The New Wild (9 page)

I take a mental picture of the
diagram. I vaguely remember learning all this stuff when I was a kid. But why
bother retaining it when the only directions I needed were how to get to the
grocery store, school, the mall, and home?

“Wow, I had no idea,” I say.

“Well, now you know.”

“Jeez, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me now. You still
leaving this morning?”

I gulp. “Yes, yes I am,” I say,
looking over at Xander.

“It’s pretty cold out there,”
Annie says sadly.

“I know. I have to go, though.”

Joseph turns to me. “You know, if
we thought Ezekial were alive somewhere, Annie and I would walk over miles of
coals to be with him again,” he says, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

“In a heartbeat,” Annie says.
“Come upstairs, let’s see what we can find for you to wear.”

She opens Ezekial’s trunk and
pulls out a long, gray, wool coat, a chocolate brown hat, and tan leather
gloves, all hand-sewn. Of course, they’re too big for me, but I’m so happy to
have them I squeeze Annie tight enough to make her eyes pop. Xander sticks his
head in the door. “Annie, do you happen to have anything I could wear? I’m
going with her.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Annie exclaims.
“I was scared for her,” she adds, casting a sympathetic look my way. “I think
Joseph has an old coat and hat you can have.”

“That’s awesome, thank you. This
hair doesn’t keep me as warm as it looks.”

Annie smiles warmly. “Don’t worry,
we’ll get you ready.”

* * *

We leave
at maybe eight o’clock in the morning. Joseph kindly offers to drive us in the
buggy as far as he’ll get by mid-afternoon. “A good bit,” he says. The kids
grab our legs tightly, begging us to stay. Joseph pries them off us and gives
us his old canvas tent as a good-bye gift. I leap into his arms. Without that
thing, I’m positive we’d freeze to death before we reach the Mississippi. Annie
calls us both into the kitchen and hands me a worn leather bag the size of a toiletry
kit. Inside, several tiny glass bottles clink. “That’s our spare medicine kit,”
she says, shooting me a look. “I hope you won’t need it, but you never know
when you’ll get into a scrape. There’s a few cotton bandages, a couple bottles
of whiskey as antiseptic, pumpkin seeds to rid the belly of parasites, and chicory,
which works as a laxative,” she says. “Again, I pray you’ll never have to use
any of it, but just in case,” she says before she hands Xander a pail of food
and kisses us each on both cheeks with tears in her eyes. “You’ll get home
safe,” she says, with a little waver in her voice. “The Lord will get you home
safe.”

Let’s freaking hope so
.

Their horse is an old, burly
thing, with kind brown eyes and a hunched but capable back. Joseph hitches the
buggy to him quickly. We’ve got to get going.

When we pull away from the barn,
the cold air hits my face like a slap. Up ahead, the forest of autumn trees is
ablaze in color. Before we get too far, I look back at the house, set like an
apparition in the chilled farmland. Ezekiel’s tree is swaying slightly, bracing
against the wind. From its branches, two flowers have fallen, leaving only
four.

Joseph
drives us through the autumn woods, over a brook collecting ice at its edges, and
past a few other tidy Amish houses. Leaves
—
nut-brown leaves, yellow leaves, leaves so red they could
burst into flame
—
are everywhere, cast over the ground and dangling from the
highest branches of the trees. Every once in a while, we pass a jee-bow that
turns a light shade of turquoise as we pass—the color of hope, I’ve
learned. Above us, the sunlit sky is filled with flocks of birds—mostly
geese flying south for the winter in perfect formation. Looking up at them, my
heart is oddly filled with envy. What I would give for wings.

It’s nice to be carted around by
Joseph and his old mare, though. Every few minutes, our wagon wheels roll on so
smoothly that I almost fall asleep, but whenever my eyes drift closed for more
than a second, we hit a tiny boulder or ditch and my whole body lurches up into
the air, waking me instantly. Xander laughs every time it happens, and every
time, I punch him in the gut.

“I think it’s about two o’clock,”
Joseph says as we emerge from the woods and onto another long stretch of empty
plains. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to leave you here. I can’t let Annie alone
with those kids too long. They’re liable to run amok on her.”

My legs ache thinking of the walk
we have ahead, but I’m grateful for the ride we’ve had.

“Joseph, seriously,
thank
you
for taking us this far,” Xander says.

“Yes, thank you so much,” I
second.

“Not a worry. We’ll be praying for
you kids, and I know Ezekiel’s gonna do all he can for you,” he says, tearing
up through his broad smile. We both give him giant hugs. “Remember the stars. Everything
you need to know, you’ve got,” he says, cracking the whip. “Git up now.”

We watch the buggy until it
becomes a small, black dot shifting across the horizon. I look up and thank the
sky for Joseph, for Annie, for the kinds of people who will give you their tent
and clothes and warmth. We’ve got a good amount of things to schlep now, but I
think we really need all of them. Besides the tent, axe, and the stuff Deb gave
me, we have two wool sweaters each, heavy coats, hats, and old leather gloves, my
canvas bag filled with the medicine kit, knife and flint, mason jars, tin cans,
and the like, the clothes we left Camp Astor with, my inimitable compass, and
dread swirling in our bellies.

From where Joseph dropped us, we
walk on for days, stopping every night to pitch the tent along some tiny stream
or pond if we can find one. The air has gotten cooler. Every morning, my jar of
water is crusted over with ice. Xander and I try to keep our chins up, but
neither of us is too proud to cling to the other’s warm body when we bed down.
The tent is so cold you can see your breath puffing out of your lungs.

I’d say we’re somewhere in Indiana
now. The dark, lush forests have given way to shimmering fields of waist-high
golden wheat, dancing in the wind. It’s near sunset, and instead of the
swooping, purple-eyed bats or twinkling fireflies, we are eaten blood and bone
by mosquitoes the size of my fingernails. I know they’re just trying to eke out
a living, like us, but I still want every one of them dead. Xander takes rapturous
delight in slapping me to kill them, especially when they’ve landed on my face.
I slap him right back, but unlike him, I don’t hold back.

“Hey!” he shouts, after a
particularly strong blow.

“What? That was a huge one. She
wasn’t going down without a fight.”

“Dude, if there isn’t skeeter
blood all over my face right now, I swear,” he says, feeling his left cheek and
pulling his fingers in front of his eyes. No blood.

“Damn it, woman!”

“Hey! I’m sorry! She musta flown
off.”

“You have
got
to be kidding
me,” he mutters.

“Sorry,” I offer lamely.

“No you’re not,” he sneers.

At dusk, we stumble upon a weird,
overgrown junkyard. There’s a tiny stream running through it, along with some
barbed wire peeking out of the brush, charred and swarmed with ivy. A blacked-out
truck with one enormous blue beech tree shooting out of its sunroof sits askew
near the center. I build a rip-roaring fire, and we cook up the emerald-headed
pheasant Xander caught by hand this morning, then call it a night.

I fall asleep quickly, as soon as
it gets dark, and my dreams come on fast and clear. Mom, Bernard, and I are
eating a picnic at Mount Tabor, looking over Portland, but for some whack
reason, my mom is my age—pretty and goofy and weird and laughing at
everything Bernard says. I’m so happy I wish I could stay in this dream
forever. But sometime in the middle of the night, I’m shaken awake, and it all
fades to black. The reality of the tent at what must be three in the morning
smacks me in the face. I turn to Xander to yell at him for jostling me, but
he’s still passed out, boar-snoring. I freeze. I could have sworn someone
pushed me. All of a sudden I feel it again—a rumbling. The ground is
shaking. Holy God. Earthquake!

I poke Xander in the face
repeatedly and shout in his ear. “Xander! We’re having an earthquake! What do
we do?
What do we do
?”

The whole tent is quivering around
us, and I think the thin metal poles will collapse any second. Xander’s eyes
are still glued shut. Typical.

“Xander! We’re going to die! Wake
up! Imminent death!”

“Wha?” he barks, peeling his eyes
open and sitting up quickly, hitting his head on the roof of the tent. “What?
God! What is it?”

“Feel that? The ground,” I say.

He doesn’t say jack, just puts his
palms down against the earth. “It’s rumbling all right,” he resigns.

“Do we have to run from an
earthquake when there aren’t any buildings?” I ask, panicked.

“Uh, no, but this isn’t an
earthquake, Portland.”

“What do you mean? Of course it
is!”

Xander shakes his head. “No, dear.
Listen to Montana, will you? I’d say we’ve got a whole herd of wild horses on
our hands.”

“What?” I gasp.

“Dozens of hooves running,” he
says, ear to the ground. “Maybe hundreds. They’re racing right outside.”

For a second, I look at him in
disbelief. Then I listen
—
really listen
—
to the rumblings underneath me. It’s true, the vibration
feels like running. The pounding of the earth by a zillion hooves. But horses?
Could horses really make the whole freaking tent shake?

Slowly, I peak my head out into
the night. I’m scared I’ll see them coming straight for us. But in the darkness,
all I can make out are stars twinkling everywhere. The ground looks black, like
nothing. But beyond the car-tree thing, way out over the fields, I think I can
see a dark mass moving swiftly across the horizon.

When I
tell Xander it seems like they’re headed the other way, he flops down again and
passes out, devil-may-care. The rumblings get softer and softer until I fall
asleep, too. I have weird dreams again, this time about a massive earthquake,
and I hear a child wailing sometimes, like something god-awful is happening and
she can’t do anything to stop it.

When I wake up, the sun is shining
through the opening flap of the tent. I look outside, and the wheat and grass look
like stocks of gold, so bright they hurt my eyes. Either I’m going crazy, or
I’m still half-asleep because I can still hear that crying sound, loud and
unmistakable.

I poke Xander. “Do you hear that?”
I ask.

“Mmm
…
” he says, snuggling deeper into his
half of the blanket.

“Xander, someone’s crying.”

He lifts his head up slowly,
opening his eyes. He tilts his head from side to side until his neck cracks. “
What-you-say-woman
?”

“Listen,” I urge. “What the hell
is that?”

The wailing has gotten so loud it
sounds like it’s right outside our tent. I cannot take care of a baby, or a
kid, or
shit
right now. We can barely feed ourselves.

“There’s only one way to find
out,” Xander says, eyebrows raised gamely.

We cautiously open the flap and
crawl out from under the canvas. I hold the axe in my right hand, in case some
toddler is getting mauled by a bear out there.

I scan the perimeter. To the right
of the big tree, an absolutely enormous yellow horse is lying in the grass.
It’s so large we can only see its rear, but it appears to be caught in the
barbed wire that seems to be everywhere in this junky junkyard. Its whole body
is struggling and shaking, trying relentlessly to break free and stand again. I
can’t believe a
horse
is making those awful cries—they sound
so human.

Xander looks over at me,
wide-eyed. I can tell he’s scared.

“Give me the axe, Jackie,” He says
softly.

I hand it over without a fight.

He slowly approaches the back of
the horse, which starts squealing louder and louder. It’s such an unnatural
sound I want to cover my ears.

“Both the back and front legs are
tangled up in that shit,” Xander says. “Jesus.”

Xander takes a step closer, and
the horse whinnies so loudly I swear I jump ten feet into the air. He murmurs,
“There, there, pony,” in his deep, soothing voice, and the horse flips out. It
starts screaming and bucking its legs, trying to break free. Every time it
moves, though, the barbs in the wire dig deeper and deeper into its honey-yellow
coat. I can see several places on its hind legs where blood slowly trickles
from the cuts.

“Xander, stop!” I call after him. “I
think it’s scared of you.”

“What are you talking about?”

At the sound of his voice, the
horse freaks out yet again, squealing so loudly Xander almost drops the axe.

“Okay! Okay!” he says, backing up
to stand next to me. “Here,” he whispers into my ear. “You try.”

I haven’t been near a horse since
the seventh grade when Mom treated me to a trail ride at Mountain View Resort.
I remember they gave me the slowest, meekest-looking horse, and even
it
terrified
me.

I creep up slowly behind this one,
muttering niceties the whole time. “Pretty horse,
just relax
, I
will free you soon.” My heart is pounding.

It’s definitely not scared of me
like it is of Xander, because I can walk right up to it. It cries softly. The
axe is useless. I toss it on the ground and delicately lift the wires with my
fingers, untangling them as I go. Girls have a lot of practice with such things.
My jewelry box at home was always full of a huge jumble of clumps I had to
loosen.

When I get the hind legs free, the
horse sighs with relief, its whole back rising up and down in a satisfied moan.
I make my way to the front legs. As I get closer, I get a good look at the
horse. Its fur may be honey yellow, but its mane is platinum blond, cascading
down its head in such shiny, straight strands they look Made-in-China fake. The
horse suddenly lifts its head from the tall grass to get a look at me, and my
heart almost stops in my chest. It’s not a horse. It’s not a pony, a stallion,
or a mare. I can hardly believe it myself, but there’s a three-foot long,
gleaming gold dagger coming out of its forehead. It’s a goddamned
unicorn
.

“Xander?” I say, softly.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

“This is
…
” I’m scared to say it.
I’m going to sound ridiculous, and he’s totally going to laugh. “This is a
unicorn,” I spit out quickly.

“What?” he says. Apparently, I was
not only speaking quickly, I was unintelligible.

“This. Is. A. Unicorn,” I
enunciate.

Xander pauses for a second,
blinking at me. Then his face collapses into a relaxed smile.

“
Riiiiiight
,” he
says.

“It is,” I insist.

“You know, hold that thought. I’m
gonna go ask the sparkle fairy over there if I can borrow a cup of sugar. I’m
making cookies for the Queen.”

“Xander, I am not fucking kidding,”
I say through clenched teeth. I don’t want to set the unicorn off.

“Uh huh.”

All right, fine. If he wants to
play that way, I’ll show him myself.

I can’t believe this thing. As I
softly pry the wires away from its front legs, unlocking their screwy puzzle,
the unicorn lifts its head and looks straight into my eyes. It’s breathing
heavily. The tall grass blades in front of its nose rustle with each
exhalation.

When all the wires are loose from
its front legs, the unicorn rocks back and forth and rolls onto its feet. I can
hardly breathe. It looked big lying down, but standing, it must be thirteen
feet tall.

“Oh, my,
Jesus
,”
Xander says, looking up in disbelief. “Hot damn.”

“Told you,” is all I can say. I
can’t really think right now. This is the craziest, most amazing thing I’ve ever
seen. Crazier than the jee-bows and the purple bats combined. I instantly think
of May—she would’ve shit her pants to see this.

For a moment, the unicorn stands
there and we stand there, too, both of us staring at the other. I pull all the
barbed wire away from it so it doesn’t get caught again, and the thing rears
back on two legs, whinnying. I run to Xander, and we crouch behind the tent.
She gallops in circles around us for a few minutes, takes a sip or two from the
stream, then stands still in the golden wheat behind me. I’m still crouched
down, but it puts its wet muzzle right on my head. I squeal.

Dumb-ass Xander reaches out his
arm to pet it, and the unicorn lunges at it, opening its jaws to bite. This is
no greeting card unicorn. It has fangs like a tiger, and
most-definitely
eats meat. We scream at the top of our lungs. When Xander backs away, it turns
its attention to me. It steps closer, softly, gingerly. It’s almost like she’s
trying not to scare me.

“That thing is in love with you,
Jackie,” Xander says softly, trying not to irritate the beast.

“No it’s n—” I start to say,
but then it pushes its flat snout against the space between my eyes and
breathes heavily like—yes—like it’s in love. My whole body shakes. We
stand with our faces pressed together like that for several minutes. Its fur is
surprisingly soft and silky, and it smells oddly sweet, like cinnamon. There’s
a big, white patch of diamond-shaped hair on her chest.

“All right woman, what are we
gonna do, stand here all day? Let’s get outta here,” Xander says. I know he’s
right. But this is so freaking awesome I want to enjoy it for a little while
longer.

I rub the unicorn’s forehead and
run my fingers through its mane. When I scratch behind her ears, she starts to
purr, softly, like a cat. Her whole chest is vibrating with the purring sound,
but Xander’s totally over it. He’s rolling up our tent and rolling his eyes at
the same time.

“Help me, will you? This stuff
isn’t going to pack itself.”

I pick up a few of our dangling
items—tin cans and a loose glove—and look back at the unicorn.
She’s still staring at me, unmoving.

“Let’s get a move on,” Xander
says.

“‘Kay,” I say, patting the unicorn’s
long, doll-like hair.

“See you later,” I whisper.

We start to walk away from the
sunrise, west, out of the junkyard and into the endless plateaus of rolling
wheat. I hear four hooves clomping along behind us.

“It’s following us,” Xander says
softly.

“I know,” I say.

I look back and catch it strolling
about ten feet behind, keeping pace and looking straight at me.

“Shoo!” Xander shouts, waving his
arms. The unicorn bares her teeth at him. But then she turns to me and arranges
her snout into what I can only describe as a smile.

“This is so weird!” I whisper.

“Tell me about it.”

“When did people believe in these
again?” I ask him.

“Shit, I don’t know. Do you think
I keep up with unicorn facts?” he says incredulously.

“I feel like all that unicorn lore
started in the Middle Ages. That’s what I remember,” I say, looking back into
its huge brown eyes. “I can’t get over that they’re real now. She’s so pretty.”

The unicorn gallops in circles
around us, stopping us dead in our tracks. After the third or fourth time
around, she slows and pauses right in front of me. She turns so her back is to
my right and softly, gingerly, kneels to the ground.

“Oh my God,” Xander whispers.

“What?”

“She wants you to get on.”

“No,” I say. There’s no way.

“Jackie,
she wants you to get
on
.”

I look over at her. She’s looking
right at me, every so often flicking her eyes back to where the saddle would
sit if she were wearing one.

“Holy crap.”

“You better do as she tells you,
woman. I would not wanna mess with that pony,” Xander says.

I inhale deeply. I can barely
catch my breath. I can’t believe I’m about to throw my leg over a freaking unicorn
the size of an elephant, with fangs for teeth, no less. I crouch a little and
slowly swing my right leg over the small of her back. When she’s got her legs
bent under her like this, she’s about as tall as my mom’s mahogany four-post
bed. It takes me a second, but eventually, I’m nestled into the inverted arch
of her back. Her whole body is warm, and so soft, softer than any horsehair
I’ve ever felt. The minute she knows I’m steady, she pushes up on all fours and
starts to walk.

“Jackie, you are not leaving me
here to schlep while you ride off into the distance,” Xander says, jogging
after us.

“Hey, it’s not my fault this horse
don’t like wang,” I laugh.

“Just let me try to get on,” he
says. He reaches for her coat, placing his hand on her rump for only a
split-second before she jumps three feet into the air and glares back at him,
shrieking.

“Okay, okay! Nevermind! Sorry I
bothered,” he backpedals.

“Ha! Walk, boy!” I say, though I
honestly feel bad for him. All this walking is hard work. I wasn’t sure how
much longer I could keep it up.

“Oh my God, Jackie. I hate you so
much right now,” he grumbles, trailing behind us.