Free Rebel Heart by Moira Young

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.
    I thought I imagined him, I says.
    Mercy must be down there, says Emmi. In the camp. I’ll jest bet she is!
    Nero swoops an soars overhead. He caws at us to git movin.
    Scout it first, says Tommo. Make sure it’s safe. I’ll go.
    No, I’ll do it, says Lugh. You all wait here.
    Sometimes you boys is dumb as stumps, says Emmi. Tracker brought us here to git help fer Saba. He wouldn’t of done that if it warn’t safe.
    Don’t gimme that mystical boloney, says Lugh. I swear, Em, you got so much air between yer ears, you wouldn’t