by Linda Benson
The warm sun made her sleepy. She closed her eyes for just a moment, resting. She had started her journey up the mountain very early, and she was tired. The baby horse still dozed, and Sahara settled comfortably against a tree, head nodding. No, she needed to keep watch, to protect the baby horse. She could not afford to fall asleep.
Far in the distance, she thought she saw movement. Yes. It was two figures walking — one small and one tall. She squinted her eyes. They were following the goat’s path up the meadow. It was Ash, and Nehalem was with him!
The small horse stirred and whinnied softly, looking around for someone. “Hey, little one. Here I am.”
Sahara stood, and she watched as the baby horse first balanced on its knees and then, gathering its long legs, stood all the way up. She needs a name, thought Sahara. I cannot call her The Baby Horse forever.
The horse pushed against Sahara, looking for more milk. “You’ll just have to wait a bit. Something important is about to happen.”
Ash gamboled into the small clearing then, as Nehalem ducked his tall frame under the bushes and stood upright. “See,” said Ash. “I brought him.”
Sahara gave Ash a quick hug of gratitude as she turned to face Nehalem. He was staring at her baby horse.
“Where did you get this?” he said, in a grave voice.
“I found her in the rocks above us,” said Sahara. “Her mother had just given birth, and she died right after I got there.” The baby horse, just as she did when she first saw Ash, hid behind Sahara. “Wild dogs were after them both.”
“Dogs?” asked Nehalem.
“Yes. A pack of them. I hope they don’t carry the dog distemper.”
“You were lucky the dogs did not turn on you, Sahara. How did you get this animal away from them?”
“I yelled at them,” she said, not quite believing it herself. “I threw rocks.”
“And the baby followed her down the hill,” chirped Ash. “It thinks Sahara is its mother.”
“What do you plan to do with it now?” asked Nehalem.
Sahara cleared her throat. She knew her plan seemed far-fetched. And asking Nehalem for his approval risked a lot. What if he, like Dojo, thought the horse should be butchered for meat? “I was hoping I could keep it, and…”
“Like a pet?” said Nehalem. “Is that why you brought me out here? To get my approval for a pet?”
This was going all wrong. “No!” cried Sahara. “I…” She stood there tongue-tied. She had been so sure of her plan. It seemed so reasonable when the baby was hungry. But now. Get a grip on yourself, she thought. You can do it. “I think horses can be useful to people. I think we can ride them. And if I can raise this baby horse, it can be helpful to our clan.”
“Isn’t that what you thought about the wild horse that you kept corralled last summer?” asked Nehalem. “And when it got stronger, it just ran away. What makes you think this will be any different?”
The baby nudged Sahara from the back now, almost knocking her over. She ran her hand over the baby’s neck, scratching just at the base. “Because if I raise her, she will not be afraid. She won’t run away because she will be tame, like the goats.” Sahara kept going. She had to convince him. “I could train her to pull a cart, like the dogs. Or…maybe, if we could ride her, we could travel all the way to Nu-Town.”
Nehalem’s face grew serious, as if chewing on this information. “And what will it eat? Surely it is too young to eat grass yet.”
“That is what I need your approval for.” This was the tricky part. “She can drink goat’s milk. But I don’t know how much of my goat’s milk she will need. There might not be enough for everyone to share. And I need your permission to do this.” Sahara caught her breath. “And also to bring her into camp, and keep her safe.”
Nehalem stood still and straight, stroking his graying beard. She could not tell what he was thinking.
Sahara rushed boldly on. “If you give the approval for me to raise her, then no one will think she is being fattened for the stew pot.” Especially Dojo, she thought.
Nehalem was a thoughtful leader. He usually took time to make decisions, but Sahara hoped he didn’t take too much time to make this one, because Little One was getting very hungry again. She nibbled the edges of Sahara’s pant legs now, making sucking noises.
“Will it follow you back to camp, then?”
Sahara nodded. Was this a yes? Was Nehalem agreeing to her plan?
He cleared his throat. “I am concerned about a couple of things,” he continued. “What will the horse eat when it is weaned from milk? Surely it eats more than a goat? How will you keep it restrained, keep it from raising havoc all over camp? Already it is much larger than the goats. Were you planning on just keeping it tied up?”
Sahara had not thought that far ahead. She only knew the baby horse pressed its nose against her, wanting more milk.
“It is definitely a risk,” Nehalem continued, “to give up your good goat’s milk on the chance you might tame this wild thing.”
Sahara’s eyes widened. What if he decided to butcher the young animal for meat after all? Sahara could not bear that.
“But you can bring the young creature back with you, and Ash can help you build something to contain it, so it doesn’t run willy-nilly all over camp.”
“Then I can keep her?” Sahara cried out.
“I think this is something too large for me to decide. When we get into camp, I will make it clear that, for now, this is your charge, no one is to harm the horse, and that you will feed it with goat’s milk.”
Sahara gulped. At least it was something. A start.
“But we will hold a camp meeting to determine the fate of this horse. Everyone should decide,” said Nehalem. “For now, you may take it home and see if it lives. Your grandfather thought highly of your skills with animals, Sahara. I am taking that into consideration. And, here. I have something that belongs to you.”
Nehalem stretched out his hand, passing to Sahara the silver medallion from her mother. Sahara pulled the leather cord which held it over her head, tucking it inside her jacket. Thank you, she said, silently. To her mother. To Nehalem. To anyone who might be listening.
She had a horse now. A baby horse. If only she could raise it.
“Wait for me, Little One,” called Sahara, running to catch up as the young thing ran ahead of her, stretching its legs into a gallop as they headed back across the meadow toward camp.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Beauty trembles underneath me, anticipating. Tossing his head and pulling, eager to run. Ready, set, go! He stretches out, black mane streaming into my face, his limbs beneath me stretching and reaching, ground rushing like a wild river as we race, the wind in my hair, his sweat gleaming as I cling to his heaving sides, till we slow, trembling, to a halt near our camp. I walk him till his breathing calms, then lead him to the herd, brushing the sweat from his back, his flanks. My Beauty, my horse, my love.
The dreams confused Sahara. Not only were they more frequent now, but they were insistent, as if trying to tell her something. But what? It was true she had almost given up her quest for horses, and maybe the dreams had reminded her not to forget. But now she had a horse. An actual live baby horse, whose care was in Sahara’s hands. In these new dreams, with the strange woman, the horse had a name. Maybe the dreams were just Sahara’s mind playing tricks on her, reminding her that she still needed to find a name for her young horse, something besides Little One.
The baby horse was not so little now. She was growing fast, filling out almost before Sahara’s eyes. The goat’s milk agreed with her, and soon the young horse began to drink it out of a pail, slurping it up almost as quickly as Sahara put it in front of her.
Little One caused quite a stir in camp, when Sahara introduced her to the rest of the clan. Just as with the first horse, everyone wanted to touch it. But instead of acting wild, Little One seemed to thrive on attention, and allowed young and old to fondle and scratch her soft coat. S
ahara wished Grandfather was alive. He would have been so proud and interested in the young horse. Sahara would have loved to share her plans with him. She dreamed of the day when the baby would be strong enough to carry her. If only she still had the book, with pictures of head gear and equipment for the horse’s back.
Ash helped Sahara make a corral. With bare hands, they scraped sand and dirt away from the old boards Sahara had found earlier, near the ruins. Hoisting them back toward camp, they fashioned a makeshift corral for the young horse, who didn’t seem to mind being closed in. Little One appeared happy as long as she was near the goats or close to humans.
Where was the herd the baby came from? It was odd that no one had seen more tracks. Odd that the old horse had wandered so far from her herd to give birth. But no matter. Little One filled an entire space in Sahara’s heart — the one left when the smoke-colored horse escaped months ago. Sahara often wondered if he ever found his herd again.
Sahara fashioned a rope headgear for the young horse, similar to the one that she made for the first horse. With a little coaxing, she took Little One for short walks around camp. She wished that she had actually studied the book on horse training and not kept it hidden underneath her bed. She doubted the teacher’s words now, about the book being fiction. Look how fast Little One is becoming tame, she thought.
“You spend so much time with that horse,” complained Laurel. “You really should be helping to dig more — to find useful items.”
“The horse will be useful,” said Sahara. “When she grows up. Besides, there are not enough digging tools to go around.”
“Well, you could be helping sort out and stack the things they are finding at the ruins,” said Laurel, in a disapproving voice. “Anyway, I have no idea what you are going to feed that horse when she needs something besides milk. There is barely enough grass here for the goats.”
“I’ll figure something out,” said Sahara. Maybe we’ll move camp again, she thought. Although that seemed unlikely, since everyday something new was uncovered in the ruins of the old town.
Most of the buildings, including their contents, were filled with several feet of sand or dirt. Tangled vines twisted upward around open windows and doors. The clan used a variety of metal shovels and small hand tools for digging, which they had found on their travels. But there were not enough for everyone to dig at once. So some people used short pieces of sharpened wood, and some dug with their bare hands.
Already they had removed many pieces of metal roofing material. Doors and windows and lumber from walls were taken carefully apart and stacked for reuse. Even nails were treasured.
The most sought after places to dig were those that appeared to have been trading stores. Some were filled with broken cartons and boxes of goods. Although it was hard to pry herself away from spending time with Little One, Sahara took Laurel’s comments to heart and vowed to help the diggers more.
“Look at this!” cried a young man working close to Sahara. He scraped dirt and sand away from something hard, unearthing a flat, gray rectangular object. He fiddled with the edge of it, and it opened on a hinge. One side was shiny and black, the other had a series of tiny numbers and markings set in rows. “What did people do with these?” he said, blowing dust from the insides.
“I have no idea,” said Sahara, shrugging her shoulders.
A wrinkled old woman limped over to have a look. “Cum-pew-ter,” she said. “I have heard that people used to keep information in them, somehow. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”
The young man held the contraption in front of him, shaking it, and when nothing happened, he tossed it into the garbage heap and kept digging.
A man shouted from a short distance away, where he dug heartily with a shovel. “A storeroom of some kind, with boxes, lots of small boxes.”
Sahara stood up, rubbing her back. Everyone got a little sore after bending over for so long. People were smiling, handing boxes around to everyone.
“What is it?” she asked, balancing on piles of rubble as she wandered closer.
“Shoes! Boxes of shoes,” several people cried at once. “All kinds of shoes!”
Sahara stared. The shoes that she wore now bit at her toes. They had come from a box of clothes the clan had uncovered last season, but she had grown since then. Sahara watched enviously as the digger passed around boxes.
“These might fit you,” he said, handing her one.
Sahara took the box gingerly, as if receiving a great treasure.
“Wait,” called out someone. “Shouldn’t we keep these for trade items?”
“But we all need shoes,” another voice complained.
Nehalem, hearing the uproar, quieted the crowd. “Yes, we all need shoes,” he said, and he motioned to the man giving out boxes. “Everyone should receive one pair, and the others we will store for trading.”
Sahara breathed a sigh of relief and looked inside her box. The shoes were made of a canvas-like material, with long strings to make them fit tight. Flexible material on the bottom seemed rubbery, soft. She held one to her foot. It appeared the right size.
She clutched them to her chest as she headed back toward her tent. Farina let out a bawl, and Sahara knew she would have to milk soon. Little One drank as much milk as the goat could produce, although Sahara always made sure there was some left for the goat kids.
She had become so used to the ritual of milking and feeding babies it was almost second nature to her. She had put aside the notion that Nehalem would still call for a clan meeting to decide the fate of her young horse. Surely everyone could see how tame she was. She was not a wild horse at all.
Sahara slipped into the cool shade of her tent, opened the musty box, and pulled the new shoes out to inspect them. She’d seen others wear shoes like these, low-slung lace-ups. They were soft and conformed to her feet, not stiff like her old boots. She placed one on her right foot, and then her left, pulled the laces tight, and jumped up and down to test them. She felt practically weightless. What a feeling!
Racing out of the tent, she charged down to Little One’s corral. She was met with an eager whinny.
“Look,” she said, “I can run with these. Almost as fast as you.” On a lark, she fastened the head gear on the horse, jogging alongside until they reached the open plain.
Sahara sprinted forward. The shoes clung to her feet and gave her spring. She ran faster and faster, but the young horse pulled her along, outpacing her. Sahara panted. She could not keep up with Little One. She reached up and quickly undid the head gear, letting the horse run free.
“Let’s race,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
LITTLE ONE KICKED UP her heels, bucking and racing circles around Sahara. First she galloped close, then made ever-widening circles. She was so beautiful, so strong, so fast. Sahara squeezed her eyes together and tried to imagine Little One fully grown. The young horse’s black mane and tail floated in the breeze, her long legs reaching forward again and again, as if trying to catch the wind itself.
We are alike, aren’t we? thought Sahara. Neither one of us knows our own mother. Yet here we are, together.
The elegant young horse ran so fast, Sahara could barely take her eyes off her. Back and forth across the small plain, closer to the trees, then once more in circles around Sahara.
Sahara ran as far as her legs could carry her, then bent over double, trying to catch her breath. Still Little One ran. If only she was big enough to carry me, thought Sahara. Surely we could travel a long distance. Maybe even back to the Gardener’s camp, to check on Moshe. And Evan. Maybe someday we could go as far as Nu-Town.
Tired of running, Sahara limped on aching legs back toward camp. She glanced over her shoulder and called. “Come little horse. Aren’t you hungry?”
Little One continued racing, clearly enjoying the ability to stretch her legs. She raced straight toward Sahara, stopping just out of reach, then pivoted on her back feet and bolted away, bucking and kicking as if to show that s
he wasn’t tired at all.
Sahara regretted the foolish decision of taking off the horse’s head gear out here in the open. Hopefully Little One would follow her back inside the corral to be fed. Surely she would.
Trying to ignore the baby’s playful stubbornness, Sahara strode into camp, heading straight for Farina to milk her. Little One would come back when she smelled the fresh milk.
Sahara watched the horse out of the corner of her eye as she hurriedly went about her chores. Little One trotted up and down the edge of the campground, enjoying her freedom. Exasperated, Sahara held the pan of milk towards her, knowing she must be hungry by now.
But instead of walking calmly in to drink her milk, Little One charged past Sahara, kicking up her heels and almost knocking Sahara to the ground. The horse tripped over the rope holding Rowdy. Banner and Blitz barked at the commotion, which made the horse run faster.
Around and around the campground Little One galloped, upsetting cooking pots and sleeping quarters. Her frantic running caused the dogs to bark even louder, and people stopped what they were doing to see what the problem was. Some even ceased their digging at the ruins and raced toward camp.
“What is it?” someone called.
“The horse! It’s gone wild!”
Sahara chased breathlessly after the young horse, holding the headgear ready, trying to catch her. But the horse ran harder, finally tripping over a tent stake and knocking the entire thing down.
Caught and struggling to get free, Little One stood panting, sweat forming on her neck. Sahara crept up slowly, speaking soothing words, her fingers shaking as she tried to reattach the headgear.
In the midst of the destruction, Nehalem strode forward. “How did this happen?” he asked loudly, his arm motioning over a large area of campground in chaos.
Sahara’s fingers fumbled with the ropes on Little One’s head, too flustered to answer. She could not meet Nehalem’s eyes. She wished she could go back and change things, go back to the moment she put on her new shoes and led Little One to run free on the prairie. Why, oh why, did I take Little One’s headgear off? And encourage her to race around madly?