The Girl Who Remembered Horses

by Linda Benson

  “Now we have a goat herd. Amazing, isn’t it?” Sahara bent down and planted a large kiss on the top of Banner’s soft head. “And all because of the trade for your little runt puppy,” she grinned. “Moshe.”

  Chapter Thirty

  THE DREAMS, NOW THAT they started again, appeared more frequently to Sahara. Sometimes they came in short scenes or pictures. Horses milling together, horses being fed and watered, horses close and gentle, and a woman, thick brown hair falling down her back, caring for them, talking to them. It puzzled Sahara. Is this me when I am older? Maybe I am only wishing it to happen, now that my one chance with horses is gone.

  But the horses in these dreams were not wild. The brown-haired woman led them to graze on tall prairie grass, stroked their long manes, sat upright with legs clinging softly to their strong backs, whispering, murmuring, almost a part of them.

  Sahara had little time, though, to analyze her dreams. The addition of kid goats added more chores and extra responsibility to her work load. Besides caring for four goats, Sahara learned how to milk Farina. She had tried it with Evan back at the Gardener’s Camp, and after a few practice starts, it came easily to her.

  The goat milk was passed out to those with small children, and also added to soups and breads. Sahara relished her new job; she finally felt important in her clan.

  It was a bit harder traveling with two kid goats. When the clan left camp to move to a new location, she and Ash tucked the babies into a space in the back of the dog cart. Here they could ride and rest and still see their mother. Farina and Rowdy walked along behind, and Ash helped Sahara to make sure everyone was okay. They stopped more often at first, so that Sahara could milk Farina, and then allow her to nurse the babies. A runner came back at noon one day, just after the mid-day milking.

  “Ruins,” he cried. “Up ahead,” he pointed. “Not too much further. An abandoned settlement, larger than we’ve seen before.”

  Excitement stirred amongst them, and the clan repacked hastily from their lunch stop to travel the short distance. Here, along the banks of a small seasonal creek, chunks of a hard stone-like material, and pieces of old roadway emerged from the ground. As they drew closer, they could see portions of hollowed out buildings partially filled with sand and debris from the long years of standing vacant. The wind whistled through open windows, and Sahara shivered, imagining the townspeople that once lived here. Some clan members stood and stared, and a few adventurous young men began clambering over the area.

  Nehalem signaled for a meeting. “Let’s make camp by the edge of the willow breaks,” he said, motioning to an open area where the stream emerged from thick underbrush.

  It was hard not to be excited. Sahara unhitched Banner and Blitz, tied Rowdy and Farina by some willow branches to graze, and raced toward the ruins that the winter wind had uncovered.

  Maybe they would find new pots for cooking. Or digging instruments or eating utensils, or water containers. Possibly some building materials, or old pipe or lumber.

  Sahara balanced on the edges of some rough wood sticking upright from the ground. Searching the ground in front of her, another thought wiggled up inside her brain. Maybe, just possibly, this wood was from an old corral used to keep horses.

  She toyed with the idea for a moment. The gentle horses from her last dream danced across the edges of her mind. Everyone else was busy searching in the buildings, digging through the sand, looking for trade items.

  She tottered on the wood, wondering. Sahara shrugged her shoulders and stepped down off the rotted lumber. Finding a place next to Laurel in a nearby building, she began sorting through an old storage pile of boxes and tins.

  The clan worked diligently through the better part of a week. Items that could not be used immediately were stacked in a large area near the edge of camp. Sahara stood and stretched one afternoon, easing the stiffness in her back.

  “How will we ever get all this stuff back to the Gardener’s Camp? It is more than we have dogs to carry.”

  Laurel was on her hands and knees, prying the lid off a box of dishes found in what appeared to be a trading shop. “I agree. Now I wish we had one of your wild horses to pull a huge cart for us.”

  Sahara looked to see if Laurel was serious.

  “Or better yet, one of those automatic machines people used to have, to magically carry everything.”

  Laurel was making a joke. Sahara sighed. No one really believed her about the horses — that people had tamed them, used them. She wasn’t sure what to believe herself. If only she had jumped on the smoke-colored horse’s back before he ran away. If only she had trained him. Then they could fashion a large harness, hitch him to a cart, and haul a huge load of recycled goods to the Gardener’s Camp. Better yet, if she could ride him, she could search around the countryside for good grass for the goats. Or even find the way to Nu-Town.

  Laurel glanced at the afternoon sun. “Sahara, will you go back and start the fires for dinner? You can cut up just a few of the vegetables, and add some chunks of the hung venison that Dojo brought.”

  Sahara squished up her face up in frustration. Why is Laurel always the boss of me?

  “Put quite a lot in the stew pot, because Dojo will be sharing our meal tonight.”

  Again? Sahara hated when he and Laurel talked in laughing, low voices well into the night.

  Sahara moped back to camp, thinking about how long it might take to ride a horse to Nu-Town. If Fargo made the trip by foot in several months, wouldn’t a horse get there much faster? She hadn’t thought of the ancient book under her cot in some time. Since the teacher at Gardener’s Camp called it fiction, she wasn’t sure what to believe. Maybe someone at Nu-Town who could read might be able to tell her.

  Digging under her bed, she pulled out the book and brought it out into the sunlight to see better. Sitting on a bench, she carefully unwrapped it, blew off the dust, and leafed through the ancient pages. The drawings were so real, it was hard to believe they weren’t true. The headgear on the horses was similar to the one she had somehow fashioned for the injured horse from goat hide. Her hand traced the drawings, trying to commit them to memory.

  “Sahara, the goats are bawling,” Ash called. “Want me to take them out to graze?”

  “Oh goodness.”

  Sahara dropped the book on the bench by the cooking fire. “Sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t hear them.” She stood up, feeling the ache in her back from digging all day. A walk with the goats would feel good.

  “I’ll take them,” she said. “Do you want to go help Laurel dig for a little while?” She pointed towards the ruins.

  “Yeah, that sounds like fun,” said Ash, grabbing a digging stick and sprinting away.

  Sahara walked to the makeshift pen at the back of their tent, locking the baby goats inside. She whistled for her dogs, grabbed Rowdy and Farina’s ropes, and led them up a trail toward the small stream that ran up the hill away from their campsite.

  Sahara loved to get away from camp and wander with her animals. In the silence of the woods, her head cleared and she sorted things out.

  She was doing her part now, contributing to her clan. Fulfilling her duties, taking care of her animals, digging in the ruins every day. Behaving in a grown-up fashion, with no one making fun of her. But most evenings were uncomfortable, with company that set her teeth on edge. And Laurel seemed to forever tell her what to do. How much longer before I can have a tent of my own?

  It was peaceful by the trickling water. Speckled sunlight filtered through the willows and small trees, and the warmth of the early spring gladdened Sahara’s heart. The goats browsed contentedly, and Banner and Blitz nosed everywhere, investigating.

  Following the twisting water upstream for a while, Sahara lost track of time. The late afternoon sun made her sleepy, and she walked slowly, humming to herself through willow breaks and an occasional dappled glade of grass.

  Sahara liked having the dogs for protection, especially remembering the eerie feelings she
had when she and Ash first noticed Fargo walking toward them. And with the dogs, she was not worried about predators, like mountain lions or coyotes. The dogs’ keen hearing would pick up anything sneaking through the woods.

  Lost in a dreamy state, she was not at all prepared for what she saw when she tripped on a small rock and glanced down. In the soft earth at the edge of the water were tracks. Not tracks of a predator, or the soft V made by a deer or elk.

  The print was of a large rounded hoof. The tracks of a horse.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  SAHARA PLACED HER HAND in the tracks. Slowly. Protectively. Lovingly. Everything came back to her in a rush. The smoke-colored horse. His smell, his touch, the shape of his body, his hoof, his prints. But this could not be the print of that horse. They had traveled too far, and were many months away from where she had lost him. Sahara’s heart beat wildly, aching to be near a horse again.

  It was difficult to tell how old the track was. The moist earth at the edge of the stream could have held the shape indefinitely. The tracks pointed upstream, and Sahara tugged on the goats, urging them to follow her. Banner and Blitz started to surge ahead, but Sahara whistled them back. They obeyed and took up a place in line just behind the goats.

  It was just a single set of tracks, not those of a herd of horses. The tracks did not cross the water, but seemed to follow a faint trail through the thickening underbrush. Why would a horse have been here? And why was it by itself? Didn’t most herds stay out on the prairie, where they would be safer from predators?

  It was late. She should go home and milk her goats. She was supposed to start dinner for Laurel and Dojo. But what if the tracks were fresh? What if there was a horse close by, right up ahead? A teensy twinge of guilt bit Sahara like a flea, but she ignored it and plunged forward, dragging all four animals behind her.

  She plunged onward, slapping branches away from her, dragging her goats, who seemed to go slower by the minute. The hoof prints urged her onward, faster, as if she was pulled by some unseen string that she could not ignore. Wait, she cried out silently. Wait for me.

  She followed the hoof prints through an opening in the willow branches where they seemed to disappear. The ground was firmer here, and the short spring grass was cropped close. Farina baahed loudly, her udders full with milk.

  Where did the horse go? Sahara shivered, as the warm sun gave way to the long shadows of early evening. She should go back. She should have been back long ago.

  Indeed it was foolish to chase a horse with four animals in tow, two dogs and two goats. What was she thinking? The horse would be long gone before she could even get close. But the footprints…where were they leading her?

  Rowdy and Farina both began an annoying baah now, and Sahara realized it was no use. Their noise would scare off any strange animal. Unwilling to give up, she skirted the edge of the small meadow for sign. There. A small opening, a faint trail leading up and away from the stream. And horse droppings. She kicked at them quickly. They were warm, fresh and steamy. A horse had been here recently, and she was not too far behind it.

  Should she tie the goats and go on alone? Take the dogs for protection, or leave the dogs here? She glanced at the sky. The shadows lengthened rapidly and a brisk breeze blew upstream. It was later than she realized.

  She had to get the goats back. They were important to the clan, and she could not risk leaving them here alone. Besides, Farina was uncomfortable, and would need to be milked and nurse her kids soon. Sahara drew a long breath. She reluctantly called the dogs and headed with the goats back toward camp.

  She ducked and dodged branches, trying to follow the faint trail back in the direction she came. The dogs ran ahead, following their noses, sure of the way. Sahara knew she should have the fires started by now. Laurel would be hungry after digging in the ruins all day. Sahara remembered the book she had left on the bench by the fire. Tonight, after supper, I will look at it again, she thought. Maybe there are pictures of how to catch a wild horse.

  It was almost completely dark as she found her way back to the camp site. A wave of guilt washed over her, remembering how she found Grandfather the last time she was late.

  “There she is!” Dojo’s angry voice reached her before she was even fully into camp.

  “Where have you been, sister? You did not start the supper.” Laurel stood with her hands on her hips, but worry strained her face.

  Sahara ducked, ashamed. “I’ll be right there. I need to take care of the goats first.”

  “Bah.” Dojo spit. “It’s always the animals. What took you so long, anyway?”

  “I found a trail,” she began, trying to make an excuse for herself. “I saw…” Wait. Sahara’s mouth snapped shut. She couldn’t tell anyone about the hoof prints. Especially Dojo. Or he would be back up the trail in an instant, arrow drawn.

  “Daydreaming again?” Laurel looked disappointed. “I know we had that discussion, but…” Her voice grew softer. “I thought you had grown up, and were past all that foolishness.”

  I was not being foolish, I was…But Sahara gritted her teeth, keeping her thoughts to herself. “Yes, I guess I must have been daydreaming. I didn’t realize how late it had become. I’ll start dinner as soon as I tend to Farina.”

  “There’s no need,” said Laurel, looking tired. “Dojo had to build the fire, and I prepared the food myself. We’ve already eaten.”

  “Yes, and I think a girl that forgets her chores should go to bed with no dinner.” Dojo smirked.

  Who was he to make up orders for her? Sahara looked to see if Laurel would take her side, but she had turned away. How she wished Grandfather was still alive. He would never allow Dojo to speak to her in such a way. Sahara bit back a retort. It would just make things worse. She heard the kid goats bawling from the pen, hungry for their mother.

  “Come on, Farina,” she said softly. “Wait.” She turned around, remembering. “There was a book lying there,” she said, pointing to the bench. “Did you do something with it?”

  “You mean that old ragged one?” said Dojo. “I used it as kindling to get the fire going.”

  “What?” Sahara stared at him, her mouth open in disbelief.

  “It was useless,” said Dojo, shrugging his shoulders. “Falling apart. It was kindling.”

  “You knew it was not kindling!” screamed Sahara, blinking back tears. “You knew it was my book — the book on horse training! How could you?”

  Dojo shrugged. “What good would it do you now, anyway? You have no horse. It was useful to start the fire.”

  “There is no need to get so upset, Sahara,” soothed Laurel. “He didn’t know it was important to you.”

  “He did know!” Sahara snapped back. She shot Dojo a look of pure hatred. “He knew exactly how important it was!” Surely he remembered her telling him about the book, when she kept him from killing the wild horse. He destroyed the book just to spite her. She wanted to kick him in the gut, throw him in the fire. But what was the use?

  Sahara, fuming, stomped out to the goat pen to let Farina nurse her babies. Then she finished her chores with the animals, and crept into a cold, hungry bed.

  Stupid Dojo! Now the book was gone forever. But no matter. She would show him. She would show everyone. She would rise early, before daylight. She would take a bit of bread and water. She would go alone, telling no one. She would follow the tracks of the horse upstream, through the break in the willow branches and across the small meadow. A horse was waiting for her somewhere, calling to her.

  I’m coming, she thought. Soon.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  EMOTIONS CHURNED IN HER GUT as Sahara twisted on her cot, sleeping in fits and starts. Anger at Dojo, excitement over the discovery of horse tracks, worry about what she would do without her book on horse training. Scattered dreams littered the restless night.

  A baby horse, downy coat soft under Sahara’s palm, its tender nose breathing butterfly kisses against her face, following her everywhere. Not wild, not
scared, nor trembling with fear. Bold and yet tame, accustomed to her touch, the young horse trotted in circles, stopping for a pat or a kind word, then raced ahead, stretching its long legs. Running through the night, racing circles in Sahara’s mind, it galloped swift-footed…

  Sahara rose before morning’s first light, shushing the dogs with a finger to her lips and signaling them to stay beside Laurel, who still slept. She tip-toed into Ash’s camp and asked him to let the kids suckle on Farina and then take the goats to graze. That should keep the whole herd settled, so her absence would not be noticed right away. She certainly didn’t want a search party coming after her. She shoved her anger at Dojo deep inside and focused on the task at hand.

  Pink streaks of dawn lit the sky as Sahara stole quietly from camp and followed the stream uphill, hoping she could find the trail again. Pushing aside willows and deep underbrush, she looked down and spotted the hoof prints. Hustling up the path, she hoped the horse might have stayed in one spot sleeping, and now be arising to graze. Why was a single horse by itself? Weren’t they usually in a herd?

  Sahara arrived at the meadow just as the sun rose beyond the fringes of the trees. She found the horse droppings from the day before. Cold. She ducked under the branches, creeping low so she would not lose the trail of prints in the firm ground.

  The prints led away from the water, and traveled upward. They were hard to decipher from time to time, and Sahara knelt on the hard ground, trying to find her way.

  Winded now, Sahara stopped and caught her breath as the trail rose into a stony outcropping. She saw a full hoof print from time to time, and she was sure the mysterious horse had come this way. Sharp bastions of stone rose upward at an awkward angle, and Sahara stopped for a moment, wondering if she was on the right track. She took a sip of water, then noticed the trail seemed to edge sideways, skirting the rocks.

  Doggedly, she continued. When she was maybe halfway around the sharp spires of rock she heard a strange sound. A keening. No, a yelping. Out of breath, she urged herself forward, wishing she had brought Banner and Blitz. What was it? Certainly not a sound she thought a horse should make.