say, “it helps them see themselves more clearly. It makes them feel better.”

  Mom squeezes my shoulder. “Does it do that for you too?”

  Inside, the sparrows rustle. I’ve never totally explained to my parents how it feels to have them swoop inside the way I explained it to Mr. Hamilton.

  “When I’m nervous about something, it always goes away when I’m with Sunny and Sam,” I say. Maybe that’s enough for now.

  “Sometimes making a leap isn’t such a bad idea,” Dad says, clearing his throat. “The job market hasn’t exactly been promising.” He keeps his voice soft, puts his hand on Mom’s.

  “So are you guys saying yes? We could keep Sunny and Sam, and open the business, and—”

  A smile tugs at Mom’s lips, but Dad shakes his head and looks at her. When he speaks, his voice has that harder edge I heard in the truck.

  “Not necessarily,” he says. “We need to think logically about how wise it would be to involve Andy in a business plan like this. June, you couldn’t do all the management and accounting, plus all the training. Andy would need to be a pretty big piece of this puzzle.”

  “But that’s the point,” I say. “I know he would want to. He could help a lot.”

  Dad sighs. “Andy hasn’t been exactly—reliable. Not lately.”

  But I don’t want them to start talking about why Andy could make things harder. I want to picture him reading my letter and pushing his baseball cap back on his head and scratching behind his ears and writing me back to say I’m in, Little C.

  We should be talking about details.

  “There’d be other startup costs too, and then ongoing ones,” Mom says. “I’m sure there’d be changes we’d have to make to the ring, supplies we’d need, certification, insurance issues—those all take money.” She doesn’t say that we don’t have. I know it’s what she’s thinking.

  But Mom doesn’t know about the certification program I researched, or the five hundred dollars that would help pay for it if my History Fair presentation is good enough to win. Thinking about how disappointed she’d be to know about the prize money and then to watch me not get it sends the sparrows spinning in circles, so I keep this one little thing to myself.

  Still, Mom’s voice is sun-bright and clear. She’s moving her hands while she talks now, and I think for a second she’ll jump out of her seat. “I could really put all those skills from the office to use,” she says. “And what a great cause. What a way to give back, now that Andy’s almost better.”

  Dad looks at her carefully. “June,” he says, “we’ve talked about this specific issue already. It’s not like there’s going to be one moment when Andy’s problems are over.”

  “You’re not thinking of him when you say that,” Mom says, shaking her head. “He isn’t just anybody. He’s Andy!”

  Dad sighs. “We’d be taking a risk.”

  “Oh, George,” Mom says, shaking her head. “You don’t need to be so cynical about that. He’s our son.”

  “It’s not cynicism. It’s realism.” Dad takes a bite of lasagna, chews, swallows. Puts his fork down. He’s using his teacher voice, which is calm but firm, smooth as stone. “It’s like you’re forgetting—” But then he stops as Mom whips her head around, her eyes burning, her mouth frozen.

  I wait for him to finish the sentence. Forgetting what?

  But nobody says anything. Mom shakes her head, Dad says, “Never mind,” and they both go back to chewing lasagna like nothing happened at all.

  In school on Monday, Maya has her Edna Beard notes perfectly arranged: graphic organizers printed, annotated articles cataloged in a binder with tabs marking dates and topics, plus labeled folders in her Google Drive with pages full of notes and a working bibliography. But she’s been staring out the window a lot today, and I’ve seen Ms. Larkin’s eyes dart toward her.

  “Hey,” I say. “Do you want to come over later?”

  Maya shifts her eyes from the binder to me. “I don’t know if I can.”

  That doesn’t make sense. Maya’s parents would let her—they always do. I keep trying. “I’ll come to your house, then.”

  “Don’t you have your support group meeting tonight?” Maya twists her hands in her lap.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But that’s like, way later. My parents can pick me up in time.”

  “Um, okay,” she says, which is the weirdest thing. Maya’s usually a lot more excited to hang out.

  But Ms. Larkin’s already at our table, so I’ll have to put off figuring out what’s going on with Maya.

  “There’s a ton of information.” I pull up my Google Drive and show her the folder marked Article Notes. “And it turns out some of the ways people used to use horses can still be helpful now. For example, logging with horses can be better for the forests, because horses have less impact on the trees. That means they don’t destroy the woods as much as machines do.”

  “Wow, Claire,” Ms. Larkin says. “You’ve done a lot of work since we last checked in. Are you focusing your connection to the present on how people can still use horses the way they used to?”

  “Actually, I’m looking at both: how people can use horses in ways that are similar to the past, and also how people use them for new jobs,” I say. “Like equine therapy. It works in lots of situations, for people who have physical disabilities or problems like depression. It’s something a machine can’t ever do.”

  “I’ve heard of equine therapy,” Ms. Larkin says. “It’s very relevant. Was Mr. Hamilton helpful at all, as a primary source?”

  “Yes,” I say quietly. “He was really helpful.” And not just in the ways you’d expect, I think.

  Ms. Larkin moves over to Maya, who opens her binder and points to a few new notes, but as she explains her latest research, I notice her words aren’t tumbling and tripping over each other like they usually do. I hear the murmurs of Ms. Larkin’s gentle questions and Maya’s mechanical responses—I even see her shrug at one point, which is definitely not Maya. Maya would never shrug about Edna Beard. As she stands up, Ms. Larkin places a hand on Maya’s shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says as she moves on to the next table.

  CHAPTER 18

  At Maya’s house, familiar, comforting smells of chile and cumin waft from the kitchen. Ms. Gonzalez is already home, which seems strange. She’s a nurse and usually has to work late on Mondays.

  “Hola, nena.” Ms. Gonzalez wraps her arms around Maya. “Claire, it’s good to see you.” She hugs me next, gripping tight. Ms. Gonzalez always gives the best hugs, warm and strong and lasting just long enough to convince you everything will be okay. “I just pulled out a pan of enchiladas. Thought it would be good to have dinner all set before our doctor’s appointment.”

  “How’s Papi?” Maya asks.

  “Resting in his office,” Ms. Gonzalez says. “But you can go see him for sure.” She checks her watch. “We just have to leave for the appointment in about fifteen minutes.”

  That explains why she’s home so early.

  Maya starts toward the office, but I stand still, not sure if I should follow.

  “Come on,” Maya says.

  Slowly, she pushes the door open. “Papi?”

  The room is dark and cool. Mr. Gonzalez loves plants, and he keeps pots of them on nearly every surface. But today’s late-afternoon light can’t push through the pulled-shut blinds
.

  I see him lying on the couch where Maya and I used to bring our dolls and have tea parties. He never seemed to mind us being there. He’d just keep working with headphones on, tuning out our noise but turning to smile at us or give us peppermints every once in a while.

  Now Mr. Gonzalez opens his eyes. “Mija,” he says. “Oh, and Claire! Hello. How nice to see you.” His voice sounds tired, worn.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Mr. Gonzalez.” I want to shake his hand, but I also feel like I should stand outside the bubble that seems to surround him, a bubble that’s fragile enough to burst.

  “How are you feeling, Papi?” Maya asks. She sits on the edge of the couch.

  “You know me.” He gives her a thumbs-up. “Thinking about training for a triathlon, actually. You in?”

  Maya makes a sound that’s sort of like a laugh, but it has something else behind it.

  “Seriously, mija,” he says. “I’m fine.” He pushes up to a sitting position and squeezes Maya around the shoulders. “How’s that project coming?”

  “It’s okay,” Maya says. Her eyes search her dad’s face. “I started designing my slideshow. And I’m making a costume.”

  “Good, good,” Mr. Gonzalez says. He closes his eyes briefly, presses one hand to his forehead. “That’s really good.”

  I see what Maya means. Her dad would usually ask more questions, give tips, or pull up interesting websites on his computer. Now all he can say is “good.” But it’s obvious that he’s trying, that the one word is as much as he can manage.

  “Claire,” he says. “How’s your brother?”

  Maya flinches a little. It’s such a small movement, most people wouldn’t notice, but I do.

  “He likes Starshine,” I say.

  Mr. Gonzalez’s eyes hold mine steady. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But it will be good to have him home. Hopefully soon.”

  He leans back against the couch. “I wish him the best,” he says quietly.