Okay, says Lugh. That’s it, that’s enough. Emmi, git the medicine bag. Tommo, bring some hot water. C’mere, Saba, c’mon. He makes me sit on the ground. He drapes a blanket around my shoulders.
Emmi bustles back with our little skinbag of remedies. Herbs an leafs, tinctures an ointments. Tommo brings a basin of water. Emmi kneels beside me an commences to clean my hands with a soft cloth. I’ll try not to hurt you, she says.
Lugh an Tommo crouch in close. Watch me close.
Such serious faces, I says. Am I in trouble?
What’s goin on, Saba? says Lugh. An I don’t want no snow job. The truth this time.
We wanna help you, says Tommo.
I don’t need no help, I says.
You jest tried to scrub away bloodstains that ain’t there, says Lugh.
You sleepwalk, says Tommo.
Yer seein things. Emmi don’t look at me as she speaks. Her gentle fingers spread sagewort salve on my raw hands, tie strips of cloth around. Like today, she says, when you jumped all of a sudden. You seen somethin. Somethin or somebody. They ran in front of the horses, didn’t they? I couldn’t see nuthin cuz there warn’t nuthin there to see. But you do. You see things all the time.
What is it you see? says Lugh. Who do you see?
My chest’s startin to feel tight. Like there’s a band around it. Nobody, I says. Nuthin. I dunno what yer on about.
We all seen you, he says. You talk to the air, like somebody’s there, beside you. Who is it?
Nobody, I says. Leave me alone.
It’s yer dead friend, ain’t it? he says. Epona. You see the dead, Saba. You talk to the dead.
I snatch my hands from Emmi. Glare at her. I knew I couldn’t trust you! I says.
I warn’t gonna say nuthin, she says, truly I warn’t, but . . . yer gittin worser an worser all the time. I’m worried about you, Saba. We all are. You need help.
You think I’m crazy, I says. Nobody says naught. Nobody lets their eyes meet mine. Then, Yeah, says Lugh. We do.
Suddenly, rage takes me. It’s nowhere. Then it’s everywhere. The red hot. It floods me, blinds me, chokes me. I leap at Lugh. I knock him backwards. We roll on the ground. I punch, I kick, I claw.
From a long ways off, I can hear Emmi screamin. Tommo shoutin. Hands pullin at me. Screamin. Yellin. Lugh kicks an struggles beneath me. I’m sittin on his chest.
Emmi’s sobbin. Stop it, Saba! Stop it! You’ll kill him!
The red hot starts to fade. I come to. My hands is tight around Lugh’s throat. My thumbs pressin on his windpipe. He’s got his hands on mine, tryin to pull ’em away. His eyes wide with panic an fear.
Lugh’s afeared of me.
I let go. He gasps. Drags desperate air into his lungs.
My shakin hand reaches out. I touch his throat. The marks of my fingers pressed deep into his flesh. The necklace I made him fer our eighteen year birthday. I touch the little ring of shiny green glass. The memory of our lost selfs. Jest barely do I touch it. In case it disappears.
I climb off. I kneel in the dirt at his side.
I almost killed him. I tried to kill Lugh.
Emmi’s weepin. Lugh’s chest heaves, his eyes dark with shock. I’ve blooded his nose.
The red hot’s gone. Jest as quick as it come, it went. I’m limp. Exhausted. Numb. I turn my head so’s I don’t hafta look at him.
He gits slowly to his feet. He reaches down a hand to help me up. We stand there. He swipes his nose with his sleeve.
Tears start to roll down my cheeks. He wipes ’em away, but they keep on comin. Silent. Never endin. They splash in the dust at my feet. But I ain’t cryin.
You jest gotta hang on a bit longer, he says. Jest a few more weeks an we’ll be at the Big Water an . . . when we git there, when we . . . git out west, it’s all gonna be okay. We got such a good life waitin fer us there.
The words halt from him. On a hoarse whisper. Like a story bein told fer the very last time. With nobody there to hear it.
Did I say how the, uh . . . I tell you, Saba, the land out there’s so rich . . . all you gotta do is shove a stick in the ground, an the next day there’s a full-grown nut tree, right where that stick went in. Wouldn’t that be a . . . a wondrous sight? If you seen that, you’d think it was a dream, wouldn’t you? I’d sure like to see that. Emmi an Tommo too, we’d . . . we’d all like to see that. An we will. We will.
I watch his lips move. I hear his words. His voice sounds muffled, like he’s unner water. He puts his arms around me. He hangs onto me. His whole body’s shakin.
Whatever’s broke, he says, I can fix it. I’ll fix it all. I promise.
The land’s bare of tree. White of rock. No clouds. No shade. No shelter. The sun grills. The earth bakes. Sullen dust dogs our heels.
We plod along, Hermes an me. We lag well behind the rest. I stare at my hands on the reins. Inside my head, I’m more’n halfways to somewhere else. Somewhere blank an white an endless. My brain’s flat. I don’t care if we ride the Waste ferever.
Somethin dashes in front of us. Cuts across Hermes. He rears an squeals, his forelegs beatin high in the air. I grab the reins to stop from fallin. Sounds crash at me. Slam me. Shock me to life.
It’s a blue-eyed wolfdog. With one droopy ear. It’s him. It’s Tracker. He’s here.
He darts at Hermes. In an out. In an out. Hermes shies an dances an squeals. I grip hard with my knees. Hang on the reins. I’m only jest managin to keep my seat.
Up ahead, I can hear Lugh yellin, Wolfdog! The three of ’em wheel around an start gallopin back towards us. Emmi’s screamin, Tracker! It’s Tracker!
He makes one last dash. Hermes bolts. Then we’re racin, flat out, headed due north. I lay low aginst his neck an hang on tight. Tracker chases behind us, a lean grey streak.
He’s real. No figment. No dream. The rest of ’em shouted, Emmi called his name, so he ain’t jest in my mind.
I glance back over my shoulder. He’s still there.
He turned us. No. He turned me. He turned me from the westward trail. On purpose. Like he wants me to go this way. An now he’s stickin to my tail, makin sure I stay on course till I git there.
Wherever there is.
We stand on top of a bluff, lookin out over a wide, flat valley. Dry but fer the ribbon of water that loops its way through the middle. Like a thin, silver-skinned snake, it glints in the late afternoon sun. The last, sleepy memory of a once-mighty river.
There’s one straight stretch of the river. On the near-side, two rows of ragtag tents, tepees an flotsam skellies straggle along the bank. They’re shaded by some good-sized cottonwood trees. What look to be funeral pyres – three, side by side – burn an smoke some distance from the camp.
Forty shelters at least, Lugh says. He lowers the long-looker. Men an women, kids an dogs. No tellin how many. Horses, camels, carts.
What do we do? says Tommo.
Go down, of course, says Emmi. Why d’you think Tracker brought us here?
Tracker’s sittin off to one side. His head moves to whoever’s talkin, like he knows what’s bein said. Now he stands. Barks three times. He goes to the edge of the bluff, whinin, then back to us. Barks agin.
You see? says Emmi. He wants us to go.
I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before, Lugh says to me. It’s jest . . . him bein so far from home didn’t seem possible.