tiny black eyes on either side of its long snout that regarded me warily, like the wolf.
The man with the scar clucked his tongue and talked to the horse as he worked. His deep voice soothed the horses, oddly.
Everyone was busy packing, moving, talking—everyone except me. All I could do was stand, motionless. Staring. With the wolf at my side, I didn’t dare run again. I’d be more successful lifting my arms and soaring into the sky.
So I stood there, my knees wobbling from hunger, cold and thirst, watching the men load their horses. I still didn’t know why they had carried me away from my village or where they planned to take me but I was theirs now, like one of their deerskin sacks, until I figured how to escape.
And I would escape. That much I promised myself.
I looked over my shoulder toward my village. I couldn’t see it but I knew it was there, over mountains that disappeared from the horizon, waiting for my return. A lump grew deep in my throat as I regarded the lonely horizon. So many hours spent dreaming about the World Beyond and now all I wanted was to be back home, safe, working alongside Gaho at the hearth, running after Chenoa in the saguaro forest, watching Honovi play in the ball court. So many lost memories spinning around inside my head.
Until finally I spun around and faced the men, my nostrils flaring.
“Water,” I said. My tone was urgent.
The men stopped, no doubt surprised by my tone.
“Water,” I said again, louder, even as my voice cracked from the dryness coating my throat and the building tears behind my eyes. I blinked them back. Tears wouldn’t return me to my village. I needed water and food to think clearly. I made a drinking motion with my hand. Surely these oddly dressed men with the strange voices wouldn’t allow me to die of thirst or starve. Why go to the trouble to take me in the first place?
The wolf lay close to my legs, keeping me captive by its nearness. Its fur brushed against my leg, rough and scratchy like a dried cornstalk, as the thicker man reached into one of the sacks and pulled out a deerskin pouch no bigger than my hand. He walked to me from where he stood next to the horses. He raised the pouch to my lips. A few drops dribbled onto my lips but I wanted—needed—more. He pulled it away but I surprised myself again by shaking my head. “More,” I begged. “Please, I’m so thirsty. I need more.”
The man sighed and then, reluctantly, raised the pouch only to pull it back abruptly. He smiled. Then he said, “If you behave, you’ll get more later. Food, too. If you’re good.”
“Please,” I begged again. “Just a little more.”
He sighed again and then raised the pouch. The man with the scar glared at him but said nothing.
I took another greedy gulp, not caring that some of the water dribbled down my neck, before he pulled it away.
But the man beside me surprised me again. He reached inside his pocket and put a strip of something soft in my hands. He pressed it against my palm until he was sure that I wouldn’t drop it. He raised his hands to his lips, motioning for me to eat, before returning to the sacks and the horses.
I watched him walk away and then, very carefully, I raised my tied hands to my lips. I inhaled the strip. The smell was sharp and spicy and wrinkled my nose. Curious, I licked it once before stuffing one end of it inside my mouth. Was it a trick? Would it make me sick?
No.
I sniffed it again and smiled, relieved. It was only a piece of dried meat—maybe rabbit or squirrel—and it was so delicious that I could have eaten a handful, not just a thin morsel no longer than my tongue. Lobo’s tail thumped steadily at my feet and I paused from savoring the dried meat when his tail whacked against my leg. It thumped steady like a drumbeat and reminded me of everything I left behind.
I stared down at him. The tip of his tail was white as a cloud and matched the streak down his chest. My eyes traveled to his face. Lobo
The man with the scar clucked his tongue and talked to the horse as he worked. His deep voice soothed the horses, oddly.
Everyone was busy packing, moving, talking—everyone except me. All I could do was stand, motionless. Staring. With the wolf at my side, I didn’t dare run again. I’d be more successful lifting my arms and soaring into the sky.
So I stood there, my knees wobbling from hunger, cold and thirst, watching the men load their horses. I still didn’t know why they had carried me away from my village or where they planned to take me but I was theirs now, like one of their deerskin sacks, until I figured how to escape.
And I would escape. That much I promised myself.
I looked over my shoulder toward my village. I couldn’t see it but I knew it was there, over mountains that disappeared from the horizon, waiting for my return. A lump grew deep in my throat as I regarded the lonely horizon. So many hours spent dreaming about the World Beyond and now all I wanted was to be back home, safe, working alongside Gaho at the hearth, running after Chenoa in the saguaro forest, watching Honovi play in the ball court. So many lost memories spinning around inside my head.
Until finally I spun around and faced the men, my nostrils flaring.
“Water,” I said. My tone was urgent.
The men stopped, no doubt surprised by my tone.
“Water,” I said again, louder, even as my voice cracked from the dryness coating my throat and the building tears behind my eyes. I blinked them back. Tears wouldn’t return me to my village. I needed water and food to think clearly. I made a drinking motion with my hand. Surely these oddly dressed men with the strange voices wouldn’t allow me to die of thirst or starve. Why go to the trouble to take me in the first place?
The wolf lay close to my legs, keeping me captive by its nearness. Its fur brushed against my leg, rough and scratchy like a dried cornstalk, as the thicker man reached into one of the sacks and pulled out a deerskin pouch no bigger than my hand. He walked to me from where he stood next to the horses. He raised the pouch to my lips. A few drops dribbled onto my lips but I wanted—needed—more. He pulled it away but I surprised myself again by shaking my head. “More,” I begged. “Please, I’m so thirsty. I need more.”
The man sighed and then, reluctantly, raised the pouch only to pull it back abruptly. He smiled. Then he said, “If you behave, you’ll get more later. Food, too. If you’re good.”
“Please,” I begged again. “Just a little more.”
He sighed again and then raised the pouch. The man with the scar glared at him but said nothing.
I took another greedy gulp, not caring that some of the water dribbled down my neck, before he pulled it away.
But the man beside me surprised me again. He reached inside his pocket and put a strip of something soft in my hands. He pressed it against my palm until he was sure that I wouldn’t drop it. He raised his hands to his lips, motioning for me to eat, before returning to the sacks and the horses.
I watched him walk away and then, very carefully, I raised my tied hands to my lips. I inhaled the strip. The smell was sharp and spicy and wrinkled my nose. Curious, I licked it once before stuffing one end of it inside my mouth. Was it a trick? Would it make me sick?
No.
I sniffed it again and smiled, relieved. It was only a piece of dried meat—maybe rabbit or squirrel—and it was so delicious that I could have eaten a handful, not just a thin morsel no longer than my tongue. Lobo’s tail thumped steadily at my feet and I paused from savoring the dried meat when his tail whacked against my leg. It thumped steady like a drumbeat and reminded me of everything I left behind.
I stared down at him. The tip of his tail was white as a cloud and matched the streak down his chest. My eyes traveled to his face. Lobo
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