The Hummingbird's Cage (14 page)

The others from Begay's herd were Kilchii, Yas and Tse.

Kilchii, the blood bay, and Yas, the pinto, were no strangers to the farm—Begay apparently would bring them over now and then for trail rides; Olin and Jessie had given up their own horses a long time ago. Kilchii means “Red Boy,” for his deep copper coat. He was Olin's mount. Jessie's was Yas, which means “Snow,” because he loves to roll in it.

The third horse, Tse, was the big roan mare, intended for Laurel. Tse was unflappable and solid, Olin said, so her name meant “Rock.”

“They'll mean a lot more work around here,” I said. “I'll take it on, in exchange for the lessons.”

“Fine idea,” said Olin.

“I know what you're doing,” I said.

Olin blinked at me, but said nothing.

“First the café, now this. You're nudging me out of my rabbit hole.”

“That right?”

“But you have to understand—there are reasons I jumped in there in the first place. And pulled Laurel in with me.”

“I'm a fair listener.”

I shook my head. “Don't nudge too hard. Just know . . . there are bad things out there.”

Olin gave me a smile. “Don't forget,” he said. “There's good things, too.”

The
grade school in Morro is a one-room wood-frame structure that came from a mail-order catalog, just like Jessie's sewing machine. It arrived by boxcar in the 1920s in pieces by the thousands—from the lumber, siding, roof shingles and nails right down to the paint cans and varnish—ready to be assembled on-site. The men of Morro put it together over two days on an acre of land at the edge of town.

It was painted white, and stayed that way for years. It was Bree's idea to repaint it lavender, with shutters and trim a shade darker, and the front door darker still. Someone called it the Periwinkle House, and the name stuck. It was even printed on a brass plaque by the door.

The schoolhouse took in younger students, and there was a second school with its own teacher for older ones. I learned all this from Bree after Jessie dropped me off one morning to get Laurel formally and finally enrolled.

The big room was bright and colorful—with maps, photographs and posters, children's drawings and paintings, a mobile of the solar system and shelves filled with books. There were a dozen children studying at desks, grouped in a reading circle, working math problems on a whiteboard or gathered around a terrarium feeding whatever was inside. No different from a classroom you might find anywhere.

Laurel twisted her hand from mine and ran off to join the
group at the terrarium. Before I could call her back, Bree stopped me.

“Let her make friends.”

“I don't know how you handle so many grades under one roof,” I said.

“It wasn't that long ago that schools like this were commonplace in rural areas,” she said. “Besides, when you mingle the grades, older students encourage the younger ones.”

She pulled a folder from a pile on her desk and leafed through it.

“I've already started a file for Laurel,” she said. “I'll give her a few placement tests to see where she stands.”

“I guess you have forms for me to fill out.”

Bree closed the folder and tossed it back on her desk with a smile. “Nope.”

Of course not. Why would she?

I watched Laurel at play with the other children; she was oblivious to me.

“It's pretty painless, isn't it?” I said.

“She'll be fine,” said Bree. “And so will you. By the way, I told Reuben how you helped with the wedding quilt, and he'd love to meet you. I'm cooking dinner next Friday night—can you make it?”

Before I could come up with an excuse, Bree took my arm just as she had at the bee and walked me to the door.

“I'm not the greatest cook, but I do know wine,” she said. “Come around six. My place is on the second floor here. The entrance is on the side.”

She opened the door and ushered me through, then closed it firmly behind me.

“Mommy!
Come quick!”

Laurel ran into the living room to grab my arm, her small fingers digging in. She was burning with excitement, eyes wide.

I dropped my broom to snatch her by the waist for a quick once-over, top to bottom: no cuts, no bruises, no blood.

“What's wrong?” I demanded. “You okay?”

Before she could answer, before I could even think clearly, an awful thought hit me:
Jim
. He'd tracked us down. He was outside even now, heading for the door.

I rushed to the front window, where the curtains were open and the view was clear. There was no vehicle in sight, aside from Simon's yellow pickup at the café, same as always.

Laurel pulled my arm even harder, this time with both hands, desperate to get me to the door.

“Hurry! Before it stops!”

I stared down at her. Before
what
stops?

I let her tug me onto the porch and down the front steps. In the yard, she dropped my arm and turned toward the Mountain, wiping stray strings of hair from her flushed face.

She pressed a finger to her lips. “Sssssshhhh.”

Then she pointed.

I looked where she was directing me—at a point near the crest, just below the tree line. Yet again my stomach lurched.

I knew very well what Laurel was so anxious for me to hear. I closed my eyes with a shiver, and listened.

And heard nothing. Nothing but the birds, the running creek and Laurel's quick, expectant breaths.

After
the horses arrived, it became my routine to lead them from the barn every morning and put them to pasture. Their range was the stretch of valley that started at the barn and ran due east. It wasn't fenced, but Olin said Kilchii and Yas knew the area well and never wandered far, and Nastas and Tse would keep close by.

While they grazed, I would get out the wheelbarrow, grab a pitchfork and muck their stalls. I carted the soiled bedding to the compost pile and laid down a fresh layer of straw. Olin taught me to clean their hooves, then groom them with currycombs and brushes. Sometimes Laurel helped, standing on an upturned bucket to braid Tse's mane.

While Olin gave Laurel lessons in the corral, I rode Nastas in the pasture, practicing leg pressure and shifting movements.
Then, one morning after lessons, Olin saddled Kilchii and suggested he and I take a trail ride. Rather than head along the valley, though, he led us south on the hardpan road into Morro.

We cantered until we reached the town limits, then slowed to a walk, past the welcome sign and onto the smooth asphalt.

From Nastas's back, I could reach the lowest branches of the big elms, their leaves now turning a vivid gold. For all the notice we drew, a trail ride through town was nothing unusual.

We passed the Wild Rose and the general store, the gazebo, the library, the town hall and every door and shingle in between. We passed a cluster of boys huddled in an alley, fascinated by the contents of a small container.

“What's in the cigar box, boys?” Olin called out.

The boys looked up guiltily. “It ain't cigars, Mr. Farnsworth,” one said.

“I'm sure it ain't. Best set it loose before long, or I'll know why not.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys replied.

“How'd you know they had something in that box?” I asked him.

“I didn't,” he said. “But I do know boys.”

I hadn't seen this side of Morro before—I'd never ventured this far. The asphalt stopped at the town limits and the hardpan picked up again, veering left into the Mountain. But there was a narrow secondary road splintering off to the right.

I reined Nastas to a firm halt. Olin pulled up, then circled back and drew alongside me.

“Somethin' wrong?” he asked.

The pull of the Mountain had grown more intense the closer we came, and now we were right at its feet. Resisting
was taking real effort, and my head was throbbing as if the barometric pressure had plummeted.

“Are we going up there?” I asked warily. Nastas took several steps back.

Olin shrugged. “Figured to,” he said. “Trail's good, and your mount knows it. You can trust 'im.”

Nastas pulled at the reins and snorted, his eyes wide now. “Whoa,” Olin murmured, and the horse steadied himself.

I gripped the reins tighter, staring at the fork in the road, struggling to steady myself, too.

“Courage,” Olin said softly, “is a kind of salvation.”

“What?”

“Somethin' an old Greek said once. Long time ago.”

“Right.”

He shifted in the saddle to take in the Mountain with me. “It's a far piece to the summit,” he said. “Ain't never been myself, but I know some who trekked it. I don't figure to go anywhere near that far today. Just up a ways.” He looked at me and smiled. “Then back down again.”

Nastas was motionless now, his ears pricked as if awaiting instructions. I stared at Olin, willing him to say something that would buck me up, too, but he only sat in his saddle as if he had all the time in the world for me to make up my mind.

I drew a deep breath and tapped Nastas with my boot heels.

We moved forward.

Olin led the way, taking the narrower road to the right—a wide dirt track with a low incline for a mile or so before it began to climb. As it climbed, it wound through thickening forest. Sunlight sifted through the trees, and I could hear birds, the rustle and snap of twigs, the distant rush of water.

If I'd been afraid that this Mountain would rear up and
swallow me whole, it wasn't happening. There were no bogeymen in these woods, no fires, earthquakes or floods. My nerves began to settle.

We leveled out again and Olin, still riding ahead, turned in the saddle and called back, “Let's pick it up.”

“I'm game,” I replied shakily.

Then he was off at a canter, Kilchii on his long legs disappearing down the road. Nastas chewed his bit and bobbed his head, nearly pulling the reins from my hand.

“Okay, boy. Think you can take him?”

I tucked my legs and pressed, and Nastas lunged after them. Of the two, he was the smaller horse but not the slower, and he was eager to prove it. We drew up on them fast, Olin glancing at us as we overtook and passed them. Now the road ahead of us was wide-open.

Half a mile on I reined in and could hear Olin and Kilchii coming at a fast clip. They pulled up level, and Olin looked pleased.

Both horses had worked up a lather, so we set them at a walk to cool down. Nastas was still straining at the bit, snorting hard.

“He has more steam to blow off,” I said.

“We'll set 'em loose up the road here,” said Olin.

We rode on in easy silence. After another mile the forest began to clear on the left, opening onto a broad meadow. As we neared I could see the meadow wasn't empty, but held a small cabin, painted slate blue, with black shutters and white trim, a table and chairs on the porch.

And there in the narrow drive was a familiar yellow pickup.

Behind the cabin, two figures were sawing and hammering on a corral that was nearly finished. By then, I wasn't surprised
to see that one of them was Simon. The other was much slighter, wearing a tan cowboy hat.

Simon straightened as we approached. He spoke to the person with him, who looked briefly in our direction. Then he headed toward us across the meadow, Pal hard at his heels.

Simon's hair shone nearly blond in the bright sun. He was bare chested, his work shirt knotted around his waist. As he walked, he loosened it, swung it around his shoulders and pulled it back on, but left it open in the heat.

“Come on up to the house!” he called. “I'll get us some cool water.”

“Corral's comin' along,” Olin said as we dismounted.

“Couple more days, I figure.” Simon wiped his sunburned neck with a bandanna. “Sorry I'm not too presentable.”

“You're a workin' man,” said Olin. “Don't apologize for lookin' the part. We was out for a ride and figured to drop in.”

“Glad you did.”

Olin led his horse to a patch of shade on the far side of the house, then headed for the porch. I started to do the same with mine, when Simon fell in beside me.

“Here,” he said. “Let me.”

He took the reins from my hand and led Nastas to the same patch of shade. When he returned, he examined me curiously. “Your hair's different, Joanna. Very becoming.”

I'd left it hanging loose this morning, held back with a band of ribbon. I could only imagine what a rat's nest the ride had made of it.

“It could use a good combing,” I said.

“Looks better this way.”

“You're an easy man to please, then. All a woman has to do is throw away her hairbrush.”

He laughed. Then he called out to Olin, still waiting for us on the porch: “Go on in, have a seat.”

The idea didn't appeal to me. None of this did. I knew Olin meant well—pushing me out of my comfort zone, challenging me to be brave. But this was too far, too fast. This felt like an ambush.

“Olin, we can't stay long,” I said.

“At least rest awhile on the porch,” said Simon. “I'll get some water. The horses could use some, too. Davey can see to that.”

So that was Davey working on the corral—the boy whose very name at the barbecue a few weeks ago had stalled the conversation. From a distance he looked wiry and slim.

Simon called out for the boy to take the horses around back to the trough; then he brought a water pitcher and glasses to the porch table. Olin sank back in his chair. “All I need now's a smoke,” he said.

“Can't help you there, my friend,” said Simon. “Promised Jessie.”

“She's right,” I said. “She's worried about your health.”

Simon and Olin traded smiles, and I realized my foolishness—in Morro, did Olin really need to worry about the afflictions of tobacco smoke?

“What gets her is the smell,” Olin explained. “Says I should stick with a pipe. But she really took against cigarettes the night I burnt down the ol' outhouse.”

“You didn't.”

“It was years ago—burnt clear to the ground. Folks saw it from miles off and come to watch. Then they took to speculatin' as to what caused it, and I said it all started with Jessie's bean chili. She ain't quite forgive me for that.”

I chuckled despite myself. “I can't blame her. You insulted her cooking.”

“There's chili cooks would consider it a compliment.”

“We use her recipe at the café,” Simon said. “Now you know why it's called the ‘house' chili.”

“No! Poor Jessie.”

“Naw, she thinks it's a humdinger,” Olin said. “Just too proud to admit it.”

Simon drained his water glass. “Would you like to see the new horse? He's out back.”

The meadow behind his cabin was covered with thick blue grama grass and wildflowers past our knees. It was an easy slope to the tree line, where the Mountain started to climb again. There was a raised vegetable garden and a small grove of apple trees, stacked rows of honeybee hives and a tall smokehouse on a stone foundation.

Davey stood at an outbuilding with our two horses, a water bucket at his feet.

Simon pointed toward the apple grove, and I could see nothing at first. But when he whistled, a horse emerged from the trees.

He was tall—as tall as Tse. And you could tell he must have been beautiful once.

Now, though, his gray hide stretched across sharp hip bones and jutting ribs. His broad back swayed as if it carried an oppressive weight.

“Mind if I take a look?” said Olin.

“He's gun-shy,” Simon cautioned as Olin headed toward the grove. Then he turned to me. “Well,” he asked quietly, “what do you think?”

I didn't know how to answer him. Certainly Jim had proven
just how wretchedly an animal could be abused, but I'd never seen neglect like this. Still, I knew Simon wasn't fishing for compliments.

“He looks awful,” I said. “What happened?”

“He was a racehorse once. Not a good one, I guess. Or his owner didn't think so. He was sold for dog food to some outfit down in Florida. Since he wasn't worth the cost of feed, they let him starve. He was just skin and bones when I got him.”

“Worse than this?”

“He's improved quite a bit. And he'll get better still. Watch.”

He whistled again and gave a call. The horse broke into a canter along the tree line, apparently unwilling to get too close. He pulled up and shook his big head, then finished his circuit across the field.

“There, now. See?” said Simon. “They didn't break him.”

It pleased me to hear him say it. Most people wouldn't see much worth in salvaging an abused creature like this.

“He'll make a good trail horse one day,” I said.

“No—thoroughbreds don't do well out here for trails or cattle. Their legs are too fragile; the country's too rugged.”

“So you'll race him?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then what on earth will you do with him?”

Simon hesitated, watching the horse turn and bolt back toward the grove.

Then he shrugged. “Let him run.”

The horse was moving at a speed that seemed wholly unsupportable for his gaunt frame and gangly legs. But he tore up the distance with little effort, disappearing again in the apple trees.

“Almost like he has wings,” said a voice behind us. “Like Pegasus.”

We turned to see the boy, Davey, a few yards away in dungarees and a damp T-shirt, his cowboy hat shading most of his face.

“Pegasus, huh?” said Simon. “Could be a fine name. What do you think?” He was asking me.

What I thought was that even if that horse had actual wings sprouting from his withers, he looked barely fit enough to carry a child, much less Zeus's thunderbolts. But I had to admit he had spirit.

“I like it,” I said. “Some names you just have to grow into.”

Simon made the introductions, and Davey stepped forward to shake my hand. The boy pulled off his hat, and for the first time I could see his face clearly . . .

The slight arc to the bridge of his nose . . . the squared-off chin . . . and the hair—a deep mahogany brown.

The resemblance to Jim was uncanny.

I snatched my hand from his. It was then that I noticed the eyes looking up at me from that eerie, familiar, terrible face were the same quartz green as Laurel's. As mine.

“Joanna . . . ?” Simon sounded concerned.

I was staring at the boy with open revulsion. I couldn't help myself. I stared as he flushed a deep red, then ducked his head in confusion. He took a step back . . . recoiling from me.

The rational part of my brain was struggling to intervene.
This is only a child,
it said.
We don't choose the features we're born with.
And yet . . .

“I—I'm sorry,” I managed to say. “I thought . . . we'd met before.”

“No, ma'am,” said the boy.

“No,” I said. “I'd have remembered.”

I dragged my eyes away from that face and turned toward the apple grove. I cleared my throat.

“How'd you come up with a name like Pegasus?” I asked finally. “Do you like Greek mythology?”

“Sure, I like stories about the old gods,” Davey said. “Olympus and the Underworld.”

“I did, too, when I was a kid,” I said. “I discovered them when I was eleven. How old are you?”