Free Captive Spirit by Liz Fichera

gazed up at me with strangely curious eyes. Slowly, I split my precious piece of dried meat into two pieces with my teeth. I stuck one of the pieces into my mouth, savoring it, letting it roll underneath my tongue, while I lowered my tied hands to Lobo’s snout. Warily, I opened my hand and waited for him to take the second piece. He took it with his long tongue, not his teeth, and I drew back a relieved breath.
    Lobo’s half disappeared in a heartbeat, but then he nudged closer and continued to study me, his tail thumping faster, his head tilted. Suddenly his paws didn’t seem so enormous or his fangs so terrifying.
    And I couldn’t help myself.
    I smiled down at Lobo. That’s when his cold wet nose nuzzled my hands and I very carefully stroked the top of his head with my fingertips. The fur on his head was as soft as bird feathers. His ears flopped backwards while I scratched and stroked. And then I knew.
    In the unlikeliest of places, I had found a friend.

Chapter Seven
    When we left, it was as if we were never there and that scared me most of all.
    The three men loaded the horses, careful not to leave a thread or a footprint behind. The youngest one swept away our tracks with the ends of a tree branch.
    How would my family find me? Did they know I’d been taken?
    Yet inside I wept for the people in my village. I could never forget how their screams pierced the sky as the desert burned all around them. And when I closed my eyes, I only saw the terrified faces of people I had known my whole life. The images shook my entire body, with rage or fear I was not certain. But how did it happen? How did we let it happen? Why would anyone destroy my village? And why take me?
    I stared over my shoulder toward Sleeping Mule Deer, still trying to piece together the fire, my capture, and everything in between. The taste of blood in my mouth was a reminder that my worst fears were still very real.
    I wasn’t dreaming.
    I wouldn’t wake up on my mat next to Chenoa in the pit house while Gaho stoked the hearth, a sliver of grey from the sky brightening the room. And with each step the horses took, I was one step deeper into the World Beyond, missing my family more than I ever thought possible.
    Strange beasts, horses. They were broader than deer and more skittish than coyotes.
    The thicker man, the one with whom I rode, motioned for me to climb on top of the tallest horse when they were ready to leave. I assumed we’d walk. Walking was all I did when I wasn’t running. So when he nodded toward the horse, I shook my head, confused, and dug my heels into the ground as if that would somehow change his mind.
    But then the other man, the one with the scar, grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me atop the horse like one of his deerskin sacks before I had a chance to blink. The horse barely moved but my entire body wobbled as I clenched my thighs together to keep from falling sideways.
    I’d never ridden a horse. Before the last moon’s rise, I’d never seen one. Riding a horse was like sitting atop a boulder at the river except this red boulder moved and made irritated snorting sounds, like mother javalinas herding their young.
    After I was seated, the thicker man lifted his leg and mounted the horse so he sat in front of me. He held the long rope that thread around the horse’s head. As he held the ropes and clucked to the horse, my breathing slowed and I wasn’t so frightened, although my legs began to chafe against the horse’s fur. His fur wasn’t silky, not like the white strip between Lobo’s ears. The horse’s coat felt rough like sand and smelled of sweat.
    As we rode, Lobo ran beside us, sometimes barking, other times running ahead in search of rabbits and birds, his long pink tongue hanging over the side of his mouth. Whenever he got too close to the horses, the horses whinnied and he’d run off till he was almost a grey dot on the horizon. But I worried whenever I didn’t hear his bark or see his wagging