Lifting the Sky (11 page)

Mr. Mac shook his head. “No way are you to come back,” he said. “I'll get dried off and have that rascal on dry land in no time. “Git, now,” he said, slapping Ol' Yeller's back fender same as you'd smack the rump of your horse.

I shivered and shook all the way to the house, but inside me a warm spot grew, as though my heart had stirred up its own fire. As Mam and I dashed from the truck to the house I burst out laughing. We looked like zany sea creatures, our sopping-wet clothes stuck to our bodies, our hair a wild fright. Mam looked at me and laughed too. Stew Pot just looked at us as if we were nuts.

Late that afternoon, after I'd tossed my wet clothes into the wash, hopped into a hot tub, devoured three peanut butter sandwiches and two cups of hot cocoa and then curled up with my hero dog for a nap, I heard a truck rumble up to the house. I stumbled down to the kitchen, yawning and rubbing at a sore spot on my ribs. Mam stood by the stove sorting through her stash of medicinal teas as she waited for the water to boil.

“Where's Mr. Mac?” I asked, looking around. “Didn't he come up?”

Mam shook her head. “I ended up going back down. We had quite a time winching the tractor up the bank. He just left to go back to his ranch.”

“Bummer,” I said, upset that I'd missed the whole show. “Double bummer,” I added as it hit me how much I'd counted on Mr. Mac coming up to check on the bums.

“Multiple whammy's more like it,” Mam said. “First
the tractor gets dumped in the creek, then me, then you and Stew Pot and Mr. McCloud. Thank goodness the day's almost over.”

I slumped down on the couch by the window. Steam from the teapot clouded the panes. I wiped a clear strip and peered out. Was it only yesterday that the world had been spring green and crazy with birdsong? In the yard, ghostly bushes still sagged under the weight of the snow. Blue shadows stretched across the white meadows. The wind swirled around the house with a sound like a flute.

Stew Pot padded over and stuck a cold nose in my palm. I scratched his ear with one hand and sighed. If only Mr. Mac had come up. I'd so wanted to see the surprised look on his face when he examined Wonder Baby's leg, the way his eyes would twinkle as he saw how fantastic the two bums now looked. The way he'd run his hands down Wonder Baby's leg to check it. How he'd reach for the other leg, thinking he'd got the wrong one … But now, by the time he returned again (after who knew how long!) the leg would've healed up on its own anyway. What a downer. “Serves me right for wanting to show off,” I muttered.

“Well, so much for my day with no chores,” I whispered into Pot's furry shoulder. Then, “Guess I'd better go feed my bums,” I said loudly, so Mam could hear me over the whistling teapot. From across the room she gave me a half smile as if to say she was sorry my day had been so messed up. She held up a tea bag, like, Did I want a cup? I shook my head. No. Maybe I'd go eat some worms.

I shuffled through the mudroom and out to the front
porch where I'd left the bottles—was it only a few hours ago? Back in the kitchen, I rattled them about in the sink and then shook them till the nipples almost flew off. I let the front door bang behind me.

When I got back, the house was quiet. I knocked on Mam's door and, when she didn't answer, peeked in. She lay in her fairy-tale bed with the rose-patterned quilt pulled up to her chin, one hand resting on the open pages of the book at her side.

I stood in the doorway studying her. The way her tanned, cracked, calloused hand somehow seemed fragile on the white pages of the book. The way her eyes had dark half-moons beneath them. The bright lights that I normally saw spinning about her now seemed sluggish and dim, and I could see darker places where I guessed she'd been battered and bruised by her dump in the creek. I had a few of those places myself. I thought of how she never, ever complained about feeling sick or tired or hurt. How she always smelled slightly of sage, as if she breathed in the land around her and breathed out its essence. I wrote that down in my journal a while back and was real proud of how the sentence came out. Sometimes she had smelled of gin, back then. She hadn't bought any bottles of gin since we'd been at Far Canyon, of that I was certain. No wine, either. She knew she had to be careful. I thought of how I used to worry about her, and how one drink always seemed to lead to another. She always seemed so strong, but with that one thing she wasn't. I crossed my fingers and made a quick wish that
no temptations would land in her path. I smiled as her breath came out in soft whistles.

Then all of a sudden it hit me.

She could've drowned in the creek. How had she gotten out of the tractor when it slipped over the bank? It could've tumbled over, she could've been trapped! I could've lost her….

I tiptoed over to the bed. I was so full of love at that moment that I could feel my heart puff up like a balloon. And the light. I could feel it around me, transparent and golden. A rush of energy surged through me, as if I was plugged into an electrical socket with a current of love and light flowing out of my fingers.

I squinted, studying Mam's lights. It was as if her normal patterns had gotten off balance, the way a musician might suddenly hit a wrong note. I let my hands ripple several inches above her body. When my hands were over the places where she'd thumped hard against the jam-up I could feel a prickly pain shooting up into my hands. Even taking my hands away, I could still feel it.

That's weird
, I thought.
Am I absorbing her pain? I don't want it!
I shook my hands really hard, and the hurt went away. I took a deep breath. My feet seemed glued to the floor, as if they'd grown roots that were keeping me from floating away.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, I put both my hands on her feet. Then, for the longest time, I just stood there. It wasn't me actually
doing
anything—I just stood there letting the light flow through me and through her. I watched
as around the bruised places her lights changed as my light mixed with hers; watched as her lights flickered and fluttered and spun back into their usual bright luminous colors. When her lights seemed more like their normal pattern, I picked Mam's hand up off her book and held it.

Which made me think. I hadn't held my mom's hand since—well, since I couldn't remember.

Mam's eyes blinked.

I slid my hands away.

“Blue?” she said sleepily. “I didn't know you were there.”

I smiled.

Mam slid her hand under the cover and felt along her ribs. “I'm not hurting so much anymore. That medicinal tea I drank must've worked wonders.”

“It's good stuff,” I said.

Mam yawned. “I've been thinking about those antelope fawns you told me about at lunchtime. It's rare to see such a birth. You should feel really privileged.”

“I do,” I said. “I was just wondering if I should go check on them.”

“The sun's about to go down—can't you wait till tomorrow?” She yawned again, stretched, and closed her eyes.

“I'm worried about the lame fawn. But don't worry. I'll be back in a flash, and my hero dog will take care of me.”

She was already asleep again as Stew Pot and I slipped out the front door.

A cold east wind lifted my blue baseball cap—I'd lost my knit one to the creek. I jammed it down and pulled up my collar. I'd left my boots on the furnace grate to dry, and my cowboy boots slipped and squeaked in the snow. We followed my tracks to the fence. Holding up one barbed wire with a gloved hand, I pushed down with my boot on the other and scrambled through.

We cut across the hill to the ridge above the canyon. The wind gusted along the rim, spitting snow at us, and after going a short way I turned around and headed back toward the game trail that led into the canyon. Halfway down it, I hesitated. Much as I hated to leave Stew Pot behind, it probably wouldn't be a good idea to bring him along. I glanced around. Near the start of the trail was an overhang that looked like a good shelter from the cold wind. I hiked over to check it out, and then whistled to Pot.

“Stay here,” I said, patting the snowy ground. “Stay so we don't scare the babies.”

Pot knew the words “stay” and “babies” because he was a cow dog and used to little critters. He was always careful not to spook anxious mothers and their playful calves when he helped Mam, or when we trailed the cows from one range to another. All it took was a whistle or a pointed finger and he'd be off to do what cow dogs just
naturally do. He knew all the commands. For sure he knew the word “stay.”

That's why I was startled when halfway down I looked back and saw Stew Pot behind me. His eyes didn't leave mine. “Go back!” I said, and he hunkered down but rose as soon as I took a few steps. But I was in a hurry to get to the end of the canyon, so I pointed to the sheltered nook, snapped my fingers, and said sharply, “Stay.” He turned and slunk back. “Good boy,” I said, and trudged on.

It was creepy down in the shadowy canyon, with the craggy walls leaning in and only a band of sky showing above. I hurried, zigging and zagging my way toward the place where the fawns had been born. Near the far end, where the canyon widened and the sagebrush grew tall, I almost stumbled into it. From there I practically tiptoed. Except in squeaky cowboy boots tiptoeing didn't work very well. The last thing I wanted was to spook the new fawns.

Blue shadows filled the bowl, but the snowy rim gleamed bright gold as the setting sun struck it. A few tracks crisscrossed the snowy valley. I scanned the hillsides but could see no sign of the fawns—either they were well hidden or they'd found new places to hide. I was about to hike up the slope when I heard a rustling sound.

I stopped. Cupped my hands to my ears. What was that?

Suddenly a piercing scream split the silence, a scream so wild, so loud, my heart tunneled into the earth. The
scream rose shrilly and broke off in midshriek. All the hairs on my body stood up.

I stared bug-eyed as a black shape streaked across the golden rim of the bowl. Something limp hung from its jaws. The black thing froze, glared at me with yellow eyes, and then loped away with the skinny legs of its bundle swaying back and forth, back and forth….

Another sound, this one a wild, frantic honking, like a goose gone crazy mad, rumbled toward the rim. It was Lone One! She jerked to a stop, saw I was a familiar shape, and tore off again, grunting wildly.

She was going after a wolf!

I crouched and touched the ground with my hands, feeling my stomach heave.
Hang on
, I said to myself.
Don't throw up. It'll only attract … wolves.
I swallowed hard. I was still dizzily hanging on to the earth when Lone One came honking back to the rim, her black tongue hanging out, her thin sides heaving. With each grunt her white tag of a tail shot up.

Halfway up the slope, from behind a clump of sagebrush, I saw a small head pop up and just as quickly sink down again—the other fawn!

Up on the rim, Lone One spun and bolted away again.
You're so brave, but it's too late, too late,
I thought as she vanished. I didn't breathe till I heard the sad honking sound returning. The poor mother antelope walked slowly over the rim, breathing hard. She looked down at me and grunted.

This time it seemed as if her frantic grunts were
aimed in my direction. Rightly or not, that's how I heard it. I unstuck my hands from the earth. Stumbled up the slope to the fawn's hiding place. Quick as a flash I reached down and grabbed it.

Oh, poor mother antelope! If a sound could slice a heart in two, then this sound did. It was the same terrified, shrieking bleat as before, so loud and shrill I almost dropped the fawn right then. Legs kicked in all directions. With one gloved hand I tucked its spinning legs into the crook of my arms and clutched the struggling fawn to my chest. The fawn gave one last muffled bleat and fell silent.

I stood there, the two of us trembling and me so shaky I thought I'd tip over. “Hush, baby, hush, it's okay, it's okay,” I finally managed to croak.

But of course it wasn't one bit okay at all.

Lone One stared down, her head lowered, her legs splayed apart. She looked ready to charge.

Feeling self-conscious, I made a low, guttural sound as near as I could to her deep belly grunt.
“Eaaaaaaahhh! Eaaaaaaahhh!”
I grunted.

Lone One grunted back. I grunted again. She answered. I took a step backward. Lone One took a step down the hill.

Slowly—step, grunt, step, grunt—I backed toward the canyon like a crab hunched over its treasure. I couldn't turn my back on Lone One. She had to see her fawn.
Follow me.

Amazingly, one step at a time, Lone One followed.
Her eyes didn't leave for an instant the bundle I held in my arms. She kept a distance of about fifty feet. At the first bend in the canyon I lost sight of her. I walked a short way and stopped, wondering if Lone One followed. Several minutes passed, long enough for me to reconsider what I'd just gone and done.

Long enough to wonder,
What on earth am I doing? Where am I going?
A cold chill ran through me. I'd just picked up a
fawn
—I'd taken it away from its mother. And now, if the mother charged and I dropped it, it'd run like crazy, its mom would chase after it—and what if a whole
pack
of wolves was waiting out there in the hills?

But what if…? What if this was the fawn that'd been having so much trouble walking? What if this was the lame one?

I untucked a thin leg from under my elbow.

I was about to check it out when a long, wailing howl rose from the hills. Another howl answered. I could feel the hairs on my body rising again. I quickly stuffed the fawn back into the crook of my arms.

“Hush, baby, hush. It's okay,” I whispered with my mouth on the soft furry head.