Oh, god!
“Anything?” The voice is above him.
“Animal trail over here," comes a voice from his left. "Cuts through a notch up there."
The legs move. Light returns to the gap. The crunch of footsteps fades to his left, towards the game trail. Voices over at the game trail. Did he leave tracks? He thinks. The panic rises. He breathes it down once again. He can't remember! But the ground over there is hard and rocky. Maybe he's safe.
God, he wants to run.
“Hey!” From the boy's far right. The third man. Damn! “Hey!” the voice calls again.
“What?” barks a voice from the game trail.
“Let's go! Just a coyote or something.”
Silence.
“Yeah. Probably right. It’s gone by now.”
Hard, crunching steps move away and down the hill.
“Keep an eye out," the voice from his right calls. "In case it’s hiding and spooks. I can pop that bitch on the run. Get us some meat!”
As all three men return to their camp, the boy relaxes, drops a couple inches until stopped by his snagged pack strap. It holds him in place. He thinks of the little red fox. Sends it a silent prayer for invisibility and safety. He hesitates in his prayer, then smiles to himself. That fox doesn't need his prayers. It's a master at hiding and moving undetected. It makes the boy wish he could be the fox. He'd be long gone by now.
The camp is looking like a permanent outpost. Not good. The boy hunches his back and carefully, quietly untangles the pack strap from the bush. As he settles more fully onto the ground, free from the snag, he relaxes. He still wants to run. For now, though, his only option is to wait, at least while it's daylight. So he waits, and trusts his next move will be the right one. And as he waits, the boy remembers.
Chapter 25 - Fox Walk
“Grandfather, why do you walk so quietly?”
The boy watched him move through the scrub brush and around cactus. They were out on the landscape again, behind the hills near their neighborhood. Grandfather stopped. Looked back at the boy.
“The answer is in your question.”
He moved again, and the boy became aware of more. Grandfather’s knees were bent slightly, and his glance took in all the landscape, not just what was in front of him. It was a smooth walk. The boy started to copy his method. After a mile of this, Grandfather stopped. The boy did the same. He motioned for the boy to drink, as did he.
“Do you have the answer to your question yet?”
The boy's face brightened. “So you won’t be heard. Or seen.”
Grandfather smiled and gave a just perceptible nod. "It gives you an edge to avoid people.”
Only recently had the old man talked about bad people. It seemed simplistic to the boy, using the phrase "bad people,” like he was a kid, unable to understand. But it was straightforward and to the point. And the boy didn't take offense. After months of living with the old man and adjusting to his way of communicating, the boy found he preferred this type of talk.
“Put this on like a blindfold.”
Grandfather tossed the boy a bandana. The boy tied it in back after covering his eyes while the old man instructed him not to move. He then heard the light crunch of the old man’s steps moving off to his left. Having his eyes blindfolded sharpened his hearing and he clearly heard Grandfather's steps moving further away.
“Now,” came his voice from a distance. “Keep the blindfold on. I’m going to return to you. Listen for me.”
The boy turned his unseeing eyes toward the voice and strained to hear the crunch. It was quiet around him. He tilted his head. Still no footsteps. Time seemed to slow down. Other sounds sang their way into his awareness. The slight breeze, hissing through the desert plants. The single croak of a raven off to his right. Even the scurry of tiny feet on a rock came to his attention. He guessed these sounds were always out here. He had simply failed to listen. The sounds of life, the community of the desert.
Still no footsteps.
“Did you hear me?”
The boy jumped. Grandfather’s voice was in his right ear, opposite side from the direction he had walked earlier.
“No! How did you do that?”
Not waiting to be told, the boy ripped off the bandana and looked for Grandfather. The old man was sitting on a rock a few yards to his left, smiling. How did he get there so fast, the boy wondered.
“I didn't hear you,” the boy exclaimed as he stared. “How did you do that?” he asked again.
Grandfather motioned him over. Patted the rock so the boy would sit near.
The old man was quiet, looking out across the desert. It was early evening, and the night shift of birds was starting to communicate. The guiding call of a quail, low then high, popped up behind the boy. Further out, to his right, the soft, soothing coo of a dove traveled to his ears.
Though this was a favorite time for the boy, he was too excited to watch and listen for very long. Yet, he knew better than to rush his grandfather.
“It’s how you place each step.” Grandfather’s voice was quiet. The boy thought the old man sounded like someone speaking in prayer. “You walk in the earth, not on it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Somewhere behind and to the left of the boy, a cactus wren made day’s-end calls, its rapid fire staccato floating through the evening air. The diffuse light, a soft orange mingled with the rays of the setting sun, suffused across the sky, softened the greens and browns across the desert floor—a stark change from the blazing light of the daytime.
“The earth is a living being. She, your Earth Mother, provides for you. For everyone.”
Grandfather leaned forward and touched the hard soil at his feet.
“When you walk on her, do so with thanksgiving. When you walk in this way, she will guide you, protect you.” He looked out into the desert again. "The Dine people call this walking in beauty."
Grandfather had never talked like this, but the boy felt the reverence in his voice and words and listened.
They sat in silence. The desert world continued to awaken to the cooler evening air. Grandfather stood.
“There is a way to step that honors the earth. This way helps you walk in beauty, quietly."
The old man placed his right foot out in front, just off the ground.
"Watch how I place each foot.”
The boy stood as Grandfather slowly began his walk. The old man's feet, now exaggerating the walking style, first touched the earth with the outside of his toes. Then he rolled onto all toes, from outside to the inside, with the heel just touching the ground. The boy saw how he placed each step softly on the earth. So different from the way most people walk, slamming their feet on the ground, heel first. He watched the next couple steps and followed.
At first, the boy felt awkward, kind of foolish, not smooth at all. But as he moved over the desert floor, awkwardness gave way to a calm, flowing movement. Walking in this way, the boy now understood why Grandfather did not take long strides. The boy’s body was jolted when he took the typical long step everyone uses, landing heel first. With shorter strides, he stayed balanced and walked lighter. It felt good.
Following Grandfather allowed him to adjust frequently, smoothing out his form. It felt like he was being carried along in Grandfather’s wake, moving through the same sphere of air the old man moved through.
They made their way back home, arriving well after dark. The boy’s walk, the way he moved across Earth Mother, forever changed that evening. He felt more connected to the ground. Maybe he could even touch a little of the beauty the old man talked of.
Chapter 26 - Death Camp
The boy wakes, startled. No idea of his place. Quickly, though, it comes rushing back: his predicament. Waking brings no relief.
The hunters are still there, at the bottom of the hill. While he slept, the day ended. Now it's full dark,
the familiar murkiness above, in the night sky and stars.
He stirs, his right arm numb from sleeping on his side. Able to take the weight off the arm now, he feels his blood flow: stinging needles in his arm, but relief.
Careful not to make noise, he rolls back toward the boulders, more on his stomach now, and looks through the gap. A fire blazes at the camp, lighting the immediate area, but no people.
“Well? What the hell you want to do?”
Jesus! The boy jumps, startled, but makes no noise. The voice is near. At the game trail.
Another voice, deeper, disturbing, speaks.
“I've decided,” it growled. “We take ‘em out. Now.”
“What?” the lighter voice gasped. “You can’t be serious. He’s your brother!"
“Don’t care,” said the growler.
Growler's talk is quiet, spooky, remote, with an iciness that means business.
"He’s injured bad. Can’t fix him. Gonna die, anyway." Growler speaks like he's used to giving orders. "Don't want our food going to the walking dead. A waste of resources. Wife has to go, too. Never liked her.”
Dead quiet.
“If you say so," agreed the other voice. “We’d be doing him a favor, yeah?”
A low rumble the boy guesses is a laugh. From Growler.
“Yeah. You could say that.” A pause in the conversation. “We need meat, anyway. Let’s go. While they’re sleeping.”
The boy hears the shuffle of moving feet going downhill.
“Like ducks in a pond,” says the Growler.
More rumbling laughter.
The boy throws up before he can catch it. At least it's quiet and quick. It feels like he's expelling something dark from their conversation. Did he hear Growler right? They need meat? The boy tries to shut down this line of thinking. He damn well knows what it means and flashes on the little girl’s body flopping like a sack that night across the street from Grandfather’s house, the night he fled.
A memory of Grandfather, something he once said when they were out on the desert, comes back to him. The old man described the desperation that would consume most people. He spoke of starvation and food not available in the usual ways. Grocery stores gone. Supply chains shut down. The only option left to people unable to survive off the land was unthinkable. Food would be found from the easiest source available. That source would be other people. The boy did not believe him then and does not want to acknowledge it now.
He's in danger here. He knows that much. It's dark. He must go.
Now.
The boy crawls from the hide, out the opposite side from the game trail. His way is across the hill, not up or down, to distance himself from this Death Camp. He does not want to hear or see them carrying out their decision.
Almost a half moon, the boy notes. Enough for him to see, even in the gloomy night. Enough to move quietly, invisibly. Fortunately, not enough light for the Death Camp to see him at this distance. He moves.
Progress across the slope is agonizingly slow at first. But the fire glow of the camp gets smaller, so he quickens his pace as he moves across the hillside.
Two sharp reports split the calm. Yelling and screaming. Like at Grandfather’s house that night.
More gunfire. Higher pitched scream. A woman’s.
Pause.
A final shot, then deathly quiet.
The boy runs, giving in to his fear. He stumbles, catches himself, and keeps moving. The panic, touched off from the gunshots and screams, overrules his caution. But his running doesn't feel uncoordinated or loud in the moonlight. Strange.
His left hand, though. Searing pain! White-hot-fire pain. In catching his fall, his hand landed on something sharp. Still, he runs.
A gully, a fold in the hill, where water from rains comes down from higher up, has cut an arroyo. He moves down into it, to the bottom, and sits on a boulder. The Death Camp is out of sight now. His hand throbs. He holds the hand in front of his face to survey the damage.
Cactus spines. Four of them. Not good.
He gingerly touches them. Sharp pain shoots from each needle, then throbs. Now what? Take time to pull the spines, or run? The Death Camp is out of sight but still too close for safety.
He looks out at the moonlit desert beyond. Glances up at the red-tinged stars and gets his bearings. Looks back out at the desert. That is his way. North, across the desert. And he needs speed to cross to the next set of hills while night lasts.
The spines must come out.
Carefully, avoiding contact with the needles, the pack comes off. In a side pocket is a multi-use knife. He remembers how Grandfather once showed him he could remove cactus spines. Using the scissors part of the knife now, he snips the tops to let the trapped air out: the minute barbs at the end of the spine become limp. Now, they'll be easier to get out.
With one hand, he adjusts the tool to get the pliers out. Awkward, but manageable.
He grips a spine with the pliers. Tests it slowly. It's still attached to his palm, but he knows it will come out. The boy pauses to listen. No sound from the Death Camp. His breathing speeds up. His mind protests, stalls his movement. He pulls hard.
Searing pain! He stifles a cry.
Quicker than expected, the fire backs off. Before he can think and hesitate, he grips another one and, again, pulls. He's crying and breathing fast to keep from screaming. Two more. He moves faster this time, his whole hand numb. Finally, the last one is out.
In a cocoon of pain, the boy holds the fire-hand in his lap, rocking until his mind comes down from the white-hot scream of pain. The hand throbs, but the barbs are out.
Slow breaths now. Time to go.
He shoulders the pack, avoids using the injured hand, descends the short distance to the desert floor, and starts to jog. There's just enough light to see obstacles. Creosote, saltbush, odd sagebrush, and sentinel saguaro cactus. He feels at home here, even in the dark, even with a throbbing hand.
Chapter 27 - Cottonwoods
The time of travel through the darkness, across the desert, is measureless. There's no way for him to know how long he's been moving. False dawn creeps up in the east, lighter in the sky now. The boy's target, the far mountain range, comes into view, so far away. His heart sinks as he looks back at the low hills near the Death Camp and then forward at his target. His best guess is he's halfway across the desert.
Full daylight soon. And he'll be exposed. The Death Camp's vehicles can cover distance fast. He's on foot. Not a fair match. Others may be out here, too, escaping the city nightmare, staking their claim, their turf, like those in the Death Camp.
“Damn,” he says in a low voice.
Then he sees it, about a mile off. A grove of big trees, cottonwoods probably. Lots of green leafage. That might work, he thinks. It is his only option. Being false dawn, there's still time to make it.
As he moves through the scrub, he does a self-check: Energy fair. Tired from walking all night, but otherwise fair. Hand a dull throb, but okay. Water good. Drank sparingly. Ate an energy bar, but on the edge of hunger. Feet still good. Shoes good.
He keeps a steady jog to the trees, glad Grandfather took him on so many hikes in the desert to condition his body.
Half an hour later, the boy stands under the first big cottonwood. The massive tree perches on the edge of a dry creek bed. He looks up and down the line of trees, then at the eastern horizon. It's brighter now.
The trees follow the line at the top edge of an arroyo. Some of them are down in the creek bed. Trunks are huge: six feet across. Up high, the leaves are thick and healthy with branches large enough to walk on.
How to get to the branches, the cover, though: that's his problem. He needs another hide, like back at the Death Camp. But this one needs to be in the air.
The lower trunks are clean, the nearest branches about twenty feet off the ground. The boy walks the c
ottonwoods along the arroyo and searches. Some trees are accessible but not climbable because of how the branches grow. Others are perfect, offering space in the foliage, but no way for him to reach the lowest branch.
There!
The base of one trunk is down in the creek bed, fifteen feet down from where he stands. A thick branch grows out from the trunk and over the edge of the arroyo. It's only six feet above his head.
Jumping, he reaches up with both hands on the same side of the limb. No good. His grip slips and he drops to the ground. The wood is smooth and slippery. He adjusts and jumps again. This time he wraps his hands and arms around each side of the branch, clasping over the top of it.
The boy hoists himself up, swinging his right leg over. Then, both pulling and pressing his body with the right leg and right arm, he manages to grope his way up onto the top of the branch. Not graceful, but with a final heave, he rights himself.
Sighting back to the main trunk, he spies his route to the thick upper branches. Another twenty feet up and he's managed to place himself in a crook large enough for his legs to stretch out on a near, horizontal branch. Another branch forks off at an angle to his right and gives him a nice notch to sit on.
The boy settles and rests his back against the main trunk, with his pack off and secured to a small branch. He takes a section of ¾-inch climbing rope from his pack. He tosses one end around the main trunk and ties himself in, tucking the remaining length in his pack. Now he can sleep and not worry about falling. The leaves, thick around him, block his view out. They will also block any view in, he calculates.
Daylight arrives as the boy finishes settling in the branches. He closes his eyes, exhausted from the past twenty-four hours. Finally, he feels some sense of safety. It's good to be off the ground and snug in the notch of this cottonwood. He falls asleep, back to his dreams.
Chapter 28 - Water
Knowing where to find water in the summer is always a challenge. In the hottest part of summer, Grandfather walked the boy into the desert during the hottest part of the day. It was above a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. To the boy, it was hell. Grandfather said nothing about why they were out on this burning landscape. Sweat formed on the boy’s face, then evaporated just as quickly. He saw Grandfather was not as miserable.
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