the rear of the receding schooner and saw a cluster of silent, hollow-eyed children staring back at her. Where was their mother?
Jennifer shook off that terrible memory and quickened her return journey. Farther east, the prairie was more lush, and the grasses grew so tall that they had nearly swallowed up Jenniferâs prairie schooner, but for its arching cloth covering. Standing on the ground and looking up at the swaying grass tops, she had felt as if she were a tiny insect in a giantâs backyard, and she almost expected to see on the horizon a monstrously large, white, picket fence rising up into the heavens. How painfully slow had been the wagonâs progress through those grasses! The days came and went, the wagonâs wheels turned and turned, but always the same grass-scape and big sky made it seem as if the Vandermeers hadnât progressed at all; that no matter how far they went, they remained in the same spot.
Now, however, in her mindâs eye, Jennifer could fly as fast as she wished: back past the rolling Missouri hills, swaths of furrowed fields, farm houses and windmills, across the barge-filled Mississippi to the Illinois side, whereupon she dashed through better rooted prairie communities of schoolhouses and church spires, until the trail brought her back to a border of tall sunflowers, whose bright, orange faces signaled the end of the grasslands. Behind them was the tangled screen of gnarly crabapple and sumac, and behind them at last the great eastern forest, which cloaked the vast sky with a leafy canopy all the way to the Wabash River and the awaiting Indiana shore, where macadamized roads and ever more villages prompted Jennifer on to her Ohioâ¦
But before Jennifer could find her own bosky lane, her reverie was broken. The ox had lowed fretfully. Jennifer opened her eyes. The air was darker. The ox stamped its hooves, tossed its head, and snorted as it tried to back up, fighting the wagon wheel break. Jennifer spun and looked about. She gasped.
Trotting in the gloom among the infringing grasses and tilted headstones were the grey, shadowy forms of wolves.
Chapter Five
Wolf Country
Her eyes wide and darting from one shadowy form to another, Jennifer backed slowly toward the wagon. She dared not make any sudden move. Walter had once told her and the children, âIf wolves ever come upon you in the open, donât run. Itâll only trigger them to attack.â
For now, the wolves seemed calm. Indeed, they hardly acknowledged Jennifer or the ox. They sniffed around the headstones, a few pawed at the fresh dirt over Walterâs grave, and one wolf, its tail held high, urinated on an inscribed plank. Other wolves disappeared and reappeared in the tall grasses, which were beginning to wave in a growing wind, unveiling previously hidden grave markers at the edges of the cemetery.
Standing beside the wagon now, Jennifer counted the wolvesâtwo, three, four, fiveâBut each time she thought she counted the whole pack, other wolves appearedâeight, nine, tenâ
The ox lowed fitfully and shoved the wagon backward, the unyielding wagon wheel skidding a foot along the ground. Jennifer grabbed the wagon and pulled herself up onto the seat. From her higher vantage point, she could see, to her horror, still more wolf heads threading through the blowing grasses around the cemetery. One wolf rolled around on its back, then rose to its feet and sniffed the flattened spot. Two others chased and growled at each other. Yet another, its ears perked, its eyes locked onto the ground, seemed to be stalking something small, like a rodent.
The sun had now nearly set, and everything was fading into a dark greyness. Jennifer reached down into the jockey box at her feet. As a homesteader, Walter always tried to be prepared, and she prayed he had his old Army .45 down there. Though she had never fired a gun, she was prepared to do so now. Perhaps even the mere sound of a shot would
Jennifer shook off that terrible memory and quickened her return journey. Farther east, the prairie was more lush, and the grasses grew so tall that they had nearly swallowed up Jenniferâs prairie schooner, but for its arching cloth covering. Standing on the ground and looking up at the swaying grass tops, she had felt as if she were a tiny insect in a giantâs backyard, and she almost expected to see on the horizon a monstrously large, white, picket fence rising up into the heavens. How painfully slow had been the wagonâs progress through those grasses! The days came and went, the wagonâs wheels turned and turned, but always the same grass-scape and big sky made it seem as if the Vandermeers hadnât progressed at all; that no matter how far they went, they remained in the same spot.
Now, however, in her mindâs eye, Jennifer could fly as fast as she wished: back past the rolling Missouri hills, swaths of furrowed fields, farm houses and windmills, across the barge-filled Mississippi to the Illinois side, whereupon she dashed through better rooted prairie communities of schoolhouses and church spires, until the trail brought her back to a border of tall sunflowers, whose bright, orange faces signaled the end of the grasslands. Behind them was the tangled screen of gnarly crabapple and sumac, and behind them at last the great eastern forest, which cloaked the vast sky with a leafy canopy all the way to the Wabash River and the awaiting Indiana shore, where macadamized roads and ever more villages prompted Jennifer on to her Ohioâ¦
But before Jennifer could find her own bosky lane, her reverie was broken. The ox had lowed fretfully. Jennifer opened her eyes. The air was darker. The ox stamped its hooves, tossed its head, and snorted as it tried to back up, fighting the wagon wheel break. Jennifer spun and looked about. She gasped.
Trotting in the gloom among the infringing grasses and tilted headstones were the grey, shadowy forms of wolves.
Chapter Five
Wolf Country
Her eyes wide and darting from one shadowy form to another, Jennifer backed slowly toward the wagon. She dared not make any sudden move. Walter had once told her and the children, âIf wolves ever come upon you in the open, donât run. Itâll only trigger them to attack.â
For now, the wolves seemed calm. Indeed, they hardly acknowledged Jennifer or the ox. They sniffed around the headstones, a few pawed at the fresh dirt over Walterâs grave, and one wolf, its tail held high, urinated on an inscribed plank. Other wolves disappeared and reappeared in the tall grasses, which were beginning to wave in a growing wind, unveiling previously hidden grave markers at the edges of the cemetery.
Standing beside the wagon now, Jennifer counted the wolvesâtwo, three, four, fiveâBut each time she thought she counted the whole pack, other wolves appearedâeight, nine, tenâ
The ox lowed fitfully and shoved the wagon backward, the unyielding wagon wheel skidding a foot along the ground. Jennifer grabbed the wagon and pulled herself up onto the seat. From her higher vantage point, she could see, to her horror, still more wolf heads threading through the blowing grasses around the cemetery. One wolf rolled around on its back, then rose to its feet and sniffed the flattened spot. Two others chased and growled at each other. Yet another, its ears perked, its eyes locked onto the ground, seemed to be stalking something small, like a rodent.
The sun had now nearly set, and everything was fading into a dark greyness. Jennifer reached down into the jockey box at her feet. As a homesteader, Walter always tried to be prepared, and she prayed he had his old Army .45 down there. Though she had never fired a gun, she was prepared to do so now. Perhaps even the mere sound of a shot would
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