Vagabonds

by Darcy Pattison

  “I’ll take the rear,” Corrie said.

  Number One and Four rushed to Galen’s side, almost knocking him over. Number Two and Three crowded behind them. “Brother, be careful.”

  Galen rubbed each Sister’s nose, glad the rain hid his tears. “Be good!”

  He turned to see Corrie and El Garro talking, too. Nalda stood silently beside Felix, both waiting for the Sisters.

  A great lightning bolt snapped across the Clearing’s open sky, striking a giant oak. A limb as thick as El Garro’s belly smashed to the ground.

  Galen’s head jerked up. “The storm is worse. Let’s go.” He would set a good pace and make sure they got a good start. With resolve, he turned and jogged into the woods, followed by the others.

  They raced along, pelted by sharp needles of rain. Fortunately, their leathery armor protected them; the rain only hurt if a drop hit an eye, a nose, or their soft ears. Instead, they were bothered more by the cold and mud on their soft bellies. And Galen’s stomach already grumbled with hunger.

  The first part of the path should have been familiar from two nights ago, but the dreary rain transformed it into a maze of puddles and broken branches. Lightning flashes revealed low-lying flooded areas that forced them into lengthy detours. Galen chaffed at the search for high ground and tried to set a rapid pace through the ragged woods, but when he turned off on the eastward path, he knew they were making poor time. It had taken them an hour just to reach the Black Road.

  The Black Road wasn’t a single road at a single location; it was any road. The oldest armadillo stories talked of deer trails or mule tracks. About eight or nine decades ago, soon after the first trekkers crossed the Rio Grande from Mexico into Texas, the stories began about the Black Road. Or, not about the Black Road, but about the Road Machines with bright lights that startled unsuspecting armadillos, causing them to leap straight up—a leap into immortality—into the Machine’s path.

  “Road kill,” laughed the giant humans who stepped out of the Machines.

  “Death and destruction,” moaned the armadillo families.

  As the decades marched by, there were more and more Black Roads until there was almost no way to avoid them. All you could do was take care when crossing.

  The river would rise fast; they had to hurry. But late afternoon was the worst time to cross a Black Road since more Road Machines were out. Galen crouched and listened. With the pounding rain, he despaired of hearing anything, and visibility was limited. Victor crowded him from behind, but Galen stood his ground.

  He peered through the heavy rain and wished for a clear night with good visibility. Lights appeared: bright, glaring, fast-moving streaks. Galen hid his eyes beneath his front paws while a vicious Road Machine roared past.

  “Now!” Victor yelled.

  “Not yet—” Galen tried to urge caution, but Victor and Corrie were already scurrying across.

  Heart racing, head down in case of another Road Machine, Galen followed. Corrie stumbled in a pothole, banged her slender nose onto the black surface and skidded.

  Galen was closer, but before he could do anything, Victor rammed him so hard that Galen tumbled, rolling sideways, toward the far edge of the road.

  “Corrie!” yelled Galen. The squeal of his own armor scraping the road fueled his rage at Victor.

  Victor shoved Corrie up. He thrust her toward the roadside. Dazzling lights bore down on them.

  “Don’t look! Run!” Galen screamed.

  Tails banging the black surface and claws clattering, Victor and Corrie bolted for safety. With one last tremendous burst of speed, they leapt. Wind from the passing Road Machine rippled the dripping grass stalks over their heads. Relief made Galen sag.

  “That was too close!” Victor said. “Ah didn’t think ah could get to you in time.”

  Corrie shook water from her head. “Victor, you saved my life!”

  “T’weren’t nothing,” Victor drawled.

  “I will remember your bravery this day,” Corrie said solemnly.

  “Wait,” Galen started to protest, but stopped. Victor did save her life, though his actions had been foolish. Galen had been closer to Corrie and could have most easily helped. Instead, Victor wasted precious seconds by knocking Galen out of the way. It shouldn’t have been a close call. But how could he explain that? Perhaps Victor was working from pure instinct and didn’t even realize he had knocked Galen out of the way. Corrie only knew Victor had saved her.

  Without a word, Corrie half-slipped, half-walked down the slope, right past Galen. Victor followed with a swagger as if to say, “Did you see me save Corrie?”

  Dealing with Victor’s arrogance was going to make it a long trip. To avoid him, Galen curled slightly and rolled down the hill. At the bottom, he rose and gulped down his disappointment. There was no time to fight with Victor. Right now, they had a river to cross.

  .

  FLOOD STAGE

  Corrie shoved through the bushes and stood at the river’s edge. Brown water boiled at her claws. Massive branches tumbled through the torrent like twigs. The river was already too high—a flash flood.

  Dark clouds scudded across the sky. At her back, Victor and Galen shouldered through the opening in the shrubs.

  “We’ll have to go back and wait for weeks.” Corrie’s voice was bleak with despair.

  Corrie scanned the riverbanks, searching for any way across. A shaft of light glittered on the water. It quickly disappeared, and with it, Corrie’s last hopes. There was no way to cross.

  Galen studied the river banks. “There must be a way.”

  “Nothing’s lost if we wait a month or two,” Victor said. “It could take us a year to find the trekkers, anyway.”

  Why didn’t Victor understand her urgency? El Garro might not have a year. And her sisters were lost. Desperation clawed at Corrie’s insides. She didn’t want another day in El Garro’s den where the smell of sickness grew ever stronger. She didn’t want to watch her Father weaken every day. She didn’t want El Garro to die before he saw her quad-sisters again. She didn’t want to fail. No false trails, no detours, no injuries, no adventures. Just a fast trek with a clear answer at the end.

  Corrie surveyed the river, wondering if they could walk across the bottom. But a boulder twice as big as El Garro tumbled a few yards, stopped, then rolled again. Walking underwater was impossible.

  Corrie voiced her uncertainty, “There must be a way to cross?”

  “We’ll find it,” Galen said.

  Corrie was comforted that Galen was on the trek; after all, he was one of her oldest friends. Yes, she was aggravated that he had pointed out El Garro’s weakness in front of everyone, but he was right. El Garro didn’t need to be out trekking.

  Galen’s encouragement buoyed Corrie. There must be a way to cross, she repeated to herself. And a determination, born of despair, grew in her. She was a solid boulder of strength to her father, someone who could be trusted to take the prudent path. The boring path.

  Corrie shook her armor angrily, throwing off that stolid image of herself. Not now. For this, she would do or say or think whatever was necessary to cross the river. A thrill of unexpected excitement shivered through her.

  A wave lapped at Victor’s feet, and he backed away. “The water will be out of the banks in another hour. The fields will flood. We need to get back to high ground.”

  Victor turned away; Galen hesitated, watching her.

  Corrie still peered at the rushing water. A compulsion bubbled up within her. She wanted—more than anything—to return to her father’s den.

  “It may be hard for you to trek,” El Garro had warned her. “As first born, your curse is to stay home. Some can fight it for a time and trek a short ways. If it becomes too strong, come home. We all live with the curse. We’ll understand.”

  But if she turned back, it meant she would dishonor her father; sending out this search party was probably his last big decision as Colony leader. She couldn’t turn back.

&nbs
p; “There must—” Each word was slow and deliberate, but the excitement of the unexpected pulsed through her. “—be a way.” Corrie stepped closer to the churning water. Her legs were hard to move, heavy, weighted down with the curse of her people. First born stayed home; they didn’t trek. Another deliberate step. She stood stiff-legged at the very edge. She felt the bank’s softness, felt the danger. But she would not back off.

  “Get back!” Galen yelled.

  The ground gave way beneath her. Yes! With a sudden lurch, Corrie pitched into the water.

  .

  CROSSING

  Galen stumbled away from the crumbling riverbank. Had it just given way? Or had Corrie meant to jump, meant to risk her life for this search?

  Galen saw Corrie’s head bob up and sweep away downstream. The water sucked greedily at her slender body. There—only Corrie’s nose was above water. She appeared to suck in air. She must have pulled in enough to inflate her stomach some because she now had enough buoyancy to keep her head above water.

  “Swim!” Galen yelled.

  And her legs kicked, Corrie swimming for the opposite shore.

  On the riverbank, Galen and Victor bounced up and down, desperately trying to keep her in sight. Corrie dodged debris and paddled against the current, which swept her downstream so quickly, she couldn’t control her path. Nevertheless, she made progress.

  Cold with fear, Galen raced along, bellowing encouragement. Here Corrie’s nose bobbed above the water; there a wave hid her. Impossibly, her paddling drew her closer to the far bank. A quarter mile away, where the river curved, mud and sand piled up forming sandbanks. The flooding covered these, but the water was still shallower. Corrie found footing, pulled up in these calmer waters and drug herself onto the opposite riverbank.

  “She made it,” Galen cheered. Then, he frowned as he realized what that meant. To Victor he said, “If she made it—”

  “—then we should be able to make it, too,” Victor finished.

  Galen didn’t like it at all and would never have considered it, except there was Corrie leaping around, calling to them, waiting for them. Oddly, Galen thought of his mother dancing in the rain, and his spirit lifted.

  Victor murmured again, “Are you going?”

  The flooding would only get worse as the night passed. It was now or never, and it looked like an exciting ride. Galen nodded, still watching Corrie’s glee at her successful crossing. “What choice do we have?”

  Victor groaned. “It looks worse than a Texas dust storm.”

  “Let’s start from the shrubs like Corrie, and maybe we can pull out about the same place,” Galen said. “I’ll go first.”

  “No,” Victor whipped his long tail about angrily. “Corrie already went first. I’ll go next and you come last.”

  Galen sighed: Did Victor already have to prove he was the leader? Galen hadn’t meant to make Victor mad, just meant to get them going; they needed to cross the river now. Fortunately, Victor said no more, but he turned back to the shrubs, so Galen followed.

  Through the rain, Galen saw Corrie on the other side of the river as she rose on hind legs and waved.

  Victor saw her, too, and growled, “All right, if she can do it, Ah can do it.” He took a deep breath and held it. He leapt far out into the water, was seized by the current, and paddled furiously for Corrie.

  Victor was a leaf tossed about in a tornado. Yet he stayed above water.

  Galen gulped. It was his turn. He swallowed air and held his breath.

  He leapt.

  Galen fought the water, which was alive like a bucking Brahman bull, fought his way upright, twisting away from a tumbling rock and paddling through frothy brown water, fought to reach safety in spite of a broken branch that body-slammed into him—smack!—fought to see if Victor was surviving the onslaught—blinded!—fought to move icy cold legs, fought to hold his breath, tumbling over and over—dizzy!—fought to paddle ponderous weary limbs. Wearily, he won the victory of toes scrambling for a footing on a gravel bottom, of heaving himself onto the bank, of coughing dirty, foul water, of calling weakly, “Corrie!”

  He crawled up a bit farther, raised his head into the slanting rain and searched the bank. Once more he called, “Corrie! Victor! Are you there?”

  Corrie appeared over a slight hump of ground. Behind her, Galen heard Victor coughing up water.

  Galen lifted his face and laughed and let the rain wash away the sand. “We made it.”

  “We did, didn’t we?” Her voice held a touch of awe which surprised Galen with its intensity.

  His voice matched hers. “We’re going to make it, Corrie.”

  She turned to him with shining eyes. “Yes, we will.”

  Galen continued, “And El Garro will make it, too. You’ll see—” At the sudden fear in Corrie’s eyes, he stopped, realizing what he was saying.

  Corrie turned away, stumbling back to the hollow where Victor waited for them.

  Galen railed at himself for bringing up her father’s condition, for taking away her joy in the moment. From this point on, he would be careful about mentioning El Garro. Right now, however, rain still pounded them, and though Galen wanted to rest and talk, they needed a place to wait out the storm.

  “Are you all right?” he asked Corrie and Victor. “We need to move on. The water will be rising.”

  “Ah’m fine.”

  Corrie’s head was down, and she was breathing hard. A few minutes ago, she had been buoyed with excitement and he had said the one thing that would burst her bubble of happiness. She looked deflated, and he had unwittingly done that to her. Without looking up, she nodded, too. “Just tired.”

  “I’m sorry,” he wanted to say. Instead, he swallowed the words and turned toward higher ground.

  .

  THE WHITE CLIFFS

  It was an afternoon of surprises, both big and small, Galen decided. In fact, the White Cliffs weren’t all white as they looked from a distance: the chalky white stone was streaked with brown, ochre and russet. Victor’s leadership was a surprise, too. He pushed past Galen and led the way toward the cliff, looking back to see if Corrie and Galen followed. When he found a path upward, he turned to make sure the others were still following. At the first switchback, he glanced backward. Here, a large channel of swift water cut across the cliff’s face and across the path. Victor managed the treacherous footing, and then stopped to watch Corrie and Galen carefully cross the area. Victor started on, but swung his head back to make sure that Galen was coming. Again.

  “I’m coming,” Galen called irritably.

  For the next hour, the armadillos raced back and forth along the switchbacks, trying to beat the failing light. Near the top, a section of the path had given way in a miniature landslide, leaving a narrow six-inch ledge.

  Victor tentatively pushed his claw against the damaged path. Mud and rocks gave way. “Galen, you’re the smallest. You come and try this.”

  Galen blinked in surprise. Corrie was smaller than he, but obviously, Victor was trying to protect her. Most leaders demand something of those who follow, but so far, Victor had done nothing to earn Galen’s obedience. He retorted, “You’re the leader. You try it.”

  Under her breath, but loud enough for both to hear, Corrie muttered darkly, “Do you want me to go first again?”

  Her jibe struck home and Galen winced. Victor would have to try it.

  Victor looked at the broken path and shivered, spattering mud everywhere. “We’ll go down.”

  Reluctantly, Galen agreed. Risking a fall was foolish.

  But Corrie said, “I’m not turning back.”

  Galen’s heart beat faster. Corrie was too tired to go far. They were used to traveling at night, but this storm allowed no touch of even the faintest starlight. With such low visibility, the trail down would be even more treacherous than coming up. He was smaller than Victor, and it did make sense for him to try first. Reluctantly, he said, “I’ll try it.”

  Corrie hesitated. “Are you
sure?”

  The relief in her voice was enough reward. He only hoped she would never learn that his bravery was mere bravado. Galen squeezed past Corrie with a soothing whisper. “It won’t be long until we rest.”

  He glared at Victor, who rose on hind legs to let Galen slip past. Both growled, but Galen scrambled away from the Texan. Ignoring the pelting rain, Galen shoved his front feet at the ledge, testing it. His legs were only a couple inches long, so he couldn’t test much of the path. Would it all be safe? Beneath his claws, a rock rolled down, banged off the cliff, then thumped into tree branches.

  “It’s too weak to hold your weight,” Corrie worried. “We could go back.”

  The hope in her voice, Galen reassured them both, “I can do it.”

  He crept along the ledge, his armor scraping the cliff itself. Loose pebbles clattered below, echoing the clatter in Galen’s heart. He was scared to move; yet, move he did, one foot at a time, stretching forward to clamp muddy claws into the narrow path. A final step took him to the wider path again.

  “It’s OK.” His voice shook. “Be careful, and don’t look down.”

  Corrie stood before the broken area, with water oozing around her claws.

  Galen’s heart throbbed. “It’s not bad,” he tried to encourage.

  Corrie inched one foot onto the ledge. She shifted her weight. Next step.

  Everything would be fine, Galen assured himself.

  Next step. Pebbles skidded, bumped—out of sight.

  Careful, Galen whispered to the mountain. Be careful with her.

  Corrie was almost panting. Another step. Another. Finally, Corrie dug claws into the wider pathway.

  Galen sank into the mud in relief.

  Victor crossed last, creeping across on his belly like a water snake. When he reached the solid path, Galen’s knees shook with impatience: they needed a place to rest.

  Corrie said, “We’re all safe.”

  Galen couldn’t see her face, only the outline of her armor, but the fatigue in her voice was obvious. The dark and stormy night closed in, leaving disembodied voices and the smell of mud.