by Sarah Dreher
Callie’d never seen a herd that size. Never seen a herd of buffler at all, though she’d seen pictures of them in books at school, before her folks stopped letting her go to school on account of there were government men snooping around. They couldn’t risk one of the kids saying the wrong thing into the wrong ears. If the government men ever sniffed out their still, they’d kill them all first, and ask questions later. She knew that was for-sure true. She’d heard it from a cousin who was also a cousin of someone it’d happened to.
They were starting to move now. Just a little, but you could tell they were tensing. Callie took a good grip on the shirt in her hand.
There wasn’t a chance in hell—‘scuse my language, Lord—she’d be able to turn those beasts once they started running for good. Not turn them back toward the fire, anyway. But maybe she could turn them enough so those other folks could get through. She liked those other folks, the old lady and the strong one and the pretty one and the funny one. Especially the funny one. She wished she could spend more time with her. But she probably couldn’t. Not if this was going to turn out the way she figured it would— once those buffler started moving, Miss Callie Rose was a goner.
She didn’t like the way the pretty one looked. Pale. Sick. She’d felt that way, too. Right before she fell asleep and woke up trapped in this dern-fool strange place.
Maybe she’d been Voodoo’d, too, that pretty one, the one they called Gwen. Maybe someone’d gone to that old Witchin’ man back in the swamp and had a curse put on her family, like those trashy Russell’s had on theirs. Heck, maybe Gwen was even part of Callie’s clan. Wouldn’t that be a hoot ’n a hollar?
She could see the fire on the horizon now. Black clouds of smoke rolling like wild horses across the ridge.
That other one, the one they called Stoney or somethin’, had tried to tell her there wasn’t anything like Voodoo and Witchin’ men. Leastways, that was what she thought Stoney’d been trying to say. Talked funny. Like a teacher. Using big words and long sentences. She was okay, Callie guessed. A Good person. But she was in for some big surprises if she didn’t start changing her way of thinking about curses.
Well, here they came, big as life and twice as mean. The ground started bouncing, so hard Callie thought it’d shake the teeth loose in her head. Comin’ on, fast, too. She could almost look the lead cow right in the eye.
“You guys hustle it,” she shouted to her new friends. “These monsters’d as soon run you down as look at you.”
They probably couldn’t hear her, but they got the point. Stoney turned her piece of Gwen back over to the old lady and pushed them along. They all started running, best they could. Reached up with her. Passed her. Kept on going down toward the river.
Good idea, the river. If it didn’t stop the herd, it’d slow them down. And they for sure needed slowing down. They were close now. So close she could smell them. So close she could nearly read their minds. And the ground was hopping like an old busted-spring bed. Enough to make you sick.
Callie faced the herd again. Now they were so close she could feel their breath. And running like wild fire.
Callie waved her shirt. She swore.
A cow and her calf thundered toward her. She whistled.
They kept coming.
The herd noise was too loud for them to hear her now. They were too scared to think. All they could do was run. Just run and run and run until they wore out.
The calf bumped her, throwing her off balance.
The herd came on.
She went down.
Glancing back as she ran, Stoner saw her disappear beneath the ocean of brown hooves and backs.
Oh, Goddess, I hope I made the right decision.
She felt a sickness deep in her soul.
I left her to be killed.
“You did the right thing,” Aunt Hermione shouted over the din. “There was nothing to gain by trying to save her. Callie has been dead for a long time.”
Stoner nodded, but Aunt Hermione’s words didn’t help. Didn’t change the fact that she had made a decision, had decided to sacrifice Callie Rose for Gwen. Realistically, given a second chance, she would probably make the same choice again. But that didn’t mean she felt good about it.
They were at the water now. A shallow river lined with sycamore trees. The ground shook, the air was thick with dust and the thunder-sound of hooves. Grit filled her mouth and clogged her nose and scoured her eyes. She looked around wildly. The bison were coming on. Flowing like water, a torrent of fur and hooves. She could smell their fear. Trees wouldn’t stop them. Nothing would stop their panic-stricken flight.
They had to get out of the stampede’s path. They had to get across the river.
How? There was no boat, not even a floating log.
She jumped into the water and pushed her way along the bank, fighting the current, searching for something, anything...
She could swim. Aunt Hermione could swim. Marylou could probably swim, though they’d never really discussed it… after all, Marylou was hardly the type to go to the YWCA pool, and believed beaches were made for sunbathing and picnicking, not for swimming...
You’re prattling, she told her mind. Stop it.
They could all be Olympic Gold Medalists, and they wouldn’t be able to get across the river with that current, not with Gwen hanging dead weight between them.
It wasn’t going to work. They couldn’t save Gwen. They couldn’t even save themselves. They were going to die here. And she didn’t even know where they were.
She stood in the shallows, soaking wet, the current grabbing at her legs. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried. I just couldn’t...”
Something made her look up. Marylou stood on the bank, waving her arms and pointing upstream.
A small, roofed, open boat floated toward her.
She threw herself into the middle of the river, arms flailing, swimming wildly toward the boat. She had to make it.
The boat floated closer.
Now the prow was almost even with her, but it was still too far away to touch.
Stoner swam harder. Her arm and leg muscles screamed in pain. It was passing her. In a few seconds...
With a grunt she propelled herself forward, one last frantic kick with her legs, one last frantic push with her hands.
Her fingers touched wood.
Nothing to grab onto.
She felt the boat sliding away beneath her hands.
It was past her, drifting away. Their last chance. Their only chance.
Gone.
Stoner coughed up water and sputtered.
Exhausted, she felt herself sink beneath the surface.
And that was when she saw it.
A rope, trailing out behind the boat, and almost out of reach...
Almost, but not quite.
She grabbed the rope and wrapped it around her wrist. It caught, and she was pulled downstream. The momentum brought her to the surface.
Hand over hand, she dragged herself to the boat, reached over the edge, and pulled herself up.
She was too weak, too tired. Her arms slipped. She fell back into the water.
Taking a deep breath, she brought all of her concentration to a point, for one last try.
She gripped the side of the boat.
She pulled.
This time she made it.
She fell into the bottom of the boat.
She wanted to lie there forever, but there wasn’t time. She was passing the others. They huddled on the bank, while the bison herd thundered nearer. Stoner grabbed the rudder and gave it a hard push to the right. Slowly, the boat came around, the current carrying it now toward shore. Within seconds she felt the bottom scrape on sand. She held it steady.
Aunt Hermione and Marylou slipped and slid down the bank. Gwen had stopped even trying to walk. She looked unconscious. Unconscious, or...
They tossed her into the boat like a sack of flour. Aunt Hermione swung in behind her, Marylou gave the boat a sho
ve and jumped aboard. The current caught it.
Back on shore, the bison milled and snorted, stopped by the water. Shoving and jostling, they slammed into trees, uprooting even the oldest and largest. Trees under which Aunt Hermione and Marylou had been standing with Gwen only a few seconds ago.
Then, as if nothing had happened, they turned and moseyed back to the prairie, grazing as they went. As the dust settled she could see, torn and trampled into the dirt, Aunt Hermione’s sweat shirt.
There was no sign of Callie Rose.
CHAPTER 14
Stoner fell to her knees beside Gwen’s motionless body. She felt desperately for a pulse. She looked up at her aunt. “Is she...?”
“She’s alive,” Aunt Hermione said. “But barely.”
Stoner pounded on the side of the boat in frustration. She didn’t know where they were going. She didn’t know what to do. They might float like this for hours, drifting through wilderness, while Gwen...
“For Heaven’s sake, calm down,” Marylou said. “This is only a dream.”
Stoner turned on her in a rage. “It is NOT a dream. It’s real. Very real, and Gwen is dying.”
Marylou looked as if she’d been slapped. “You mean...?”
“It’s not a dream,” Stoner repeated, a little more gently.
“And Gwen is…”
“She might.”
“Callie Rose?”
“She’s been dead for about fifty years,” Stoner said.
Marylou turned around in a circle, looking at the river, the riverbanks, the boat, Aunt Hermione, Gwen. Taking it all in. Trying to make sense of it. “Well,” she said at last. “It’s beyond my comprehension.”
Gwen was breathing, softly, gently as a breeze. But it wasn’t an easy, resting kind of breathing. It was a letting-go breathing.
Please, Stoner begged her silently. Hang on, Gwen. Please, hang on.
Hang on for what? The were stuck here, floating down a river at the river’s very own pace—which had turned leisurely, almost deliberately leisurely. As if the river itself were trying to keep them from getting where they had to go.
Which was?
Back to where they had come from, she supposed. To their bodies. Maybe George and Stape had found them by now. Maybe there were police there, and EMT’s and ambulances and...
207
But she didn’t know how to get back. She didn’t even know where they were. Some place that was EPCOT but not EPCOT. Some place that was EPCOT made real.
She recalled what Gwen had said about the Characters. “When you put on the Goofy costume, do you become Goofy? Does the essence of Goofyhood enter you?”
If so, the essence of EPCOThood had entered them all. And they were stuck here, in EPCOT/not-EPCOT.
She understood now what had happened to Callie Rose. Years ago, when she died, she had somehow gotten caught between Is and Isn’t and Was and Wasn’t. Between living and dying.
Except that Gwen wasn’t caught between living and dying. Gwen was dying.
Stoner looked down at her, knowing Gwen was in the last few minutes of her life. And she couldn’t even talk to her. Couldn’t say goodbye. Couldn’t even cry. There was nothing she could do but watch her breathe, and cherish every breath, and pray for the next one. Just one more, Gwen. Just one more.
Someone touched her. “Stoner.”
She looked up.
“It’s time to move her,” Aunt Hermione said
Move her? We can’t move her. There’s nowhere to go…
The boat had stopped. They had drifted to shore and were bobbing in the shallows, the boat’s wood scraping against a dock with a soft squeaking noise.
Beyond the dock stretched a lawn with a gigantic sycamore. Beyond the sycamore was a house, two-storied, made of weathered wood, with a front porch. Beyond the porch an open door led to an entry hall. In a kitchen beyond the hall a kerosene light burned. Behind the house, the sun was rising. A small tan, long-haired dog lay curled up asleep at the base of the tree, tethered by a rope.
She knew the place.
Marylou scrambled from the boat and tied it to the dock.
“Can you lift her?” Aunt Hermione asked.
Knees bent, Stoner slipped one arm beneath Gwen’s shoulders, the other under her knees. She tried to stand, but Gwen’s unconscious weight was too much. She shook her head.
Aunt Hermione slipped to Gwen’s other side. “We can do it,” she said. “Just give me a second.” She took a deep breath, held it, drew in a little more, held it, then exhaled slowly. She repeated the action, then again, until she had drawn seven breaths. She smiled. “The Seven Breaths of Artemis,” she said. “Very invigorating. It takes you to another plane. Rather like LSD without the side effects. Now...” She slid her arms under Gwen, grasped Stoner’s elbows, and lifted.
Gwen’s body felt as light as a pillow between them. They carried her to the side of the boat and placed her gently on the dock.
For the first time, Stoner noticed how chilly the air was without her shirt. The kind of damp chill that comes at dawn in the summer, rising from the ground and smelling of soil, mixing with the warm air to make the leaves rustle uneasily in the gray dawn light. She tried to remember where she had lost her shirt. The last time she could recall having it was when the bison were coming toward them. She supposed she had left it behind with Callie Rose.
Aunt Hermione was shirtless, too. Her milky, almost translucent skin was goose-bumpy. Her naked breasts were still round and firm as a young woman’s. She noticed Stoner watching her, and smiled. “I’m sure we’ll find something to wear inside. Personally, I enjoy going sky-clad, even under these circumstances. But I know you find it disconcerting.”
They bent again and lifted Gwen and carried her toward the house. The little dog followed as far as his rope would permit, then sat back on his haunches and complained. As they reached the porch, the front screen door opened.
“Hey,” said Callie Rose. “I thought you’d never get here.”
* * *
David’s eyes glittered dangerously. Tunes was respectful enough of his work when she wanted something from him. But, when push came to shove, she was just like the rest of them. He was tired of being treated like trash. The only person who’d been halfway decent to him since he got out of prison had been the woman he’d snatched. Sure, she’d let him think she was someone she wasn’t, but that was to be expected. That was part of how you played the game. It just showed she understood what was going on, and had an appreciation of what it involved.
Saying she wanted to have his baby was probably a lie, too. He was sorry about that. It would have been fun, although if he was really honest with himself he had to admit he was beginning to find the responsibility daunting. So he was a little relieved, at the same time that he was disappointed. The fact that she’d done that, played him along—well, that was part of the process, too. At least she never tried to put him down. And he’d never even told her how he felt about being put down. Not like he’d told Tunes, a hundred times at least. Christ, he’d even paid her to understand him, and what good did it do?
She had turned her back on him again, and was starting to climb the metal ladder. She wasn’t even afraid of him. It made him furious. It made him want to call her names he’d never call any woman, names only crude, brutish men used.
“Are you coming?” she snapped, not even having the decency to look around.
He didn’t answer.
She had reached the top of the ladder, and pushed against the trap door. It wouldn’t give. She pushed again, harder, muttering angrily.
David just stood there and watched.
“What’s the matter with you?” she barked. “Give me a hand with this.”
He started up the ladder until, by reaching up, he could just touch her foot. He wrapped one hand around her ankle. “Fucking bitch,” he said, and gave her a yank.
Millicent Tunes tumbled from the ladder and hit the cement floor hard. She sat up, rubbing one e
lbow. “What the hell has gotten into you?”
David drew his gun.
* * *
“Geez,” Callie Rose said, “I’ve been waitin’ and waitin’.” She held the screen door open while they carried Gwen inside.
Marylou stared at her. She shook her head. “Not real,” she said.
The interior of the house was cool and dark. Ahead of them was a staircase, leading to a landing with high windows and a window seat, then turning to continue to the second story. To the left a formal-looking parlor with stiff furniture. On the right a door led to a small bedroom, outfitted with a metal bed painted a chipping white. A hand made quilted comforter of bright colors lay on the bed. A rough dresser held a deep china wash bowl and matching ewer in a faded, cracked tea rose pattern. Curtains made from burlap grain bags hung at the window.
Callie Rose let the screen door go with a “bang.” The dog yapped.
“Best put her down there,” she said, and pointed to the bed. “Looks about done in.”
“That’s about it,” Stoner said as they lowered Gwen gently to the bed. Aunt Hermione wrapped the quilt around her. “Is there anyone else here?”
“Not so far as I can tell,” Callie Rose said. She looked at them and gave a little laugh. “You folks don’t look half decent. What’d you do, swim the river?”
“Close,” Stoner said. “How did you get here?”
Callie Rose shrugged. “Just showed up. There’s some shirts ought to fit you in that closet.”
Stoner held Gwen’s hand. It was cool, but not cold. It didn’t feel dead. Not yet.
Her aunt tossed her a soft, faded hounds tooth checked shirt. “I hope, when we return, we return to our own clothes,” she said. “It’s taken me years to get that sweat shirt just right.”
She found it comforting that Aunt Hermione believed they’d return. That she didn’t know what condition they’d be in was not comforting.
Gwen’s breathing seemed a little deeper. Or maybe it was her imagination. Stoner shook herself. She had to stop just standing around staring at Gwen and worrying. It wasn’t helping any of them, and it wasn’t getting them back.