Samirah's Ride
Page 7
It was a nightmarish ride through a world of nightmare. Blazing tree limbs tumbled down the mountain, and the grass and flowers of the meadow were scorched black with flame. Soon my nostrils, throat, and lungs were aching terribly. The air itself was almost too hot to breathe. I ran blindly, away from the fire that screamed like a great cat in pursuit. The sound filled my ears as the smoke and heat choked my nostrils and burned my eyes. Jasper’s face was buried in my mane, her arms clutched around my neck. Together we ran through the inferno.
Worse than the fire was the smoke. Worse than the smoke was the wind. For the wind controlled everything—where the smoke and fire went, where we went. I ran toward the cleanest air—but when the wind shifted, we were buffeted in a searing current, enveloped in thick, choking clouds. And then it would change course again, and I could breathe freely and see clearly, at least for a moment. I ran my fastest then, scarcely aware of the ground beneath me, my muscles straining to propel us forward and away.
I don’t know how long I ran from the smoke. I don’t know how long it took for the first rays of morning to penetrate the orange clouds rising from the mountain we had left behind. But eventually the air was clean enough for me to register other things: the emergence of an unfamiliar landscape, the feel of rock and slope under my hooves. I was exhausted, my body drenched with sweat, my limbs throbbing painfully. On my back, Jasper seemed stuck to me like a burr: She had hardly changed position since our flight began.
I was just beginning to slow my pace, to try to get my bearings, when it happened. The ground disappeared under my front hooves, and for a terrible moment my forelegs scrabbled in space. Then I was falling, and Jasper was falling with me.
My hooves hit dirt, not rock, and to stop my momentum I tried to collapse my body backward, to fold up my hind legs and skid, anything to not flip over my forelegs and somersault. I managed it—barely—but it was not enough to save Jasper. I felt her weight leave my back as her body tumbled headfirst over my neck and into the canyon below.
. . .
I lay on my belly, trembling, waiting for more light. I needed every sense at its keenest to determine what to do. And I wasn’t sure if I could stand up yet.
It seemed a long time before full dawn, the sun’s rays obscured by the smoke billowing in the east. It was a murky sunrise, but the sky directly above was clear and clean; in fact, the fire seemed very far away from this strange red valley. I could see rock outcrops all around me, interspersed with gravelly, dry soil forming trails downward. I stretched out my forelegs, testing the loose dirt about me. I had landed on a sort of ledge, not very large, but large enough to have given me room to stop myself. Slowly, and with a groan, I rose up on weak legs and gave my body a shake. Everything hurt: my chest, my throat, my nostrils, my legs, my shoulders. But I could stand up and I could walk. I took a tentative step forward and peered over the lip of the ledge that held me.
The valley was a breathtaking sight. Red rock, green brush, brown earth spilled down to a sandbar, dotted with grasses, which abutted a wide, flowing, clear river. On its far side, red cliffs rose dramatically skyward, and I dared not think what our fate would have been had we fallen there. But this side of the river had a gentler incline, and it was obviously used as a water trail for many animals. I smelled goats and elk, and older hints of cattle and horses. This was a place Jasper and I would have loved to discover together, under different circumstances. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought we were somewhere in the embrace of the beyond mountains.
I started down the trail, picking my way forward with great care. With every step, I peered around me and sniffed the air for Jasper. My nostrils still burned, but not as badly, and my eyes had stopped watering. I wanted very much to get to the river and to drink, but I wanted even more to find my companion. Where was she? Why hadn’t she come back for me? I was used to Jasper falling off, and she always got right back on. Had she lost her way?
And then I heard a noise, the low moan of an animal in pain. It seemed to come from several yards to the right of the trail, and below, on the far side of a group of rocks. I decided to go farther along the trail, then double back. It would be easier to see what it was from below.
First I saw a boot, then a bare foot. A leg in a tattered pair of jeans. Movement: a hand clawing at rock. A flash of red hair: Jasper!
I bounded stiffly toward her and she let out a glad, hoarse cry. She reached toward me, then cried out again, in pain.
I had found Jasper. But Jasper couldn’t move.
CHAPTER 8
The day we pushed on our steeds homeward the way
they had gone,
with hoofs chipped, jaded and worn by onset again and again;
And the galloping steeds came home with streaks of blood on
their breasts. . . .
“Oh, Sami! you’re all right! you’re all right!” Tears streamed down Jasper’s sooty face, leaving blurred trails. My heart bounded up at the sound of her voice, and my eyes drank her in. My companion. We were together again.
“Sami, I need water. And we’ve got to go home. What if the fire—what if Cold Creek . . .” She started coughing and half-crying again. Then she spit onto the rocks, cleared her throat, spit again, and wiped her face off with her shirt.
“I think I hit my head pretty hard,” she said. Her voice was raspy, harsher than normal. “I don’t remember what happened after I fell. But my arm doesn’t seem to be working all that great.” She tried to raise her left arm and grimaced.
“Stay right there, Sami,” she told me. “I’ve got to figure this out.” Of course I wasn’t going anywhere. I just wished there was some way I could help her.
I watched as Jasper, with difficulty, hoisted herself into an upright, sitting position. Then with one hand, she unbuttoned her outer shirt and pulled it free from her arms. Gingerly, she crooked her left elbow and pinned it to her side, like a bird with a broken wing, then wrapped the shirt around her elbow and forearm and tied its sleeves around her neck. It was awkward and took her a long time. When she was done, she closed her eyes and rested a little.
Next Jasper attempted to stand. She tried leaning forward and pushing up on her good hand, but that didn’t work. She tried pushing with her legs only, backing up the rock, but that, too, was a failure. I was beginning to get seriously worried when finally she found a handhold in the rock behind her and half-pushed, half-dragged herself onto her feet. She yelped, favoring one foot. Something had gone wrong there, too. At least she was up. With foals, that was the essential thing, and I suspected it was the same for humans. I remembered vaguely what it felt like to try to manage my own unruly limbs, in my first attempt to stand after birth. But I hadn’t been injured like Jasper. I thought she had done very well indeed. I suddenly felt intensely proud that she was mine.
Now came the part I could help with. Jasper hobbled over to retrieve her backpack, snagged in the brambles of a bush. She slung it over her good arm, then made her way slowly to my side. It was so good to feel her hands, to feel her weight leaning against my shoulder. She wrapped her arm around my neck and held me close for a long moment. It was also very nice when she found another carrot in her backpack and we shared it. Then, her right hand on my mane for support, Jasper and I limped down to the river.
. . .
Never had water tasted so delicious as that unknown bend of the river. Jasper and I drank and drank, then she started pouring handfuls of water over my face, my back, my poll. My coat felt filthy, itchy, and smelly with smoke. I appreciated Jasper’s efforts, but I needed a real rinse. I sank to my knees, and Jasper shuffled out of the way, laughing, as I lay on my side with a grateful sigh and let the river’s light current run over my body.
I hadn’t thought that I was very damaged from the fire, except for soreness and the lingering irritation from the smoke, until Jasper gave a gasp as I shook the river water from my coat.
“Sami, your tail!”
I flicked it and immediately felt what she saw.
It only barely reached my hindquarters, even with a good swish. This was going to be seriously annoying. I doubted that the fly spray had made it with us on our flight.
“I hope it grows back,” Jasper said, running her fingers through my now quite undignified, frizzled hair. So did I. An Arabian’s tail should be a long, sweeping flag, streaming out behind us as we run, like light trailing a comet. (In addition to serving many practical purposes, of course.) True, I’d known a few grays and chestnuts in my mother’s herd who had rather thin, wispy excuses for tails—but I did not want to join their ranks.
Jasper then proceeded to check every inch of me, running her hand down my legs, picking up my hooves, and inspecting me minutely for cuts and scrapes. There were a few, but they were small. I hadn’t been burned, except for my tail, and neither had she, that I could tell. We shared another carrot, and I got a mouthful of grass from the banks, but there wasn’t much. It was time to start home. The question was, Which direction? I didn’t know if Jasper had any ideas on the subject, but I myself had only a vague sensation that east must be the answer, and that the river headed east. Jasper had washed her face and soaked her head in the river, and now she was attempting to get her hair into a ponytail single-handed. She managed a kind of snarled knob on the back of her head, then limped over to where I was grazing.
“So, which way, Sami? Which way should we go?” She looked to the sky, and up the trail we had just come down.
I started walking forward, along the riverbank. She grabbed hold of my mane again and followed.
“Whatever you say, girl,” she told me.
. . .
It didn’t take us very long to realize that if we wanted to get anywhere quickly, it wasn’t going to be with Jasper walking. She had lost a boot, but more than that, one of her legs was injured, and it quickly proved too weak to hold much weight over a distance. Her face was white though sweat streamed down her forehead, and then she stumbled badly, falling on her knees in the water. The solution was obvious to me, but Jasper seemed completely overwhelmed by what I did. I simply got down on my knees next to her, so she could easily get on my back. It was a trick I had learned years ago, in one of our fancy riding games.
“Sami?” My companion looked at me with wonder in her eyes.
Come on! I thought.
“There has never been anyone like you, Sami,” she said in a quiet voice, stroking my muzzle. “You’ve saved me twice.” And finally she managed to swing her bad leg over my back, picked up the reins, and I rose to my feet.
At first, the river was an ideal trail to follow, wide and placid, with enough vegetation on the banks for me to nibble periodically, and of course plenty of water for both of us. But I began to sense that it was turning, and in the wrong direction. It was also narrowing, and the banks to our right steepened, becoming rockier and even sheer in places, like the red cliffs on the opposite shore. I slowed my pace and looked ahead, sniffing the wind. I pawed one hoof indecisively, then turned and headed back downstream, searching for a trail. Jasper didn’t question me. Her hands were slack on the reins and she was very quiet; so quiet and slumped in her seat that it worried me. Finally I picked out a path among the rocks, steeper than the one we came down, but not, I thought, impossible.
I needed every bit of my surefootedness during that climb, and every bit of my wits to determine where to place my hooves, which rocks would hold weight, which direction of a forking trail to follow. Slowly, my flanks heaving with effort, I pulled us from one part of the cliff to another. Jasper kept her weight forward, her hands wrapped tightly in my mane, and she did her best to follow my movements as I scrambled up loose, graveled dirt and fought for footing among the crags. At times I had to practically jump straight up, and my hind legs shook badly. Foam lathered at the corners of my mouth, and my labored breathing was loud and rough. Jasper’s weight—well, of course it was fine. But awkward. And heavy to carry at such an angle. But I was strong, I was agile. I was Sami, Arabian mare. Climber of cliffs. I outran fire.
Still, I was more winded than I’ve ever been when we finally reached the top. Jasper started to swing her leg over, knowing how tired I was, but I just kept walking. We would need water, and we’d find it faster with Jasper aboard. My breathing was rapid and shallow, and my heart pounded like thunder. But I had more than enough left inside to keep going. In fact, I felt better with every step. I flicked my miserable stump of a tail and pricked my ears again. Time to look about me.
It was an unfamiliar landscape. Our westward run had taken us into a red, dusty, rocky scrubland. No wonder the fire hadn’t reached here: There was nothing to burn. I decided to continue east and let the river catch up to us. I was almost certain it was our river, but there was no point in following all of its twists and turns if they took us out of the way of the direct route home. At least, what I hoped was the direct route.
The sun beat down and the air shimmered with heat. Like Jasper, I had lost a shoe somewhere in the cliffs, and a number of small rocks were wedged in my hooves. An eagle screamed from in the canyon below, leaving an echo behind. The silence seemed even larger afterward. I walked on.
“Let’s find water.” Jasper’s voice was a faint rasp behind me. “I’m not feeling great, Sami. All I’ve got in this damn backpack is carrots and clothes. And a flashlight. That’s helpful.” It sounded as if she were trying to laugh, but I wasn’t sure.
Yes, water. I needed it, too. Not urgently, but soon. I walked on. And on.
. . .
The sun cast long shadows before us when I finally found a place to rest, a muddy stream purling down the mountainside to the river below. It wasn’t lush and clear and flower filled as our streams and their banks were, but there was shade from a lone cottonwood tree and I could find things to eat on the slope.
Jasper didn’t so much dismount as fall off my back, hitting her bad leg and crumpling to the ground with a groan. I nuzzled her hair and neck and nickered to her. She dragged herself over to the stream and we both plunged our heads in.
“Dad’s going to kill me for drinking all this untreated water,” Jasper said, and she gave the sort-of laugh again. “Okay, Sami, let’s get you fixed up.” It seemed to me that Jasper needed a lot more fixing up than I did, but I was grateful when she gave me carrots from the bag. Then she half-dragged, half-scooted herself over to the cottonwood, located a stick, and scooted back to me, until she was practically under my belly.
“You’ve never kicked me in your life, girl. Don’t start now.”
And Jasper raised my right foreleg, rested my hoof on her good knee, and went to work one-handed on the rocks in my hooves. It took her a long time to do all four, and she was exhausted afterward. I nibbled at her hair and chewed a bit on her shirt, which made her laugh. It was all I could do in return. My companion crawled over to the base of the tree and collapsed on her back, just managing to pull her pack over as a headrest before she was asleep.
I kept vigil by her side. I watched the evening star rise. I watched over Jasper in the dark, under the meadow of stars.
. . .
We were woken by the sound of coyote, keening to the summer moon. It was a weird, lonesome noise, and I shifted my weight restlessly. Jasper struggled to sit up, rubbing her eyes.
“Sami?” she croaked.
I snorted to let her know I was near. She was soon unconscious again, but for the rest of the night her sleep was disturbed. She cried out, sometimes for her mother and father, sometimes for me. Her scent was heavy with sweat, and with something else—illness. Fever.
Morning came, and still Jasper lay under the tree, her eyes closed and her small face startlingly pale under its freckles. A terrible fear gripped me. What if she did not wake?
I nudged Jasper’s neck with my muzzle and breathed over her face. I nudged her harder and she groaned.
Jasper. I stared at her, concentrating, then lipped her hair. Wake up, Jasper. We have to go home. She seemed to whisper something, but her eyes did not open.
I myself was not in peak form, but I had discovered another horse within me. No, not another horse, but a deeper level within my blood, a reservoir I had never called on before, so I hadn’t known existed. As I walked slowly between the beyond mountain and the red canyonland, I thought of my ancestors’ treks through desert sands, through the fields of battle, through sandstorm, rainstorm, drought. I was one more Arabian mare, fortune bound in my forelock, trekking through history.
. . .
Scorched grass. Blackened trees, twisted like cruel whips against the lowering sky. It looked like rain, and this burnt earth cried out for it. We had made it back to the fire-struck land, and it was a fearful sight. Smoke lingered on the mountainside, a bitter fog that set my nostrils tingling again. The ground was still hot in places, and I picked my way forward with great care. I was tiring, but I had to go on. Black earth, wisps of smoke, then a faint smell of rain. A rumble above, in the heavy clouds. I was tired, very tired. I felt the first drops of rain hit my coat, and then a few more. Jasper didn’t stir. She had slid down so her arms were wrapped around my neck, her head resting against my shoulder. Her legs dangled from my sides, and I knew that a false step could unseat her. Slowly, I placed one hoof, then another, then another . . . blind to all except the feeling of east, of home. My head bowed as the rain came down and the charred trees and the brown smoke disappeared in floods of water that tumbled down on our backs. Water streamed into my eyes, my nostrils. My head sank lower and I stared at the ground before me. One hoof, then another, then another . . .