The Shattered Mountain (5 page)

10

R
EYNALDO does not find a rabbit. He does, however, encounter a burned-down farmstead
with a cellar. In the cellar, he finds three musty turnips, a jar of pomegranate jelly,
a side of bacon, and two frightened boys.

He brings them back to their campsite, and Mara is both delighted and dismayed to
see them. Two more survivors. Two more mouths to feed.

The boys themselves, ten and thirteen, are so happy to see everyone that they burst
into tears. Mara hugs them tight, even though they might be a bit old for hugging,
and assures them that they are safe.

When did she become such a liar?

She gets everyone organized for sleep—small children with older ones, two or three
to a blanket—then lies down beside Julio, who still sleeps soundly. She yearns to
wrap her arms around him but doesn’t dare jostle the wound. She is chilled, her shoulder
aches from the hard ground, and her stomach rumbles with hunger, so it is hours before
she finally drifts off into restless sleep.

In the morning, her first conscious thought is for Julio. She puts a hand on his shoulder,
terrified that she won’t feel the rise and fall of his breathing. But she does. It’s
steady and even. Almost healthy. The tiny spark of hope inside her burns hot and bright.

His eyelids flutter at her touch, and when he opens his eyes and sees her, he smiles.

“How do you feel?” she asks, reaching for his bandages. They are soaked with brownish
drainage.

He winces as she peels them back. “I feel wonderful,” he says. “Like I could fight
the Inviernos, carry Adán over my shoulder, and dance a jig all at the same time.”

Her lips twitch. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Because it turns out we’re running away
together to join the rebellion after all.”

He reaches for her hand and gives it a weak squeeze. “I saw this going differently
in my head.”

She sighs. “Me too. But . . . as long as we’re together, right?”

He frowns. “No.”

Something unpleasant curls in her belly. “What do you mean?” she asks carefully.

He lifts his head. “Mara. Love. Don’t pin all your hopes on me. You are so much more
than that. Instead of saying ‘as long as we’re together,’ I’d much rather you say,
‘as long as I’m alive.’”

She squeezes his hand. “I can’t imagine life without you. I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to imagine a life without you either. But I do worry . . . sometimes
. . . that you only
think
you love me. That you’ve had so little kindness in your life that . . .” His voice
breaks off at the horror on her face. “Oh, Mara, I’m not saying this well. That damn
arrow has addled my mind. . . .”

Mara brushes dark hair away from his forehead. “I do love you. And you know it.”

He lets his head fall back to the earth and closes his eyes. “I just need . . . a
little more rest.”

“Sleep,” Mara orders. “I’ll rouse you when we’re ready to go.”

He does not respond, and Mara waits to see him breathe before stepping away.

11

A
FTER a quick breakfast of cold bacon, Mara cleans Julio’s wound and gives him fresh
bandages. Not
clean
bandages, alas. The best she can do is tear a strip from one of the blankets. After
letting the wound drain all night, she really should stitch it now. But she has no
needle. Tonight, if it has worsened, she’ll have to cauterize the whole thing.

With Reynaldo’s and Adán’s help, she gets Julio on one of the two packhorses. He can
barely hold himself up, preferring to drape against the horse’s neck. They may have
to tie him down soon.

The sun shines bright and warm as they set off, but smoke has diffused into the air,
coating the earth with a brownish haze. The thin trickle of water winding through
their ravine is nearly dry. It pools in occasional shady puddles, warm and brackish.
Mara will let the children drink from the stagnant water as a last resort, but it’s
bound to make their bellies ache.

After a few hours, the tiny girl says, “I’m hungry.”

At least she’s no longer coughing.

“Me too,” says one of the new boys.

Mara sighs. She knew it was coming. But their food is in such short supply that she
can’t feed them until they make camp tonight. “Keep an eye out for greens,” she orders
the children. “Winter cress, aloe, nopales. We might still find some juniper berries.
If you get too hungry, you can chew on white-pine needles.”

At worst, the task will busy the children enough to keep them from complaining. At
best, a few succulents might keep their thirst at bay. Once they leave the mountain
to drop into the desert, food will be in even scarcer supply. She decides not to think
about that just yet.

They travel in silence. Mara can’t remember ever seeing such a silent group of children.
There is only the sound of their footfalls displacing pebbles, the
clop-clop
of hooves, the squeal of an occasional raptor. And farther away, hollow and distant,
the clap of thunder.

“Stop! Everyone, stop.” Mara turns in place, neck craning to view the sky. There is
not a cloud to be seen. The storm must be on the desert side of the mountain. If so,
it would be a rarity. Something that only happens in late fall.

Of course, it
is
late fall.

The sky cracks again, closer this time.

“That was thunder,” Reynaldo says.

“I don’t see clouds,” says Adán.

“What is it?” calls Julio from his horse. “What’s going on?”

Mara eyes the ravine wall. Steep, but climbable. For her, at least. The littler ones
might struggle.

“If we climb up to the ridge, anyone can see us,” Reynaldo says.

“If we don’t, we could be caught in a flood,” says Adán.

“Maybe the storm is far away.”

“What if it’s not?”

Mara looks back and forth between them. They’re both right. What should she do? She
hates having to be the one to decide.

“We’ll go a little farther,” she says at last. “Look for a better place to climb up.”
Julio and the horses might not make it up the side without an easier incline.

Thunder rolls again as she beckons them forward. The air temperature takes a sudden
drop; it happens so fast that she looks up at the ridge, half expecting to see an
animagus who has wrought the change through magic.

“Everyone look for a place to climb up,” she orders. The wind is gaining strength,
and she must shout to be heard. She prays there are no enemy scouts nearby.

One of the little boys begins to cry. Carella’s daughter sidles over and grabs his
hand, and together they wind down the ravine, Mara not far behind.

“The walls are getting steeper,” Reynaldo observes.

Her heart sinks. She was hoping that she was imagining it. “Keep moving,” she urges.

The wind lifts her hair from her neck, and she looks back toward the mountain peaks.
Sure enough, blue-black clouds are rumbling toward them, shrouding the mountaintop
in darkness. Lightning flashes somewhere inside the cloud bank, turning the edges
a sickly green for the briefest moment.

“Hurry!” Mara says, sweeping up the tiny girl in her arms and darting forward. “Does
anyone see a way up? Anything at all?”

But there is nothing. The walls are nearly sheer now, interrupted by clumps of mesquite.
She could climb it. Reynaldo and Adán could too. But the little ones wouldn’t stand
a chance, and Julio’s horse would never make it.

The ground trembles. A jackrabbit bounces across their path, then two more. They fly
up the steep bank and disappear into a tiny hole.

“Did you see that?” Adán calls out.

Mara’s heart races with the implication. If the animals are fleeing . . .

“Run!” she screams. “Everybody run! Climb up as soon as you can.”

The trickle of water they’ve been following widens to a tiny stream, pushing detritus
along with it. They splash through, always looking upward toward the ridge, and Mara
dreads seeing one of them go down with a sprained ankle.

“There!” calls out the boy who had been crying only moments before. Mara follows the
direction of his pointing finger and doesn’t see anything, but a few more steps forward
and she does. It’s a drainage ditch, cutting through the hill—hardly more than a slight
seam in the earth. Water pours down it already, into their ravine, but at a gentle
enough slope that with some coaxing and pushing, the little ones might make it up.

“Julio, you go first,” she orders. “Quickly!” It’s steep and uneven, but a good mountain
pony should be able to make it.

Julio clucks to the mare, and she plods forward into the adjoining ravine. His body
lists to the right; he’s barely holding his seat. Mara almost steps forward to help
him, but she can’t leave the little ones.

The earth trembles again. “Go! Hurry!” she yells, gesturing the others to follow Julio.
Which is when she sees her mistake. By insisting that Julio get to safety first, she
has blocked their narrow path. No one can pass the careful mountain pony. No one can
hurry.

“You!” she yells to the nearest boy. “Go whack that horse on the rump. Now!” As he
scrambles up the drainage ditch after Julio, Mara looks for a place to deposit the
tiny girl—a ledge, a bush with a big enough trunk, anything that might be high enough
to avoid the quickly rising water. But there is nothing.

Mara’s feet are ankle-deep now, and the gusting wind kicks up spray and dust, making
it hard to see. Carella’s daughter stands at Mara’s side, helping her direct the others.

“Now you!” the little girl yells to a much older boy. “Careful of that branch. All
right, your turn.” One by one the children climb up into the ditch, until only Mara,
Carella’s daughter, and the tiny girl remain. The water reaches Mara’s knees, which
means it’s to the girl’s waist. They won’t be able to stand against the current much
longer.

“Go now,” Mara says to Carella’s daughter. “I’ll be right behind you.” Mara hitches
the tiny girl higher on her hip. Somehow, she’ll have to make the climb one-handed.

The girl has barely started to climb when a rumbling noise makes her pause. She and
Mara look toward the sound. It’s a wall of churning, muddy water, tumbling down the
mountain toward them.

Mara launches past Carella’s daughter up into the ditch. She scrambles over mud and
stones, through skin-ripping branches, still looking for a place to tuck the tiny
girl.

A head peeks down from around a boulder. It’s Reynaldo. “Hand her to me!” he hollers,
reaching for her. Mara braces against the side of the ditch so she can lift the tiny
girl with both hands. Reynaldo plucks her from Mara’s grasp, and Mara darts back down
the way she came.

“Mara!” Reynaldo calls.

Below her, Carella’s daughter has slipped in the mud to her belly, arms and legs splayed.
Her wide eyes are a startling white contrast to her muddy face and hair. “Help!” she
cries.

The wall of water is upon them, and Mara has no time to be gentle. She grabs a nearby
manzanita branch with one hand; with the other she lunges down, grabs the girl’s cold,
slick arm, and gives it a tremendous yank.

The girl screams, but the sound is cut off by water filling her mouth and nose.

Mara’s arms threaten to rip from her sockets as water sucks the girl down, but she
refuses to let go, pulling with all her might. Gradually, the girl’s soaked head breaks
through the whitewater, then her shoulders. One final tug, and the girl’s body is
more on the bank than in the water. She lies perfectly still. Blood pours from a gash
on the side of her head.

The water level is still rising. Mara stretches farther, hooks the girl’s armpit,
and drags her up even higher, until only her toes trail in the water. One foot is
now bare.

Mara collapses on her back. Her arms are rubbery, and her temples have a sharp, squeezed
pain from so much effort. She turns her head to regard the girl beside her, half expecting
her to be limp and dead.

The girl convulses once, hard. Then she coughs, and something that is half floodwater,
half vomit dribbles from her mouth.

Joy surges in Mara’s chest, as brilliant as a rising summer sun. She digs her heels
into the mud bank for leverage, then helps the girl sit up. “That’s it,” she murmurs
as the girl continues to heave. “Just cough it all out.”

“Is she all right?” It’s Reynaldo. He lowers himself to their position, using rocks
and scrub for purchase.

“I think so. She has a bad gash on her head. And I may have hurt her when I pulled
her out. But . . . I think so.”
I saved her
. The truth of this marvelous fact fills her limbs with tingling warmth. Maybe she
can save them all.

“We should get moving,” Reynaldo warns. “The water is still rising.”

The sky chooses that moment to dump vicious streamers of rain, and Mara blinks water
from her eyes. “The others? Did they . . .”

“All safe on the ridge.”

She breathes relief. “Let’s go, then.” To Carella’s daughter, she says, “Can you climb?”

The girl coughs one more time, but she nods, and Mara marvels at her bravery. She
can’t be more than five or six, but she stayed behind to help everyone else. Now her
lungs must be on fire, her head pounding, her shoulder stinging, but instead of fear
or pain in her eyes, Mara sees only determination.

“What’s your name?” Mara asks.

“Teena.”

“All right, Teena. Let’s get up on that ridge, then we’ll let you rest.”