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Authors: P. S. Broaddus
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piece into my hands. “It’s called cloud silk. It’s very rare now. From the belt on the dress,” she whispers. I run my fingers over the perfect material—like water you can hold.
“Is it red?”
“Yes.”
I take a deep breath. It smells just like the dress. I put both of my hands on Mom’s face. It is wet with tears. I blink furiously because I can feel my eyes getting wet, too. I feel her high cheekbones and smooth skin, her small rounded nose, a tiny scar under her chin. I got her nose.
“Hold this when you don’t know if you’re dreaming. Perhaps it will help.” She’s smiling. I can’t tell if it is a sad or happy smile. I feel her eyes. Green, “and almost as nice as my eyes,” Tig has said before. Her eyes tell me it is a hopeful smile.
Shuffling through the cavern under the Valley of Fire, I feel for the piece of red tucked in my pocket, and I run my fingers through the silk. I think now that Mom might have been getting me ready for this day. She knew she was leaving.
My whole left side is hot and burning. My skin is tight and swollen. My other side is numb with cold. My feet move mechanically of their own will. I am tripping more often. I am not letting my feet feel out the way like I usually do. They are too tired.
“You can still see in here?” I am surprised at my own voice. It sounds small and weak.
“A little. Lots of rock. Still seeing a few glow worms every now and again, usually above the river.”
“I can’t do it.” I put out my good hand to find a place to sit and slump to the floor.
“Come on, Ess, it looks like it is opening up. The tunnels and caverns have been getting bigger for a while.”
I can feel that he’s right. The air is freer, although not fresh. I also notice our voices and footsteps travel before echoing.
“This is a good spot.”
Tig is silent. He can feel my pain, and he can see my left side. His instinct tells him I can’t go on. I feel a slight curve in the tunnel wall and lean against it with my good side. A buzzing starts in my head. Tig is talking, but I can’t tell what he is saying.
Several hours must have passed. I know because my mind tells me so. I also know because my body is now so stiff I can’t move. Tig is growling, next to my head. I open my mouth to ask him what’s happening, but my tongue is swollen and doesn’t let me form the words. A moment of sheer panic runs through my entire body. My left arm shivers, and I whimper at the movement.
Tig’s whiskers brush against my face, then jerk away, and another low growl. “Something’s coming. Several somethings.”
He goes quiet, and I’m mutely irritated. Tell me about the somethings. As if he read my mind he says, “They’re small. Not hunters.”
What could be here in the dark, under the Valley of Fire? Giant insects? I can’t think of anything nice. Tig rustles and leaves me. I move my mouth to call him back, but no sound comes out. Instead I hear a yowl and a hiss. I jerk again and try to push myself up. The hissing and spitting continues. A chirrup. I freeze. Even Tig stops hissing and settles for a low continuous growl. Another chirrup. A little like a bird, but not quite. Something like a spring frog. Tig settles back against me. His fur is on end.
“There are several of them. They look like . . .” He pauses, and I can tell he doesn’t know how to describe them—which is unusual. He has a lot of practice with description. “. . . salamanders, but they’re walking upright. They stand about two feet high, and that’s what you hear, their chirping—or whatever it is they’re doing.”
Tig’s tail is twitching, and I can feel his muscles tense. I struggle again to sit up. “Hold on. They’re talking together.” My senses are playing tricks on me, but despite the echoes, I can tell that the chirrups are all in one location, and aren’t moving.
“One is coming out of the group, its—hands, I guess—are in front of it. It’s bowing now.” Tig is
“Is it red?”
“Yes.”
I take a deep breath. It smells just like the dress. I put both of my hands on Mom’s face. It is wet with tears. I blink furiously because I can feel my eyes getting wet, too. I feel her high cheekbones and smooth skin, her small rounded nose, a tiny scar under her chin. I got her nose.
“Hold this when you don’t know if you’re dreaming. Perhaps it will help.” She’s smiling. I can’t tell if it is a sad or happy smile. I feel her eyes. Green, “and almost as nice as my eyes,” Tig has said before. Her eyes tell me it is a hopeful smile.
Shuffling through the cavern under the Valley of Fire, I feel for the piece of red tucked in my pocket, and I run my fingers through the silk. I think now that Mom might have been getting me ready for this day. She knew she was leaving.
My whole left side is hot and burning. My skin is tight and swollen. My other side is numb with cold. My feet move mechanically of their own will. I am tripping more often. I am not letting my feet feel out the way like I usually do. They are too tired.
“You can still see in here?” I am surprised at my own voice. It sounds small and weak.
“A little. Lots of rock. Still seeing a few glow worms every now and again, usually above the river.”
“I can’t do it.” I put out my good hand to find a place to sit and slump to the floor.
“Come on, Ess, it looks like it is opening up. The tunnels and caverns have been getting bigger for a while.”
I can feel that he’s right. The air is freer, although not fresh. I also notice our voices and footsteps travel before echoing.
“This is a good spot.”
Tig is silent. He can feel my pain, and he can see my left side. His instinct tells him I can’t go on. I feel a slight curve in the tunnel wall and lean against it with my good side. A buzzing starts in my head. Tig is talking, but I can’t tell what he is saying.
Several hours must have passed. I know because my mind tells me so. I also know because my body is now so stiff I can’t move. Tig is growling, next to my head. I open my mouth to ask him what’s happening, but my tongue is swollen and doesn’t let me form the words. A moment of sheer panic runs through my entire body. My left arm shivers, and I whimper at the movement.
Tig’s whiskers brush against my face, then jerk away, and another low growl. “Something’s coming. Several somethings.”
He goes quiet, and I’m mutely irritated. Tell me about the somethings. As if he read my mind he says, “They’re small. Not hunters.”
What could be here in the dark, under the Valley of Fire? Giant insects? I can’t think of anything nice. Tig rustles and leaves me. I move my mouth to call him back, but no sound comes out. Instead I hear a yowl and a hiss. I jerk again and try to push myself up. The hissing and spitting continues. A chirrup. I freeze. Even Tig stops hissing and settles for a low continuous growl. Another chirrup. A little like a bird, but not quite. Something like a spring frog. Tig settles back against me. His fur is on end.
“There are several of them. They look like . . .” He pauses, and I can tell he doesn’t know how to describe them—which is unusual. He has a lot of practice with description. “. . . salamanders, but they’re walking upright. They stand about two feet high, and that’s what you hear, their chirping—or whatever it is they’re doing.”
Tig’s tail is twitching, and I can feel his muscles tense. I struggle again to sit up. “Hold on. They’re talking together.” My senses are playing tricks on me, but despite the echoes, I can tell that the chirrups are all in one location, and aren’t moving.
“One is coming out of the group, its—hands, I guess—are in front of it. It’s bowing now.” Tig is
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