Chapter Four
We’re supposed to go help in one of the far fields where my father will be gathering dandelions for supper (dandelions!) but, halfway there, we turn towards the pass. Once we get around the big rock they call the sleeping dinosaur, nobody can see us, and we don’t hurry anymore.
(I didn’t know about dinosaurs until we got here. The Hoots don’t care about them. They care more about us than any things that old and so long gone. Here there’s lots of books about them in the library cave. I do like dinosaurs, I don’t know why, because it’s easy to see how there’s no need to bother with them. As the Hoots would say, we mustn’t waste time. There’s life to be lived and prepared for, not to mention flags to fly and races to be won. And they’re right, because why know, when dinosaurs have been dead millions of years? You can’t even count back that far if you start right now.)
I trot along and Little Master flaps his ears, giggling and giggling—at birds and marmots and flowers and the whistles of pica . . . at nothing. He sings a Hoot kind of song that I know I can’t hear even half of because of my person-type ears. “La la low lee la and love and beautiful, and you, my steady. You . . . and you, sturdy steady, faithful sturdy steady, you take me home, and you go, go, go.” I never heard him sounding so much like a grownup Hoot, and he’s never called me “faithful sturdy steady” before. I like it. It’s what I always try to be.
We climb to the pass and across and over. It’ll be down all the way from now on, a long, long, all-day down. Maybe two days down. After I tell Little Master that, he sings it: “La, lee, long, long, all day long, long, and long, long going on down.”
I feel . . . just like he does. So good! I always do when I trot along like this, fast. My father’s wrong. We were made for exactly this, for carrying hosts—like the Hoots are always saying. Nothing else feels this good: To run and to be helping the helpless go somewhere and being called sturdy and steady and faithful.
I tell Little Master maybe the town is rebuilt by now and full of Hoots. “They’ll be glad to see us. I’ll be special because I saved you.”
Then I yell, “Yes!” Yell and yell it for no reason.
He yells it, too. “Yes! His Excellent Excellency, About-To-Be-The-Ruler-Of-Us-All! You’ve saved me! Yes!”
He hasn’t said his whole real name for a long time, not since we got up there. Now he shouts it—almost as loud as a Hoot ho. I turn my head away and lean over and hold my ears, but that doesn’t help when a Hoot is stuck right to you and hoing.
“You’re hurting my ears.”
“Sorry.”
“It doesn’t do any good to whisper now.”
Back up there at the Sam and Sue town, nobody cares about The-Future-Ruler-Of-Us-All and his mount. I wasn’t even special—except maybe for being so big for my age and for being my father’s son. He’s to blame for this whole thing. He led everybody down the mountain. They’re all proud of themselves. They think they’ll be famous. They’re putting it in their new history books. I think it’s what you call pillaging and plundering. I read about that. Those vandals.
But my father doesn’t care anything about those raids except he’s glad about getting me. He says he wants to be a farmer and live up even higher. All by himself, except maybe with me and his Jane. I can’t think of anything worse. Who does he think I am, anyway? I always liked civilized. I always cared a lot about art, though I didn’t get to have or do any.
Is it all right to not like your own father?
The one and only thing I really do like about him is how I’m going to be like a bundle of rocks myself. If you kick me, you’ll stub your toe.
We stop and pick mountain currants every time we see a nice patch. Little Master doesn’t even dismount. We pick, head to head, cheek to cheek. We like it that way. Sometimes he puts what he picks into my mouth, and sometimes I put what I pick into his. We drop a lot but we don’t care. He giggles with his ears, and I giggle with my mouth.
We spend the night in the same spot where we hid that time with everybody climbing back with stolen things. It’s where a big tree fell. Its roots are slanted sideways so they make a kind of wall, and there’s bushes in front. We still have a long ways to go. I didn’t realize how far and fast I’d trotted that night—a lot farther than I thought I ever could, all at once like that and mostly up. I didn’t even stop to rest one single time. Our trainer would have given me lots of pats if he’d known about it. I hope someday he does.
It’s this night, as I lean against the big, uprooted roots, that I start to worry about what might be down there. I had been thinking that all I had to do was to get back home and everything would be all right, but what if there’s nothing but dead bodies all over the place, and what if everything is squashed, houses and all, even our stalls? Maybe I should leave Little Master in a safe spot at the edge of the forest and go get his Smiley doll and my mother’s picture and come right back—not even bother with new shoes and some really good food.
I can’t sleep. I just doze a little. In the morning I think to creep away before Little Master wakes up. This is a good spot, and by now I know deer and rattlesnakes won’t eat him, but there’s mountain lions, though I’ve never seen one in all this time. And there might be things my father forgot to tell me about or got tired of trying to twist his lips around to say them. I’d better not leave Little Master yet.
I wait until we get down where the forest ends and the fields begin, then I say I’ll find him a safe spot, maybe up in a tree, while I go get his doll. “You can sit and sing to yourself,” I say. Trouble is, I say it before I squat to let him dismount. He gets a real Hoot grip on me. There’s nothing I can do. I don’t even bother trying. I’ve tried before, back when we were in the arena horsing around. Anything that has to do with hands, he always wins. Funny how even their newborn babies have stronger hands than ours. (Those babies are almost nothing but heads and hands—they’re so cute—and they can’t say anything but squeaky hos. Loud, though. The teeny new ones ho so high we can’t hear it.)
It’s late afternoon. We should probably spend the night where we are, hidden in the trees and bushes at the edge of the fields, but now that we’re so close, we’re too eager to see what’s happening at home. I warn him, “We mustn’t get our hopes up.”
We step out from the trees into the fields. There’s nothing but flowers—red-orange ones—all over. No irrigation anymore, so everything else is dead, and there’s these little flowers instead. Little Master yells, “Don’t step on them.” I try, but there’s no way not to. They’re everywhere.
I haven’t seen these fields except from a distance or that night in the dark. Mostly I just went to and from the arena, past stalls, all painted white, and then the Hoots’ houses—bunched together, all white, too, and the Hoots in their shiny whites. All that white made the fields in the distance seem even greener. (Hoots eat mostly green things.)
I don’t trot. Trotting down all day is worse than climbing up, and I’m tired, but I walk a nice fast walk. Smooth, like I’ve been taught.
Those flowers look so nice they give me energy. Little Master, too. He lifts his head from resting it on top of mine, kicks his feet against my chest, and makes happy humming sounds and every now and then a “La, lee, low, and go, go, go.”
But the closer we get, the more the town doesn’t look right. All of a sudden we’re not so happy anymore. And we’re scared. I tell Little Master to keep looking around and sniffing and listening. I tell him I depend on him like I always do, but now it’s more important than ever.
We walk past squashed Hoot houses. The Sam and Sue stalls aren’t quite so bad. They’re made of wood and harder to knock over. Those scary white wires still run all along the edges of the paddock porches and front lawns, but Little Master can hear right away that they’re turned off and tells me not to worry.
I find our paddock, Sunrise’s and mine. I think it’s ours, but they’re pretty much alike, and all our special things are gone. The refrigerator’s gone.
Little Master can hear that there’s no power for it anyway. No stove, no rocking chair, not even any of my books.
“Let’s find your house,” I say. But that will be hard since they’re all so flattened, and we can see even from here that there’s no gold flag on top of any of them.
Little Master says he can tell where it is if we go to the arena and start from there. He’s rolled to it on his stool after practice. Even all by himself a couple of times. That was one of his tests. “Hoots can smell the way to go,” he says. “And we can feel the lines of the earth.”
When we find it, it seems even more squashed than the others, as if us Sams and Sues were mad that it had a gold flag. What we’ll do is figure out from the outside where his cubby was and dig right over where we think his crib is. After that we’ll figure out the hall where my mother’s picture is. Those are the important things.
But it’s getting dark. We go back to the stalls and find a nice one to curl up in. It has cots but no pads and no blankets. It’s not so cold down here anyway. (Another reason why it’s dumb for my kind to live way up there and no heaters.)
Little Master and I curl up together like we do. We’re both so tired we fall asleep right away, but I don’t stay asleep long. I hear funny noises. Little Master is so sure of me looking after him, he sleeps like he always does when I’m close by—as if I’ll keep him safe—his leg across my shoulders and breathing long, slow breaths, his baby mouth open and kind of drooly. (They have nice curvy lips when they’re little.) But I’m not that sure of myself, and I worry.
Some of those funny noises are like the ones we hear up there in the mountains, mice and such, but I’ve never heard things like that down here. The Hoots kept all that stuff away. They say even a mouse couldn’t cross the white wires. With those wires there, they say we couldn’t even have fleas. We had those back where my mother was.
So I don’t sleep much this night either. I’m thinking I might even like to go back up there in the cold, with lots of Sams and Sues and my big father in the next room. I don’t get back to sleep until dawn, when I start to feel safer. Of course Little Master wakes up just after that, all excited about going to get his doll. I get up. I still mostly do what he says. I especially do it now, when we’re back home here where I used to always have to.
But I don’t feel good. I need a big drink of nice cold water and I need to wash up. Except the faucets don’t work, neither hot nor cold. Not in this stall nor in any of the next ones either. Little Master says he can smell that there’s no water anywhere near except down at the pond.
We have our first real argument. I should say fight. Dumb because he’s still just a juvenile. It’s as if I’m arguing with a two-year-old. There’s no point. I know better but I do it anyway. I don’t feel like being nice to anybody.
When we find out there isn’t any water, he says, “Find some. Heat it and wash me. And I’m thirsty.”
He hasn’t ever acted that way with me before. Doesn’t he think I’m as thirsty as he is? I want to yell at him but I don’t. I’m slipping back into the silence all us Sams and Sues were taught first thing. I can feel it—how I’ll get poled if I speak or even make an unnecessary noise, though we don’t even have a pole.
At first I stutter and sputter, but then I’m all right. “You think I’m not thirsty, too? I don’t think you Hoots are always so nice to us Sams and Sues like you keep saying you are.”
He says, “You’re a mess. Go straighten yourself out,” exactly like our trainer always said it. He hasn’t said that ever in his whole life that I know of. And why does a juvenile care about hair? Besides, there’s no shows to be spic-and-span for. (Besides, with my big, long scars, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to be shown, nose fixed or not.) Being down here isn’t good for either of us. And since when did a mount have to wash a host, anyway?
(I’m thinking, if we were back up there, we could vote on who would do what, except there would be one vote each. So that proves something about voting.)
“My father was badly mistreated. Badly. Disciplined with poles and spikes. I’ll bet he was one of those in big boots with prickers at his cheeks, and in his mouth. He has scars all over.”
“He probably tried to run away. That’s a waste of valuable time. He didn’t know what was good for him.”
I can’t believe how he’s saying—word for word—what our trainer always said.
“Valuable is a big word for a baby.”
“Besides, us Hoots are nice. Always peaceful and kind. That’s the one sure thing. We have to be, it’s the only way. We depend on you. We love you. We always give you praise and pats. Now get me water.”
Then I see his hands in that position. Every Sam and Sue knows what that means. Their warning is always in their hand positions, out in front and ready to choke something. I move back a little. Hoots may not be able to walk much, but they do have one big leap in them when they’re squatting down like that. And of course everything they do is much faster than we can ever do. I was taught all about that by Merry Mary from the start. And back up there in the mountains, when my father taught me about rattlesnakes, I thought of Hoots right away. Rattlesnakes can coil up faster than you can see. (My father stamped near one to show me.) And then they strike before you know it. Hoots do, too. If they get their hands around your neck, you’re done for in a couple of seconds because your Adam’s apple gets pushed in to where you breathe. Little Master has never made this gesture towards me—except as a joke, in play.
I move three yards away. Considering he can spring out about twice his own length, that should be more than enough room. He’ll be sorry. I’m not sure I’ll ever want him on my shoulders again. Why would I want a rattlesnake on me?
I say, “You snake!”
“Hush, you know better than to speak.”
“After all this time! And all I’ve done!”
I turn right around and leave. I’ll go to find water for myself. I know where it is. We followed a stream most of the way. It goes right down the middle of town, right to the pond with a fountain and the statue of a mounted Hoot in the middle. I’ve been there two or three times. Of course with Little Master on my back. They never would have let me go anywhere by myself. We had a couple of playtimes there when Little Master got to steer me around wherever he wanted. Our trainer was right behind us. Little Master led me into the pond up to my knees, and we floated toy boats.
The pond’s still there but it’s been blown up. There’s water in it, except it’s half the size it used to be and the statue with the mounted Hoot is gone. That makes me sad. Especially since the mount (of course) was a Seattle. The ducks and baby ducks are there. The baby ducks are eating and the mothers are watching over them. First I think about mothers in general, and then I think how Merry Mary watched over me. I’m thirsty, but for a minute my throat is too closed up for me to swallow, let alone drink. If my father doesn’t find Merry Mary, then I’ll look for her myself. Her face will be scarred and she’ll be older, but I’ll know her. I’m changed, too. I have my long, life-long scar up and down me, and I’m not wearing what we used to wear. Hoots always liked us Seattles to show off our legs. Now I have leggings to protect from brush and cold. And I have a kind of vest thing that that Tennessee, Jane, knit for me. She knit one for Little Master, too. She keeps trying to get on my good side, just like my father always tries to.
I sit there—wishing things: For my mother, and for the town to be as it was, and for Little Master to be like he was. I used to think how he was the only one who really understood me. Pretty soon tears come because now there isn’t anybody.
I don’t want to cry. I don’t think a Seattle ever should, anyway. My father wouldn’t. He’s too big.
I take off my shoes and jump in the pond. That shocks me out of crying. The water’s ice cold like it is up in the mountains. Well, that’s where it comes from. I drink and wash—as best I can without soap. Then I forget for a minute and wonder how to carry water back to Little Master. Or should
I bring him over here? I guess I do want to go back and help him, except I’m not sure I want to get close enough to let his hands anywhere near me.
I forgot something when I jumped into the pond. I went in with our biscuits. They’re soggy. I lay them out to dry, but I’ll have to keep an eye on them or the ducks will steal them.
I put my shoes back on and search around. Partly for something to carry water in and partly just to look around. I’m in no hurry. I want Little Master to get good and worried. I check out how hard it’s going to be to get into a Hoot’s squashed house. The stucco part isn’t hard, but there’s this mesh under it. You can’t cut it, but every now and then there’s a seam where you might be able to pull it apart.
Then I see somebody coming. Running. A Sam, and no Hoot on him. (I’m still not used to seeing that. It shocks me, especially here at home.) I trot away from the creek and hide behind some Hoot-house debris.
It’s a Tennessee. One of those runners, dressed in camouflage. First he dips his whole head in the pond. Then drinks and spits, then fills his canteen and leans to drink again. I hate how those Tennessees look . . . all stringy . . . all bones.
He looks like he’s been running a long ways, so I guess they can run as far as we can, but I don’t like his looks anyway. For sure they can’t carry much, not like my father carrying me and Little Master up—steeply up the mountain.
I’d like to ask this one where he comes from and where he’s going, but I can’t make myself. He’s too much like that one my father’s going to marry. I might be able to talk to her if she wasn’t going to marry my father, but I don’t see how he can stoop to that. They won’t have any children like me. They’ll all be freckled pipsqueaks. Maybe that’s why my father likes me—enough to come all the way down here to get me.
The Mount Page 6