Ariel (12 page)

Eleven

The implacable mutual hostility between man and dragon, as exemplified in the myth of St. George, is strongest in the West. (In chapter 3 of the Book of Genesis, God ordains an eternal enmity between reptiles and humans.)  .  .  .With one exception, the Genesis account of the temptation by a reptile in Eden is the only instance in the Bible of humans understanding the language of animals. When we feared the dragons, were we fearing a part of ourselves? One way or another, there were dragons in Eden.

—Carl Sagan
, The Dragons of Eden

The white-tailed buck I'd been trailing for the last hour, trying for a good shot, finally stepped out from behind the tree that had been blocking him. I gradually raised the crossbow until the butt rested firmly on my shoulder. Head lowering until cheek rested against metal stock, I squinted through the scope: I know: a scope is cheating—but it also helped keep me fed. I'd run out of food a little over two days after we left Atlanta; I hadn't exactly been thinking about what to pack in all the excitement. Today was our fourth day on the road and my stomach was grumbling. At least water was never a problem; I just dunked my flask in a nearby canal, creek, river, what-have-you. They were all clear, the water pure.

The buck lowered its head. The body was a clear shot in my sights.
Stay there, you pretty bastard
, I thought. Ariel knew I had to hunt to eat when we weren't around cities, but she didn't particularly like it, so she stayed around the Interstate or wandered about the woods while I sought game. I never worried about her scaring away my supper; no animal would ever know she was there if she didn't want it to. If she had her way I'd be a vegetarian, but I liked meat.

I curled my right index finger around the curved steel trigger and thought about all the kids who'd ever seen
Bambi
. I drew a deep breath and held it. Fuck 'em, I swore silently, they're all grown by now—probably eating Bambi's cousins to survive, just like me. I began to slowly squeeze the trigger: be smooth, be  .  .  .  .

The buck jerked its head right and bounded away into the thick tree growth. Small crackles and swishes faded away in its wake. I lowered the crossbow and stood up from behind the trunk of the oak tree that had hidden me. Cramped calf and arm muscles stretched. A scene from an old plantation movie, sunlight shafted lazily through irregular gaps in the moss that hung from tree branches like springy stalactites.

Last night we'd camped ten miles inside the South Carolina state line. By the time we camped tonight I planned to be at least forty miles inside the state, near a city called Greenville. Georgia's gently rolling hills had given way to more dramatic changes in scenery; South Carolina was no other word but hilly. Hilly but nice. The afternoon breezes were cool, especially after the sometimes stifling humidity of midday. Nothing compared to Florida's humidity, though. Nights were sharper, too, and I bundled up in my sleeping bag with Ariel beside me—I wasn't sure who was warming whom. The crickets seemed to chirp louder here, too, but once I was used to them they faded into a not unpleasant drone that even helped bring on sleep. My nights on the road had been restless. I'd been having bad dreams. I couldn't remember them after I woke up, couldn't even put my finger on why I knew they were bad dreams—but they were.

Another reason I liked South Carolina: it was sparse. Not barren—in fact, the foliage seemed heaped about in generous portions, giving the air a nice, thick but not heavy smell. Towns and cities were farther apart. Noticeable ones, anyway. I didn't count the ten-street affairs you missed if you blinked. Those were always around, though usually off the beaten path. Most of what lined the Interstate were dusty, empty gas stations and barren greasy-spoons.

I yawned. It would be dark in a few hours. If I wanted to eat before I made camp I'd better get a move on after that buck. Hungry as I was I still knew that it would bother me to kill it. There was more meat on the buck than I would be able to eat, as I could only skin it, clean it, dress it, and cook enough for me to eat right then and next day. After that the meat would spoil, and I didn't have the time or salt to dry and cure it. I was in a hurry to get to New York, though I was damned if I knew why.

With clenched teeth I set out again after my prospective dinner, and had gone perhaps half a mile when a soft voice behind me said, "No wonder you haven't got anything, with all the noise you're making." I turned to see Ariel standing not three feet behind me, tail swishing. "Anything edible within miles has had plenty of warning to burrow, climb, or camouflage itself and laugh while you stomp by."

"Okay, smartass, you do better." Which was a stupid thing to say, considering.

"I don't need to," she said mildly.

"How long have you been following me?"

"Since you got up from behind that tree."

She'd been following me that closely for half a mile? Christ! I relaxed my grip on the Barnett and lowered it to aim toward the ground. "You piss me off sometimes, you know that?"

"Why?"

"Because twigs should snap, at least! Leaves and stuff crunch underfoot, that's why! For God's sake, from three feet away I should be able to hear you
breathe!
"

"Why don't you just give up, and we can go back to the road and get some more miles in and then make camp. We'll be in Greenville tomorrow; there'll be plenty of stores with food in them."

"How do I know that? They could just as easily be looted, stripped bare. And hunting in the city is practically useless unless you want to eat rat. Or maybe a dog or a cat, if you're lucky. Besides, I'm not going another night without something to eat."

"Okay, fine. Just—" She quieted suddenly. I listened: light steps crunching on dead leaves. I squinted, tightened my jaw muscles to open up my ears. Just ahead, about twenty-five yards behind that group of pines  .  .  .  . I looked at Ariel. Ha! Dinner after all.

"I don't think—" she began in a voice I barely heard. I motioned her to silence and brought the Barnett up, peering past the crosshairs. Yeah, a slight movement of shadow, betrayed by the latticework of sunlight above and behind it. My buck was back. I followed the movement with the Barnett. It should emerge from between the two trees right ahead of me in just a second. I began to apply gradual, steady pressure on the trigger. My mouth watered at the remembered tanginess of venison.

The crossbow was batted down with an empty sound—
clomp!
—just as the bolt hissed loose. It thwocked into the ground a few feet away. I jerked away from Ariel, holding the Barnett protectively. "Why the fuck did you—?" Before I could finish she nodded her head toward the knot of pine trees. Tingling redness flew up my neck to warm my cheeks and forehead. A boy not older than fifteen stood at the space between the two trees where I'd been aiming a moment before.

* * *

"It's not that you're dumb, Pete," Ariel replied. "You just don't think ahead sometimes."

"Gee, thanks. You're not even going to let me feel guilty."

She looked from me to the boy, who'd stopped, smiled, waved, and begun walking toward us. "Have it your way," she said. "You're stupid."

The boy wore a black T-shirt with a picture of a green alien head, and droopy shorts so big and baggy they missed being long pants by about three inches. He stopped before us, still smiling toothily. Long, sandy hair and penny-colored freckles set off very white skin. "Hi," he said, accent turning the "I" sound into an extremely short "a." "My name's George." He looked at Ariel. Most people react strongly at first sight of her—they become short of breath, or they gape, or shake their heads, blink—overcome by her ecstatic beauty, or something. Hell, I don't know. She hit me the same way when I first saw her. But this George kid—he didn't look impressed one bit. "Hey," he said. "Your horse looks pretty neat."

Not again. "She's not a horse," I said, trying not to sound exasperated. "She's a unicorn."

"Uni  .  .  .  .?"

"Unicorn."

He repeated it. His accent made the vowels roll almost as much as the local countryside rolled. He said it again, feeling the word, tasting it, voice seeming to fold around its edges. "Unicorn." He nodded his head, perched atop a long neck. "I know they call it a unicycle 'cause it's only got one wheel, so I guess they call it a unicorn 'cause it's only got one horn." He paused, frowned, and smiled again. "Why isn't it a uni
horn
, though? Makes more sense that way."

I looked at Ariel but she was playing the dumb horse act, head bent to the ground, pretending to chew on grass. An airbrushed Mr. Ed, with extras. "Her name's Ariel," I told him, shooting her a disdainful look. She scratched at the grass and went on munching.

"
Ar
iel." His voice changed it, put the accent on the first syllable instead of the last. He said it again, the same way. "
Ar
iel. Can I pet her?"

I folded my arms. This might prove interesting. Either way, I'd learn something. "Sure, go ahead. If she'll let you."

Still sporting that idiot smile he walked to Ariel and ruffled her neck. "Hey, she feels pretty good. You must wash her a lot. We used to have horses at home but Pop had to turn 'em loose when we couldn't feed them no more." He walked thin fingers through her mane and patted her high on the neck. "Yeah, you like that, don't you, girl?"

Ariel raised her head and spat out grass. "This stuff tastes like shit," she said.

The kid damn near levitated. He jumped back, gasping, and his eyes widened. Suddenly they narrowed and he looked at me. "Hey  .  .  . did you—"

"No, he didn't," interrupted Ariel. "I said it."

"Well  .  .  .  ." He couldn't decide which of us to look at, and finally settled on Ariel. "  .  .  .hot damn! I ain't never seen nothing like this! I mean, those stories I heard from people, I thought they were all just  .  .  . stories, you know?"

"Well, I guess some of them aren't," I said.

"Yeah." His face became thoughtful. "Hey, yeah." He turned to me with an urgent look. "Those stories they tell about dragons north of here—are those real too?"

"Well, I've heard that there were dragons in the Carolinas," I said. "Though I couldn't say for certain. Ariel?"

"I've never been this far north. How would I know?"

"Well, I hope they're not real." His expression reflected it.

Ariel's comment had reminded me, though: we had to be on our way. "Look, George, I'm afraid we're in a hurry to get someplace. We've got to be moving on."

"Where you headed?"

"North on Eighty-five," I answered vaguely.

He brightened. "Hey, could I go with you? Me and my folks live just outsida town. If y'all follow the road you'll go right by my house. Heck, it'll probably be dark by the time we get there—why don't you stay for supper?"

I looked at Ariel. She dipped her head and closed one eye, regarding me skeptically with the other. "Sure," I told George, staring at Ariel all the while. "Thanks."

He nodded happily. "Mom and Dad ain't gonna believe this," he said.

* * *

George lived about a half mile west of the highway and three miles south of Greenville proper. His family grew enough vegetables to keep themselves going and then some: there were five or six acres planted with different crops, and George said his family consisted of himself, his mother and father, and his little sister. Their house was an old, two-story, wooden affair, once painted white, now fading gray and dirty. The setting sun highlighted cracks in the wood with shadow. Chickens pecked randomly in the yard.

"Mom! Dad!" George called, and ran inside. He left the front door open. The screen door banged shut behind him. Ariel and I waited in the yard. In a minute his mother, father, and little sister came out, followed by George.

"Tom," said his mother, drying her hands on a red-and-white-checkered dishtowel, "you see that?" Her accent was more pronounced than George's.

George's father was a barrel-chested, thick-bearded man with large eyes and scraggly, dark brown hair. Sort of a lumberjack and pre-Change truck driver rolled into one. "Yeah," he said, voice flat and midwestern. "I see it."

They just looked at Ariel. I put my hands in my pockets and waited, used to her stealing the spotlight.

George's mother hung her dishtowel over her left shoulder. "Is that like what you said you saw once?"

He nodded. His eyes shifted; he seemed to notice me for the first time. He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Tom Neiman," he said.

I took it. "Pete."

He looked back to Ariel. "I saw one of these once, about four years ago. I was out catching rabbits and I saw it walking through the trees. It stopped when it heard me. It was lit up by sunlight coming in through the branches, like a painting of Jesus. Prettiest thing I ever saw. 'Til now." He heaved a sigh. "Ran away, though. Thing was fast."

"Mr. Neiman, this is Ariel. Ariel, Mr. Neiman." He shot me a look I was accustomed to: you're introducing your horse to me, fellah?

"Hello," said Ariel.

"Lord!" said Mrs. Neiman by the front door.

"Uh—hello," said Mr. Neiman.

George came up beside his father. "I met 'em hunting, Dad. I asked if they wanted to eat supper with us. They can eat supper with us, can't they?"

Mr. Neiman looked puzzled. "Why  .  .  . sure, but  .  .  .  ." He turned to me. "What does she eat?"

I shrugged. "Ask her."

He looked back at her, eyebrows raised, but said nothing.

"I don't eat anything, usually," Ariel said. Her tone turned hopeful. "Unless you have any peppermint candy?"

"I'll, uh, have to check. I don't know if we  .  .  .  ." He trailed off.

His wife stepped forward. "I think we may have some from our last trip into town. I got some candy for the kids."

"This is my wife, Ellen," said Mr. Neiman.

She smiled; she seemed to have recovered pretty well. "Well, come on inside. I'll have supper ready in a jiffy."

We walked into the house. As we passed through the front doorway George's sister put out a hand to Ariel's snowy fur as it brushed past. Gap-toothed, pig-tailed, freckled like George—I remembered an expression my father had liked: "Looks like she swallowed a hundred-dollar bill and broke out in pennies." Adorable, in a puppy sort of way. I pretend-shot her with an index finger as I went by. She hugged the doorframe and giggled again. She was probably too young to remember what the gesture meant.

The house looked, to be tactful, "lived-in." The furniture was threadbare. Bath towels were tucked over sofa cushions, either to deter wear or to disguise it. Creaking underfoot with a comfortable sound, the maple-syrup-colored floor was scuffed, worn, and dirty. Cream-colored draperies around the living-room windows had been ripped and sewn up again with white thread. I wondered why they didn't just go into town and get new ones. Ash trays on the two end tables by the sofa, and one on a windowsill, were full almost to overflowing. The memory of cigarettes tickled at my chest.

The screen door clacked shut. "Go on, make yourself at home. We don't get company often." Mrs. Neiman was suddenly full of bustling activity. She stepped ahead of us, picked up an ash tray, and dumped the contents into the one at the other end of the worn yellow couch. Too full already, ashes drifted onto the floor and the large rag rug, oval and multicolored, in the middle of the living room.

"Oh, my," said Mrs. Neiman.

"Sit down, Pete," said Mr. Neiman, paying no attention to his wife's clean-up attempts. "Park your pack and gear by the wall here." He frowned. "I don't know what—"

"It's okay," said Ariel. "I'll stand."

He nodded uncertainly. She was
huge
in the living room.

"Evie, come help me in the kitchen."

"Oh, Mom!" Evie left to join her mother.

I sat on the couch. Ariel stood by the fireplace at the far side of the living room. Mr. Neiman sat in a brown vinyl recliner. It had ripped in several places and cotton stuffing puffed out when he sat. He pulled a pack of Winstons from the breast pocket of his faded and spotted work shirt. "Where you headed?" he asked, lighting up a cigarette. I glanced at Ariel. I could tell she wanted to say something about the smoke but was restrained by politeness. Which was unusual, as I'd taught her few manners and she really hadn't been around other people enough to have acquired a sense of etiquette.

I gave the same answer I'd given George, who'd sat in a dark brown rocking chair in the corner opposite his father. "North."

From the way Ariel returned my gaze I knew she could tell I was dying to bum a smoke.

"How far north?" He blew metal-blue smoke.

"Well—up the coast to New York." Couldn't hurt to tell him, I guess.

He pursed his lips and bobbed his head approvingly. "Always wanted to see New York. Course, that was before things went crazy. Probly just a bunch of empty buildings now." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Bet you'll see some strange things along the way."

I didn't bother to tell him we'd already seen some strange things. He went on to ask how we'd met each other, how we'd got to be friends, what it's like palling around with a unicorn, where was I the day of the Change, the usual things. I gave polite and vague replies.

Evie came out from the kitchen during our one-sided question-and-answer conversation and handed me a glass of lukewarm water in a plastic Slurpee cup. I thanked her, thinking, there's no way she could imagine what a Slurpee was. Evie's smile displayed the gap in her front teeth as she walked shyly to Ariel, one hand clenched behind her back. "Momma says she'll put water in a bowl, if you want some. But I thought I'd ask first." Her accent made the words sound like a bow drawing across a bending saw blade.

"That's okay, thanks."

Evie giggled again, enchanted by what she thought of as a talking horse. Like I said, Mr. Ed with a horn. But little Evie was too young to remember that, too.

Evie brought the hand from behind her back. "Momma said for me to give these to you." In her opened hand were a half-dozen Brach's Starlight Mints.

Ariel laughed. This made Evie giggle harder.

Goddammit, if she could have her precious peppermint then I could have a smoke. In a small voice I asked Mr. Neiman if I could, pretty please, possibly grab a cigarette and a light from him.

"Surely," he replied, and tapped one out of the red and white box.

Ariel glared as I worked the flint. By her right front leg Evie unwrapped mints and held them over her head. Eyes on me, Ariel spitefully nipped a red and white disk from the girl's hand and crunched loudly. I blew smoke in her direction. It was stale and foul; it tasted great.