Chasing Redbird (13 page)

I
raced up the hill to the barn, pushed open the squeaky wooden door, and stood still, inhaling the familiar smell of hay and manure. When my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I made my way down to the stalls, listening for sounds of the new animal.

That wonderful Jake
, I was thinking.
That blessed Jake.

The stalls were empty. In the pasture, I found only our two cows munching methodically at the grass. I turned and surveyed the rest of the farm. Bonnie was climbing the hill toward me, and below, in the squirt garden, Ben tended his beans.

“So where is it?” I asked Bonnie when she reached me.

“Where's what?”

“The
horse
!”

Bonnie looked around. “What horse?”

“Honestly, Bonnie—the horse Jake brought!”

“Oh, Zinny, you goof,” she said. “It's not a
real
horse. It's a
wooden
horse.”

In the toolshed, I found the scythe and made my way back up the trail.
That idiot Jake
, I cursed.

Furiously, I swung at the meadow grass with the scythe. I was clumsy with the tool, nearly whacking my foot off several times, but eventually I got into a rhythm, and then it was as if my mind and body and the scythe and the grass were all connected. I swished my way across the meadow, surprised when I came to the fence on the other side that I was finished already and still had both my feet. I cut the barbed wire on the far side of the fence and lugged stones from the pile farther below.

What was happening to me? Why did I hope Jake would
steal
something for me? Normally I thought stealing was awful. Maybe I was looking for proof that he liked me. That was an ugly thing to consider, that I'd expect someone to do something so awful just to prove he liked me. I felt like a little kid demanding candy:
I want it! I want it now!
Only I didn't want candy; I wanted a horse, and I wanted to know who Jake really liked. In my mind I could hear May saying
Oh, Zinny, you're so immature!

In bed that night, I listened to the tree cricket. It was seventy degrees outside, and a warm breeze teased the curtains. On May's bedside table across the room was a small brown box, and beside it stood a miniature wooden horse.

The horse
had
to be meant for me, and I was tempted to snatch it from the table. Jake
was
giving these things to me, for me, wasn't he? But then I wondered why May was so
sure
it was for her, and if Jake had said something, and if he had changed his mind.

My dreams that night were filled with bizarre images. Gold medallions and ruby rings shimmered in the trees, and brass tokens fluttered in the air. Racing through the woods were tiny brown horses chasing beagles and beady-eyed salamanders. In the midst of all this, my Aunt Jessie danced on the trail, doing the boogie-woogie, while another woman, dressed in red, hid behind a tree.

I
spent most of the next day devising a new plan, which I presented to my parents that evening. My proposal was that I would spend the rest of the summer camping along the trail. That way I wouldn't have to trek back and forth each day, and I could speed along with my mission.

“Zinny,” my father said, “I'm not sure you should be up there alone.”

“Why not?” I said. “There's nobody around. It's just me and the trees and the birds.”

“What about the lions and tigers?” Sam asked.

“There aren't any lions and tigers, Sam,” Mom said. “But bobcats, maybe, and deer—and maybe a bear or two—”

I wasn't afraid of deer. I'd heard about the bobcats and bears, but these were just stories, I figured. “I've never seen anything like that up there,” I said. “Besides, if I don't bother them, they won't bother me.”

“You're too young,” Dad said.

“Too
young
? Weren't you eleven years old when you drove Uncle Nate's truck from here to Mississippi?”

“Well,” he stumbled, “times were different then.”

“And Mom, weren't you twelve when you backpacked through Kentucky?”

“Was I only twelve? Times
were
different then—”

“It's just hills,” I said. “Trees and hills and dirt.”

“Zinny,” Dad said, “I'm not so sure about this trail thing.”

“It's not a trail
thing
—”

Dad scowled. “You were easier to deal with when you didn't talk, you know that?”

Mom said, “Don't say that—let her talk.”

“Okay,” he said. “Won't you be crossing other people's property? What if they don't want you carving up their land? You'd be trespassing.”

“It's a public right-of-way,” I said.

“Is it? How do you know that?”

“The lady at the museum told me. It's on all the maps—”

“What maps?”

So I showed them the maps, and even though the lady at the museum hadn't actually told me that it
was
a public right-of-way, once I had said that it was, it sounded reasonable to me, and the more I insisted that it was, the more I believed it.

My parents were impressed by the maps. “This is amazing,” my father said. “It goes all the way to Chocton.”

“Zinny,” Mom said, “I had no idea—why don't you get some help with this project?”

“It isn't a
project
—”

“I don't like the idea of you being up there alone,” Dad said. “Maybe you could take someone along—one of your brothers, say, or Gretchen?”

From the next room, Gretchen shouted, “No way!”

“I don't want to take anyone with me. I want to do it alone. It's
my
trail—”

“Zinny, it isn't
your
trail,” Mom said.

“It is, too. And I'm not taking anyone with me.”

“But what if something happened to you? What if you got hurt?”

“I'd come home.”

“But what if you couldn't come home? What if you were knocked unconscious? Or bitten by a snake? Or broke your leg?”

“Good golly,” I said. “Or what if a plane fell on me? Or a tornado came along and swept me to Canada? Or—”

It went on like that for some time, until Mom said, “Zinny, you seem awfully anxious to get out of here—”

“Well, I am!” I said. “It's too crowded here and too noisy. Nothing is mine. Bonnie wears my shoes, Sam took the pillow off my bed, I never have a towel that's my own, nobody knows my name, there's never a clean glass in the cupboard, and somebody swiped my toothbrush.” I didn't think I ought to mention about feeling that if I didn't finish this trail, I was going to be struck down by the hand of God.

Mom and Dad stared at me. Mom said, “We've never heard you talk like this—you never talked to us—”

“And you never talked to me either!”

They both reared back as if I had thrown a tub of water in their faces, and I should have felt terrible, but my thoughts were jumping around like peas on a hot shovel.

Mom said, “But you were always at Jessie's—you always talked to
her
—”

I should have let her finish, but I didn't. On I barreled: “Up on the trail, everything's mine: the trees, the grass, the air, the flowers. Like Aunt Jessie always said, you need those hyacinths.”

“What's she talking about?” Dad said.

“You know,” Mom said wearily, “Jessie's hyacinth thingy.” I think that even though she loved Aunt Jessie and missed her, she was getting tired of hearing me refer to Aunt Jessie as the ultimate authority.

“What hyacinth thingy?” Dad asked.

“That wall hanging Jessie embroidered, with the saying about the hyacinths:
Man needs bread and hyacinths: one to feed the body, and one to feed the soul.
”

I saw the wall hanging in my mind. The saying was cross-stitched at the bottom, and at the top were three pictures: a loaf of bread, a bundle of hyacinths, and suspended over the bread and hyacinths was a hand—a large hand. It gave me a shiver to think of it. Aunt Jessie had said it was
the hand of God
.

And instantly I remembered hearing Aunt Jessie say, from time to time,
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away
. Whenever she'd say that, I'd automatically see that hand of God. I'd see it handing out the bread and hyacinths, and then, instantly, snatching them back again. It made me cold to think of it now.

Dad said. “Whatever happened to that wall hanging?”

“Zinny put it in her coffin, remember?” Mom said.

“Oh yeah.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Zinny, this is all about Aunt Jessie isn't it—all this business with the trail?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said.

“We
all
miss her,” he said. “But you aren't going to find her up there—”

My mother surprised me by saying to him, “Maybe she will. Maybe Zinny needs to get out of this house for a while.”

We were interrupted by Will, who was carrying four eggs, and by Ben, who was chasing him. “Give them back!” Ben said.

Will stood beside Mom. “Look at these! Ben was going to
bury
them—in his squirt garden.”

“Ben?” Mom said. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I ask
why
you were going to bury them?”

He flushed. “It's an experiment. I wanted to see what would grow out of them.”

Will went wild. “Do you believe that? He actually thought he could bury these in the ground and
chickens
would grow out of them.”

“Maybe not a chicken,” Ben said. “Maybe a chicken bean.”

“What the heck is a chicken bean?” Dad said.

“Do you think we could get back to
me
?” I said. “The trail. Camping. Me. Remember?”

From the porch came a loud whacking sound, accompanied by Uncle Nate shouting, “Dag blast it! Dag blast it!”

We all surged through the door. Uncle Nate was furiously thrashing a coiled piece of rope.

I stood there, watching Uncle Nate beat the rope. I wanted to hug him—or slap him—I wasn't sure which. I wanted to shout,
I miss her too! I miss her most!

My thoughts were interrupted by Dad. “Okay, Zinny, okay—”

“Okay? You mean I can go?”

“No,” Dad said. “I mean we need a few days to think this over. We're not saying yes, and we're not saying no.”

As Ben sneaked toward his garden, cradling the eggs in his hands, I touched Uncle Nate's shoulder. “I think it's dead now,” I said.

T
hree days later, when I had convinced myself that my parents had forgotten all about my plan and that I'd have to make another plea, they surprised me by telling me that I could go. I nearly fell off the porch from shock. There were, however, conditions: