by Linda Benson
“If the horses are lingering near camp, we should go in search of them. Such a large kill would provide plenty of meat. More meat than ten of your goats.”
Conversation in the dining hall dwindled down to a whisper, as all eyes focused on the two young men.
“Hunting horses is a fool’s game. A waste of energy,” Evan said.
Dojo walked up and down in front of Evan, as if sizing him up. “That is just one man’s opinion,” he said. “The opinion of a goat herder.”
Evan shrugged.
“We are all responsible for the welfare of this group,” said Dojo roughly. “For providing meat and food. If you have seen any horses you must tell us. It is your duty.”
Evan’s response came quickly. “I owe you no duty.”
The words seemed harsh against such a festive atmosphere. Dojo held his spear tightly, maintaining a piercing gaze at Evan. The crowd grew totally silent, waiting for the outcome of this standoff.
Sahara stood transfixed, watching the two, wondering how the talk of horses could have turned so ugly so quickly.
Evan held Dojo’s stare, speaking not a word. Finally he opened his hands wide. “Who knows where the horses go?” he said, grinning broadly. “They go the way of the wind.”
As if to make a point, the wind itself suddenly billowed down the long table, upsetting dishes and flopping tent-flaps open. People jumped up, wildly grabbing food and plates, and laughter returned to the crowd. Dojo slunk off, hunching his shoulders and ducking quickly out the door.
The way of the wind, Sahara thought. What did Evan know about horses?
Chapter Seven
“Shh, darling. Shh, baby.” I make myself small and creep slowly forward. “Shh — don’t be scared.” The young thing trembles and struggles against the rocks trapping its leg. Its coat soft and fuzzy with baby hair, hooves and legs delicately formed, I sense the sheer energy inside. Mother calls frantically, pacing a circle nearby. They are marked alike, solid black with white streaked down the face. I crawl the last few feet, whispering “hush, now.” The baby calms as I touch it, trembling under my hand. The rock is heavy and won’t budge. I stand and push with all my strength. When finally it moves, baby jumps up, whinnies, runs to mother’s side with a slight limp. I rise to see them crest the hill, the young one bobbling with a jagged stride, trying to catch up with the herd. Its downy coat still tingles against my palm.
Sahara woke with her arms wrapped protectively around Banner. The sky was just beginning to lighten. She immediately rose and scanned the horizon. But there were no horses, only smoke from the fires at the Gardener’s Camp. She looked at her arms, her palms. She could still feel the baby horse’s fear, feel it calm as she soothed it with voice and touch. She had touched it.
She dressed and found Grandfather warming himself by the fire. His body frail and hunched, he seemed older every day. Bringing him tea in a chipped cup, she sat close.
“Grandfather, I’ve been dreaming.”
“Yes, we’ve established that you are the dreamer in this family,” he said, his droopy eyes twinkling. “At least according to your sister.”
“No, I mean dreaming about serious things,” she said, unwilling to joke. “Things…I have no knowledge of.” Sahara drew a breath. A thousand questions floated in her head like butterflies. How to ask him?
“Go on.”
Sahara raced through her mind, finally capturing the most important question: “What do you know about horses?”
“Horses?” He thought for a moment. “They were quite a sight the other day, weren’t they? Gorgeous creatures, with their manes floating in the wind, feet stirring up the dust. It’s been years since we’ve seen them. Not enough grass for them, I suppose.”
“Have you ever known one — up close?” Sahara continued. “Or touched one?”
“No, child. I’ve seen them only a few times in my life, and only from a distance.”
“I dreamed of them, just now, before I woke,” she said. “I dreamed a baby horse was caught, his feet trapped. It struggled, and I moved the heavy rock holding him.” She looked at her palm. “I can still feel his soft coat on my hand.”
“Often we dream of things still stirring around in our minds,” said Grandfather. “Were those on the trail the first you had seen? They made quite an impression.”
Sahara shook her head. It was important that he understood. “No, not my first,” she said. “It was the first time I’ve seen real horses. But I’ve been seeing them over and over in my dreams for many months now.” She stooped to the fire and spooned warm mash into two bowls. Would Grandfather think she was addle-brained? “I even dream of being astride the fleeing creatures.”
Grandfather did not laugh. He sat quietly, warming his hands on the bowl, as if searching for a memory.
“When I was young,” he said, “just after the Dark Days, a traveler came through our camp. He was a Wanderer — an old man with lots of stories. He came from far behind the mountains to the west and went by a strange name. Cow-Boy, I think it was, but he wasn’t a boy at all. He was tough and grizzled, and had survived the sickness that took so many people.”
Grandfather paused and sipped his tea.
Sahara tried not to fidget. Grandfather took such a long time in his telling.
“He used to talk about riding horses, as if such a thing were possible. People thought the sickness had made him a bit mad, off in the head. It did that to some people, you know.”
“Riding horses?” asked Sahara. “You mean up on their backs?”
Grandfather nodded. “I suppose that’s what he meant. Few people had seen a horse in those times, and most people thought he talked nonsense.”
Sahara blew on the hot mash in her bowl. “Do you think my dreams are nonsense?”
“Not one bit.” Grandfather paused, looking deep into her eyes, as if he were going to tell her something important. “Sahara, I have told you that I think your way with animals is a gift. Maybe your dreams are part of that gift.”
She pondered his words. Dreams. Gift.
Grandfather leaned in close. Sahara could see every line, every wrinkle etched in his ancient face. He held out his bony hand to touch her necklace, the one she wore always. “Perhaps your mother…” he began.
“My mother?” Sahara’s hand went to the silver medallion, also. “She gave me this, didn’t she?”
Grandfather nodded. His eyes crinkled, smiling at the memory. “You used to finger it as a baby, when she wore it around her neck. It’s only fitting that you wear it now.”
“I barely knew our parents,” said Sahara, anxious for any information. “What were they like? I don’t remember her at all.”
“Your father was my son, Roland. A good hunter.” Grandfather cleared his throat, obviously distressed at the memory. “A good…man.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sahara. She never meant to cause Grandfather pain, reflecting on sad memories. But she longed to know more. “And my mother? Was she pretty? Did she like animals?” Maybe that’s who I got my skill with animals from.
“She — ”
But Laurel broke the spell. “There you are,” she huffed. “I’ve been looking all over. They’re going to assign camp chores for us. Come on, hurry.”
Sahara rose quickly, biting her lip. She followed her bossy sister mutely, still mulling Grandfather’s words. What was Grandfather going to say about their mother? And how could her dreams about horses be a gift?
Chapter Eight
SAHARA’S ASSIGNED JOB THE year before had been pulling weeds. She had worked outside amongst the rows of neatly tended vegetables which grew behind the Gardener’s Camp, watered from a string of hand dug canals. Hens with broods of baby chicks pecked bugs from between the plants as she had worked. That was the first time Sahara had noticed Evan, as he bounded quickly over the rows to free a young chick trapped in the jaws of a stealthy barn cat. As he had gently placed the fluffy baby back with its frantic mother, a warm feeling had swept over
Sahara.
What a kind person, she’d thought, to care so much for a tiny creature.
When Sahara was given her job this year, she was pleased to be outside again, caring for the goats and feeding the chickens. She worked in the barnyard every day, near Evan. The goats were kept in a fenced area made of logs stacked tall and tight. Part of her job was to chink the logs with mud. If a goat got a toehold, it would climb right over the fence. The baby goats were separated in the morning, bawling and complaining, while Evan milked their mothers. When he was done he nodded to Sahara, and she released the young ones to nudge and poke their mothers for what was left in the udders. No matter how much milk Evan took, the nannies always seemed to have more left for the babies.
Sahara loved to watch Evan’s nimble fingers prod milk from the goats. “Fanny and Nanny, sweet Biscuit, sweet Triscuit, Marilda, and Tilda, you sweet girls, come here.” His voice, soft and comforting, put the animals at ease. Sahara peeked over her shoulder while she worked, trying to catch sight of him. His sandy-brown hair just touched the collar of his blue work shirt as he leaned his head against the goat’s belly, intent on his work.
Evan was closer in age to Laurel, but her sister took no interest in him. She was too absorbed in practical matters — hunting and fulfilling her duties as head of the household.
But as Sahara listened to Evan sing to the goats, it was hard not to daydream. She was too young to have an actual boyfriend, but there was something about Evan that put her at ease. Maybe he has a gift with animals, also. He certainly is gentle with them.
One morning, Sahara reached to grab for an unruly young buck, but the youngster broke loose and raced back across the pen. Jumping and rowdily butting his mother, he knocked over the jug of milk Evan was trying to fill.
Sahara ran to catch the kid. “Sorry,” she said, the back of her neck tingling with embarrassment. She trapped the young renegade in a corner, but he ducked under her elbow and escaped again, racing madly in circles around the two of them.
Evan laughed heartily. “He’s a wild one, all right.”
“I always have trouble catching this one,” Sahara admitted, crouching down to try to grab him on the next round.
“He’s a fast one, that’s for sure. Runs like a horse.”
Sahara’s eyes widened. “Have you seen horses — watched them run?”
Evan opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. “A time or two.”
Sahara longed to ask more questions. Where? When? But she had learned a trick from watching Grandfather. Sometimes when she thought he was finished talking, he still had more to say. So instead of asking more questions, she kept her mouth closed and listened.
Evan reached out and with a quick flick of the hand caught the errant goat. Walking to the extra pen and carefully shoving the youngster inside, he answered Sahara with a question of his own. “Have you seen horses?”
“Only once in real life,” she said. “When the herd ran in front of us, the day before we arrived.”
Evan nodded, but did not speak. Maybe he knew how to listen, too.
“But it seemed like I’d known them forever.” She hesitated. “I’ve seen them many times at night, in my dreams.”
Evan watched her intently. Grandfather was the only one Sahara had shared her dreams with. But Evan worked with animals every day, and somehow that made Sahara feel comfortable talking about it with him. Maybe he would understand.
“I’ve not only seen them running — I’ve felt them. Under me. I’ve been astride one, felt it thundering beneath me. And I’ve even rescued one.” She drew a breath. Have I said too much? But Grandfather believed me. “I freed a young baby from a rock holding its leg trapped. It panicked and struggled, but I talked to it, quieted it. All in my dreams.”
Evan settled the nanny on her stand. He said nothing as he milked, not even soothing words to the goat.
Oh, why did I talk so much? Prattling on about dreams…Sahara’s face stung, and she felt it turning pink. She wanted desperately to run and hide in her tent, but she was not yet done with her chores. When Evan finished milking, Sahara raced to open the gate that held the kid goats. As they sprinted to find their mothers, she tried to slink away.
“Wait,” called Evan. “Come back. There is something I’d like to show you.”
Sahara hesitated. Show me what? How to chink the fence better? How to catch the fast little goats? Or how to stifle my mouth from rattling on?
But Evan spoke calmly, in the same quiet voice he used to settle the goats. “Come tonight, after supper. Meet me behind the goat shed, just at dusk.”
Unsure what to say, Sahara nodded just once, then escaped on swift feet, like the frightened young horse trying to catch up to its mother.
Chapter Nine
SAHARA SHIFTED FROM SIDE to side on the long bench in the dining hall. Why is supper taking so long? Laurel didn’t seem to notice her impatience, but Grandfather peered at her keenly from under his wrinkled eyelids. As the last dishes were cleared away, Sahara sprung from the table.
“I’m going to look around camp,” she said. Without a glance back, in case someone might voice opposition, she darted out the opening and raced toward the goat pens.
She saw no one at first, except for Ulu, a boy about the same age as Ash, whose job was to clean the animal sheds. In the dying heat of the day, Sahara sought shade at the back of the goat barn. Where is Evan? Maybe he was only teasing? How long should I wait for him? Absently, she ran fingers through the strands of her thick brown hair, combing imaginary tangles.
Finally she recognized Evan’s long strides moving purposefully toward her. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you would,” he said. “Let’s go.” And without another word, he turned and strode away from camp.
Sahara quickstepped to keep up, following mutely. Where are we going, and why is he being so secretive about it? Clambering up a steep cliff just to the south of the camp, she cast a glance upward. As they climbed further, she noticed they approached a small dwelling, imperceptible from below.
The hovel set hard against the rocky hillside. No topsoil here and nothing grew. The rest of the Gardener’s camp spread out dreamily below them, fecund and rich with the smell of growing things.
A few pale strands of light lingered to the west. Evening approached rapidly, and Sahara almost lost her footing on the rocky shale. Evan grabbed her elbow and pointed.
“Not much further.”
Sahara looked back over her shoulder. The camp below dissolved into the twinkling lights of the campfires.
Ahead, someone pushed open an ancient door and spoke into the darkness. “Who’s there?”
Sahara shivered.
“It’s me, auntie.” Evan didn’t sound scared.
“You and who else?” The voice was rusty like the hinge of the door. Sahara could just make out a bent figure standing cautiously in the doorway.
“A friend.” Evan nodded his head toward Sahara.
“Hmmmph.” With a guttural noise, the thin figure disappeared into the dark dwelling.
Sahara hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Evan took her hand, tugging slightly. Her fingers trembled at his touch, and she tried not to blush.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s fine. My aunt is older than the hills, and hardly anyone visits her.” He ducked through the doorway, pulling her along behind.
It took a moment for Sahara’s eyes to adjust. A musty smell prevailed, even over the aroma of stew from the pot bubbling on the small hearth. An old woman sat stirring, and by her side lay a rag-eaten collie. Sahara thought she saw a cat slink to the dark corner, but her eyes weren’t quick enough to be sure.
“Hungry?”
Evan shook his head. “Thank you, but we’ve eaten at the camp.”
Sahara stood quietly. She had no idea what she was doing there. Is it something to do with my dreams?
The woman stood, offering the one chair. “Sit down, then?”
Sahara glanced at Evan.
Surely she was not expected to take this poor woman’s only chair.
“Thank you. We will.” Evan motioned for Sahara to sit, and he sat cross-legged on the ground next to her.
“And what brings you all this way, at this time of the evening — ” she cocked her wizened head toward Sahara “ — with your young friend?”
“We…” Evan bit his tongue. “Auntie — do you still have the books? The ones you used to show me?”
Sahara’s eyes widened. In her camp, there were one or two faded books with beaten covers. Her teacher had shared them during classes. Torn and dirty, only a few pages had been legible, and most of the words were unknown to her. Generations ago, her teacher said, people used to keep their knowledge in books. But Sahara had never learned to actually read.
The woman squinted at Evan. “They are still in the same place as the last time you were here,” she said. Her bony arm pointed to the back of the small space, bathed in shadows.
Evan stood. “I remember looking through them with you,” he said, grinning. “When I was younger.”
The woman hummed to herself. It was hard to know if she had heard or not. “This modern age,” she grumbled. “No one seems to think books are important. Everyone experimenting with new things — ways to grow crops and make shelters. No one comes to the old woman on the hill anymore.”
“We are here now, auntie,” said Evan, gently. “This girl has dreamed of horses.”
“Horses?” The wizened woman turned her gaze upon Sahara, as if seeing her for the first time.
A chill passed through Sahara’s body. Tense and unsure of herself in these dark quarters, the warmth of afternoon seemed far away. What could an old woman who lived in such a place possibly know about horses?
The woman stood. Her quickness surprised Sahara. She seemed animated and alive now. She grabbed a lantern from the wall and walked closer to Sahara, looking deep into her eyes.