Free Dances Naked by Dani Haviland Page B

as his weaving material. He cut a few of the young shoots, too, and brought the green bundle to his little dayroom under the tree. “Lunch!” he exclaimed as he stuck the soft, tender end of a young reed in to his mouth, biting the succulent portion and chewing his micro salad carefully before he bent to his work. Just because he’d never made shoes , didn’t mean he couldn’t accomplish the task. He’d just never been motivated. And , getting back to his family, Bibb and the son he never even knew he had, was plenty of motivation.
    Marty braided a pair of two-yard- long reed switches, making sure he kept them the same width and density. He wound each whip into a long oval then set a rock on top of each to flatten and secure them. He hastily carved a needle out of a hardwood branch and used it with a length of tough grass as cording to stitch the concentric rows of braided reeds together. “Thank You, thank You, thank You,” he praised over and over again as he worked at his cobbler task. He glanced up at the sun and saw that it was almost evening. Should he leave now or wait until tomorrow? “Duh!” he said aloud. “Remember what taking a break did for you today!” he shuddered, recalling Grant. Something was definitely wrong with the man. Too bad his little sister and nephew had to tag along with him.

7 The Right Road Home
    August 19, 178 1
    Somewhere in North Carolina
     
    “O
    kay, I know this is the right road, I know this is the right road, I know this is the right road,” Marty chanted as he trudged down the familiar path— or so he thought. All the bushes, trees , and hills were beginning to look alike.
    “This has to be the right road, this has to be the right road, please, Lord, let this be the right road,” he prayed, his lips cracked from thirst. He didn’t want to take a drink yet; he was conserving the water in his canteen. He had tanked up before leaving the creek , knew that his constant chattering was drying his mouth , but his soul and sanity needed his mantra more than his mouth and body needed water.
    “So close, so close,” he babbled softly, suddenly unsure if he was on the right road. The daylight was gone , but he knew the moon had been full three days ago and would be rising soon. Marty stopped where he was and debated with himself, wordlessly in order to save his saliva, about the wisdom of proceeding rather than resting. The afterglow of the sunset was gone. He knew how easy it would be to get turned around without his solar guide. It would be wise of h im to sit and wait for moonrise: wise , but not what he wanted to do. He pivoted in a tight circle to check the area one more time and suddenly became confused, disoriented , and afraid. “Okay, okay; I hear you, Lord. I’ll sit and wait for your lunar compass to come up.”
    Marty plopped down right where he stood, too scared to venture even the scant ten yards to his left to sit beneath the trees. He would be more comfortable leaning up against one of the sturdy sentinels but he was afraid to venture from where he was. He didn’t want to chance heading the wrong direction, or walk in circles , or go back to where he had been robbed. He shuddered. O r bump into Grant and that bone- handled knife of his that he seemed so eager to employ.
    Marty decided it was best to remain where he was— seated in between two stands of locust bushes, scrubby oversized weeds that looked just like the hundreds of others he had passed. Everything looked the same; it was no wonder he was lost.
    He shifted his weight , but it didn’t do any good. His bony butt was painfully parked on the sharp, ro cky gravel that was everywhere— there was no way to get comfortable. He accepted his lot, sighed in temporary defeat , then carefully slipped off his sandals. He set them on the ground in front of him, pointing them, he hoped, in the direction he was to take when he resumed his journey. But , before he went any further, he had to take a short nap. He