The meat is better than he remembers when he ate it with Grandfather. Resting his back against the cottonwood, he watches the charred section writhe in the fire; the fat on the skin flares up then dies down.
First kill.
He'll never forget this taste. Again, he thanks the rabbit for its sacrifice. The boy notes how slow he's chewed each bite, so different from how he used to eat in the old life, always rushing, cramming down the food, especially when he lived in New Orleans. Now, he moves at a slower pace. That's it. He's moving at the pace of the earth. And he sees how the entire day was preparation for this moment. The chunk of meat in his mouth becomes even tastier at this revelation.
He eats every morsel of meat until only bone is left. He washes the grease from his hands and examines the small skeleton, shredded from his eating.
He knows what to do. Carcass in hand, he stands and walks out the entrance to the canyon into the desert night. He turns left and walks for a distance, searching for the right spot.
There!
The boy weaves his way around sage and claret cactus, the scarlet flowers a deep red in the darkness, to a car-size boulder. Under an exposed corner, he tucks the skeleton as far in as it will go. Desert animals will make use of it, and the boulder will conceal it from anyone searching out here for him. A part of him laughs at the thought of being searched for. Who would find this little rabbit carcass out here in the middle of nowhere and trace it back to him? Yet, he was taught to always expect the unexpected, to remember that the smallest detail might be discovered and point the way to him. A lesson that Grandfather drilled into him time and again.
Returning to his hidden canyon, he pauses outside the entrance and takes in the desert night as if he can inhale it. Beautiful. A mild temperature floats up off the desert floor, enfolding him in soft comfort.
Then, in the east, he sees a huge, red orb. Slowly peeking over the black edge of the earth, a full moon rises. Stunning.
As it rises, it reluctantly separates from the dark line of the horizon, the way water drops on a glass windowpane pull away from each other as they slide down the glass. The beautiful red orb transforms to a burnt orange as it climbs higher.
Hypnotized by its raw beauty, the boy stands on the open desert amid brittlebush and creosote and scattered ocotillo, all of it darkly outlined in the moonlight. His arms hang loosely at his sides as the soft night breeze caresses his face.
He discovers an inner knowing, like the other inner knowings that helped him flee the city and leave on the quad after the desert war. But this is a new one.
He is not afraid, out here by himself. In the wildness. On the desert floor. In the hidden canyon. On the mesa tops.
The quiet voice in his gut confirms this. There is danger out here. But that danger comes from those walking on two legs. At this moment, he knows the safety in his surroundings. Grandfather said the earth will take care of us if we let her.
The boy crouches down and places his opened left palm on the desert floor like Grandfather would do.
“Thank you,” he says, then smiles into the night. “Thank you, Earth Mother.”
Chapter 38 - Ally
Another first light. He's always awake at first light now. Even the murky sky, keeping the canyon in darkness longer, doesn't keep him from waking. It's like his eyes sense the arrival of morning and simply open. Time to start the day. It's the third morning since waking up in the canyon. Life has been full of essentials for survival. Yesterday, he took another rabbit, and the boy had meat a second time. But now it's time to be on the move again. No lounging like he did in his bed in his house on Saturday mornings. Saturday? He's already almost forgotten about the days of the week. How things change.
Down at the spring, he forages a breakfast of plantain and miners lettuce and combines it with pemmican from his pack. He eats the pemmican sparingly.
No fire.
He sees dew on leaves and rocks, studies their wetness, and licks the small droplets off both. Not much is gathered, but it's another water source in this dry land. Licking the drops off a softball-sized rock, an image pops into his mind of how comical he must look, crouching on all fours, face down to the ground, licking a rock. But he's not bothered by the image.
Standing at his campsite, he studies the ground, moves to his pack, stashes his gear inside, and sets it down behind the cottonwood tree, outside the boundary of camp. Again, he surveys the area. All tracks have to be erased. All sign of his being here must disappear. The place must look the way it did before he arrived.
He smoothens out the sand where he slept and covers the fire pit with earth and sand. With a handful of long grass, he brushes away all his tracks, carefully working from the water's edge back to the cottonwood. Finally, he grabs armfuls of dry leaves and throws them into the air above the area to simulate fallen leaves.
From the cottonwood, he again scans the area. A few vague signs of his encampment remain, but he decides they are minor. Satisfied, he grabs his pack and starts off toward the cut in the wall that leads upward. He makes a mental note to observe the next campsite closely before setup. Also, he does a quick check of his gear:
Journal in plastic baggie, right side cargo pocket.
Gear and water in pack.
Rabbit pelts strapped on, hanging on back of pack.
Throwing stick in left hand.
Knife in sheath on right hip.
Check!
Standing at the cut, he pauses to look back across the floor of the sanctuary. He’s grown here, in Grandfather’s way—his way, now. An upward nod of his chin to salute the spirit of the canyon, and he turns and climbs the slope to the mesa top. It feels good to be on the move again.
On top, he feels exposed after being in the hidden canyon. Still, he must keep moving. It is fruitless to return to the sanctuary, and dangerous to stay in one place too long.
The sky carries some remnant of the murkiness from the night, but he's able to orient to the north, and starts walking. It's bare on this mesa top, except for small stands of bottlebrush and yucca plants, which makes for easy movement across the landscape. He takes note of white sage in patches along the way.
His mind wanders as he walks. Keeping his eyes vigilant for any sign of danger, he muses over the question of the sky's murkiness. Official reports were unclear. News sources speculated and guessed at the sudden change. Some suggested it was atmospheric dust from volcanoes. Others guessed space dust dropped into the stratosphere, altering its color. No definite explanation. But someone out there knows, in some government office somewhere. Back east, maybe, in the nation's capitol. The boy realizes this is wasted thinking. Can't do anything about it. Can't run away from it. The sky change is simply another part of his daily reality, always here now.
The boy takes in the surrounding country. He checks the position of the sun, an automatic reflex for him now. Sun's on his left. His way is north, to the Red Cliffs, wherever they are.
He’s glad to have the hat and bandana. Though the elevation is higher here, it's getting hotter, closer to summer. He still needs to get to higher elevations before full summer and its scorching heat arrive.
His mind makes notes of all he's thinking. He has no writing material, no technology with software for typing and saving notes. He must commit it all to memory, not a process he's used to. He prefers writing notes, but no matter. Nothing to do about it now. What does matter now, his stomach rumbles, is finding food.
In the hidden canyon, he read about plants in the journal. Prickly pear cactus and yucca are good sources of food. He's experienced the benefits of prickly pear, and the flowers of both prickly pear and yucca are edible at this time of year. Also, the buds beneath the prickly pear flowers are edible. The cactus barbs are tricky. Involuntarily, the boy flexes the hand scarred from his experience with the barbs. Grandfather suggested roasting the buds to burn off needles or cutting them with a knife.
Hard to eat those while moving, though. Yucca fruit, according to the journal, can be snapped off and eaten while traveling.
To the boy’s relief, he spies banana yucca. The plants are everywhere on the mesa. Stopping at one of the single-stalk plants, he examines the cream-colored fruit. Six or more grow on each plant's stalk. He surveys the surrounding area. Some stalks are loaded with them.
He plucks off a single fruit and tastes it. Not bad. A little moisture in the leaf, and it's somewhat satisfying. Careful not to pick all the fruit from one plant, he gathers a single fruit then moves to a different plant. As he eats, his walk becomes a zigzag across the mesa top, forcing him to recheck his position to stay on course.
A dozen helpings of the small fruit, and he's full. Collecting twice that amount and storing them in a plastic Ziploc, he stashes the baggie in an outside pocket of the pack. He hoists his pack while doing a perimeter check of his surroundings on the mesa top. Be present, he reminds himself. Be aware at all times.
It occurs to the boy these little habits are showing themselves more frequently each day, more habitual than conscious.
Thank you, Grandfather.
His visual sweep retraces his route already taken. A hundred yards back, he sees movement. He's sure of it. Something's back there, moving in a rhythmic pace, unhurried. It’s a pale color, weaving and plodding around the sparse plants of the mesa and walking his direction.
His first response: drop to the ground! But before crouching, the moving thing comes into focus. It's a pale-colored horse.
The ghost horse!
The boy watches with anticipation. The horse's head bobs slightly in cadence with its steady gait.
Where the hell did you come from?
Where has it been for three days? Waiting? For him? Or did it pick up the boy’s trail at some point this morning?
After the questions, the emotions well up. This horse saved him from dying, brought him to the spring in the hidden canyon, left him there with water and food and life. It didn't ask for anything. Few humans would do that without asking for something in return.
The rhythm of the hoofs striking the hard ground mesmerized him. The horse walks straight to him. It blows through its nostrils as it gets closer. Smelling him? It stops a foot away from the boy's face.
The boy reaches out and touches the muzzle. The horse shakes its head, then stands motionless. The boy's vaguely aware of something wet rolling down his cheeks. He looks into the horse's eyes and quietly thanks it for saving him. A warmth grows in the boy’s chest: gratitude.
He moves his open hand down the horse's muzzle, more than once. The horse stands still. A closer look reveals this four-legged friend is old. Gray hair in places. And the coat's color is so unusual, different than other horse he's seen. Pale red with small, soft plum-colored spots. Ghostlike. The dark eyes are bright and peaceful. They scrutinize him.
“We traveling together, Ghost?” He tries out the name.
Ghost stares at the boy without fear. It's calm and solid in its place out here in the wilderness.
The boy turns and walks. Ghost follows. They walk single file across the mesa, plodding through the dry landscape, boy in front, horse behind.
Chapter 39 - Disagreement
Ten miles of level walking, and the boy and the horse transition to a new landscape. A few hundred yards north of where they stand, a steep range cuts across their path. It rises a thousand feet above their level. The mesa runs into the foot of this range, forcing them to make a choice. They can climb the range or choose another way. Full darkness is only an hour away. The boy does not want to camp on the mesa. It's too exposed. His eyes scrutinize the terrain ahead as he steels himself for the climb—not an easy one, over brush and boulders to the top.
“You up for a climb?” he says to Ghost.
He turns as he asks this, but the horse has walked off to the east, away from the range ahead.
“Wait," he half shouts at Ghost. "Where are you going?”
The horse keeps its steady, familiar gait, not hesitating or stopping at the sound of the boy's voice. The boy, torn with indecision, looks beyond the horse to try and discover why it's going that way. The mesa abruptly stops about a half mile from where he stands and then, he guesses, drops off into some valley.
He follows, giving into the horse's decision. Jogging to catch up, he falls in step behind Ghost and wonders who's directing this journey. His bewilderment at the horse's actions becomes curiosity.
When they reach the eastern edge of the mesa, the horse veers right without hesitation. The boy follows. They step onto a small game trail that angles down a steep slope. The boy stops and looks into a wide canyon stretching out below them. Green trees wind along the bottom of the canyon, disappearing north on one end, southeast on the other. He catches up to Ghost.
The boy can't help smiling. The horse is good at finding water. The ribbon of trees below them, mostly cottonwoods, tell of water and shelter for the night and game for food.
Nice.
Loose stones roll under his foot, and the boy realizes he’d better focus. Further down the game trail, Ghost keeps its pace, sure footed. He follows.
At the bottom, the horse stops. The boy, scanning the area, nearly walks into the horse's rear flank. He pulls up short of the horse and surveys the creek bottom.
The ground is flat here, the creek about eighty paces away. Cottonwoods, oaks, and jumbles of man-sized boulders are scattered throughout the area. He sees the horse’s nostrils flare rhythmically, smelling. Its ears move, listening. Fascinated, the boy watches the horse’s caution.
Clearly, it's checking for danger. He recalls how Grandfather paused to check for danger the night they moved into the Barrier, the night they fled New Orleans. So similar.
Satisfied, Ghost walks forward in a straight line to the creek. Once there, it drops its head and drinks. The boy follows, stands next to the horse, rests his right hand on its back, and looks around.
Short sucking sounds from the horse's drinking mingle with the soft sound of water over stones. There's a good feel to this place. The thick cottonwood canopy hides them from being spotted up on the mesa tops. Quiet, except for soft rustling leaves and running water.
The Ghost, done with drinking, walks through the creek to the other side and up the far bank. The boy follows, hopping across on rocks to stay dry. The sandy ground on the other side banks up a few feet, where annual spring floods cut away at the desert silt. Willows, cottonwoods, and smaller oaks grow on this side of the creek.
He drops his pack and fishes out the straw water filter, walks back to the creek and drinks his fill using the straw. Some spring water from the sanctuary camp is still in his bottle, but he'll save that for tomorrow's walk.
The advancing evening delivers muted rays from the sun and shoots bolts of soft reddish-pink light across the top of the canyon. Beautiful. He stands, turns, and walks up the bank. He surveys this side of the canyon, top to bottom. No sign of movement. Animal or man. His eyes lower to where he’d dropped his pack.
No pack. No horse.
What the hell?
He walks to the spot. Horse tracks move further back, away from the creek, toward the canyon wall, into a thick patch of willows. The boy follows. The willow grove is dense, the trees thin, wrist size and smaller, and closely packed.
The tracks disappear into a small gap in the willows, a tunnel. He dives in and follows the prints. The thin trees on each side of the tunnel come together over his head. It’s magical. Twenty paces in, he emerges into an open area, thirty feet across. The thick grove surrounds the open space. At the back, behind the thicket, dark-colored rock indicates the canyon wall. It rises sheer for a few hundred feet. Ghost is off to the left, munching on a patch of sweetgrass. The boy's pack is on the ground in the center of the clearing.
He smiles, walks over to the horse, and looks back towards the creek
as he strokes the Ghost's shoulder.
“Nice place.”
Ghost blows through his nostrils as he eats.
“Yeah, I know. You were right.” He keeps stroking its neck and shoulders. “Grandfather would’ve liked you.”
It's not long before darkness engulfs the canyon. The horse and boy settle for the night with a small fire built from the bow drill kit. It burns in a shallow bowl scooped out of the sand, not as easily seen from a distance. Another of Grandfather’s lessons.
The horse rests on the ground this time. The boy leans back against its side, his feet toward the small fire. It's comfortable to have a traveling companion.
In time, the fire burns to glowing coals. The boy curls up in his blanket next to the horse and falls asleep as the murmur of running water drifts through the thicket. Overhead, stars burn strangely bright in the murky night sky.
Chapter 40 - Walker
For four days, the boy and Ghost trek northward. They camp along the same creek each night and travel on higher ground during the day. As they move, the terrain transforms. The high desert scrub and brush gives way to greener vegetation. Even the nighttime temperature drops some, indicating a gain in altitude.
Six-to-eight-foot junipers and pinyon pines dot the landscape. As they trudge through this new greenery, a two-track dirt road keeps crisscrossing their path. Unlike the lower mesa, seeing long distance is now difficult with the thick forest cover. This makes the boy nervous. Tire tracks are visible in the ruts, but he can't determine how old they are or if anyone is still using this road.
The boy has come to trust Ghost. He watches his movements, and relies on him to alert him of any danger. This road seems forgotten, deserted. And Ghost hasn't shown nervousness or caution. But a dirt road makes for easy movement by a vehicle. This worries the boy.
He shifts his thinking. Where are these mysterious Red Cliffs Grandfather told him to find? He never talked much about them while alive, yet made the boy promise to find them. It must be an important place. The old man's words were so forceful. But he can only guess at how to find them. The only clue he has is to go north, to avoid people, to trust no one.