Crow Mountain (13 page)

B
y the time I reached the treeline, I was breathless and slowed to a walk. There was no trail. No track. Nothing. The clumps of pine and scrub gathered as the forest thickened. But there was no obvious way through them. I was soaked, even though the rain was light and my feet were getting sore.

Hot, frightened perspiration trickled down inside the cold, wet shirt, making me shiver. What had I done? I knew nothing of how to survive in the wilderness. The ground was springy with moss and pine needles. Something stung my foot. I winced and looked at the red mark, my hand against the rough bark of a tree for balance. The forest was noisy with birds, like a canopy of sound above me. The rain seemed to have stopped and light came down through the trees, glinting off the wings of butterflies, making the
undergrowth shine. Twice, I had to backtrack when it proved impassable. I stopped and rested on a fallen tree, thirsty and footsore. Nearby there was the sound of running water and when I had caught my breath, I followed it. But the water looked brown, so I set off again.

When the late afternoon chill set in, I found some sort of trail, or animal track. My feet were a little numb by now. I kept moving to stay warm, but when the light began to fade I found a large rock with a tree growing next to it, and huddled on to it, wrapping my arms around myself. My clothes and hair were still very damp; I wished I'd brought a blanket, or something heavier to wear. I rubbed my sore feet. They were scratched and blotched with red, the right one was smeared with blood from a splinter and they were blue with cold along the edges of my nails.

Soon, it was dark, and I felt the forest had eyes. Something moved in the undergrowth. I choked back a scream as a deer loomed out of the darkness. The fright made me even more sensitive to the cold, although suddenly my skin felt slightly warmer to the touch and my violent shuddering died down. The night-things scuttled and croaked, quietening to barely a murmur. High above, the moon made lacework from the pines.

When I woke with a violent start, it was just before dawn. As soon as there was a bluish-grey light amongst the trees, I set out again, stiff with cold. After a few minutes, I stumbled into a stream. Grateful, I washed my face and hands, and drank a little. An eternity later, or so it seemed, I emerged
from the trees on to a grassland.

As the sun rose, I headed what I thought was east. My feet were a mess, toenails rimed with dirt. My empty stomach was complaining and my head ached from lack of water. Sometime after midday, still on the endless grassland, the lake to my right, I stumbled, exhausted, and fell to my knees. I was wiping my face of sweat and a self-indulgent tear when I heard it: a low growl. My head snapped up.

At the edge of the trees, no more than ten yards away was a rock outcrop, perhaps a little taller than me. On it perched a huge tan cat, belly against the stone. An American mountain lion. Its tufted ears were sharply pricked and its tail lashed from side to side. As its muzzle drew back from its teeth, it exhaled a long, low hissing sound, and its back legs pumped in readiness to spring.

A cry escaped me and I fell as I stumbled backwards. The animal gathered to surge from the rock, just as a shot echoed around the mountains, chipping shards of stone by the cat's paws. It coiled back in an instant, snarling, and streaked into the trees.

I could barely breathe. Your hand was hard beneath my arm. ‘Up. Get up.' I struggled to my feet, fighting you. You grasped my arms and shook me, hard. ‘That's enough.'

‘Let me go!' I squirmed, pushing you.

‘You want to end up as cat meat?' You were furious as, with one last jolt, you released me.

All the fight left my body in an instant, and a tear streaked down my face. We stood staring at each other, both breathing
hard. Finally, you sighed and offered me the water canteen. My instinct was to refuse, but I was so thirsty I took it and drank greedily.

‘What have I done to you that's worth dying over?'

I looked at the canteen in my hands and swiped another tear away. ‘I just hoped to find people . . . who would help me.'

‘Only people you gonna find out here gonna give you the kind of help you don't deserve,' you said fiercely. ‘You got any idea what use the miners and trappers out there would have for you? How they would hurt you?'

‘Stop! Please!'

‘Why? Your ears as prim and proper as the rest of you?'

‘Stop it! Stop trying to frighten me.' I was suddenly furious, and threw the canteen into your chest. Before the crash, I could not remember being angry in my life.

You caught the water bottle, holding it to you, the other hand lifted in warning. ‘Desist hurling things at me. Ain't never raised a hand to a woman but you are sincerely trying my patience.'

‘You promised not to hurt me.'

‘That was before you started using me for target practice.' You shook your head. ‘Come on. Time to go home.' You caught my shoulder and drew me closer to the horse. ‘And seeing as how you're sticking around, you're going to have to get used to how we do things around here. And how we do things is
horses
. Lesson One. Getting on the horse. Her left side is the near side, right side is off side. Always get on the
near side—'

I pushed you off, knocking your hand away as hard as I could. ‘I can't ride her.'

You scratched your cheek. ‘Want to go home hog-tied across the saddle?'

I turned back to Tara.

‘One hand on her withers – yep, that ridge there – and one hand behind, on her rump. Yes,
rump
, that's what I said. She don't mind. She's ain't precious like some I could mention.' Stooping, you caught my left shin in your hand, tapping behind my knee with your knuckles. ‘Bend your knee. Bounce on your right foot a little and when I say go, let me boost you up and swing your right leg over. Use Tara. It's what she's there for.'

I pulled away from your grip. ‘But I can't ride astride, only side-saddle.'

You straightened up. ‘Ain't got one on me.'

My lip trembled. ‘A gentleman wouldn't make me do this.'

A profanity of the kind I was utterly unfamiliar with split the air. You gestured to yourself. ‘Emily, take a good look and tell me which part of this looks like a gentleman.'

I looked you up and down, from your long hair to the ragtag collection of feathers and other things around your neck, to your old clothes and knee-high Indian boots.

With a broken sigh, I turned back to Tara again and placed my hands as you had instructed. The first attempt was useless. You straightened up. ‘You gotta slacken up, and just let me lift
you. Relax.'

‘I'm not feeling very
relaxed
,' I said tearfully.

‘Oh Jesus, Emily.' You rubbed your face. ‘You can't be this pighead-stubborn and this sorry-ass at the same time. It's just too confusing.' You took my shoulders and turned me back to face the saddle. ‘Try again. One, two, three . . .
go
.'

To my surprise, a second later, I was mounted on Tara, who stood still as a stone. Leading her over to a fallen tree, ignoring my frantic grab for her mane, you stood on it, put your right leg over her behind me and eased on to her back. Taking up the reins in one hand, you steadied me with the other. It was all monstrously improper. The idea of me riding astride would have sent Mama into an apoplexy as it was, let alone our current posture, your arm right the way around me, your other wrist on my thigh as you arranged the reins.

‘Quit squirming. You ain't an eel and Tara don't like it.'

Tara seemed not to care in the slightest, quiet and biddable as usual. You almost let her lead herself.

‘How far did I get?' I asked in dismay.

‘Four miles, thereabouts. In the wrong direction.'

We were back in the forest, and whilst the day had brightened around us from a dull start, in the trees it was still dark, though not nearly as forbidding as it had seemed when alone. Only a short time later, we emerged from the forest into the light. I put up a hand to shield my eyes. My bare feet hung down, heels banging against your shins as Tara climbed the grassy slope up the mountain with delicate, certain steps, finally coming to a halt in front of the porch. You dismounted,
landing on your good foot, then helped me down. As you set me on my feet, I winced.

‘Only yourself to blame.'

I turned to the house, exhausted.

‘Ah-ha. What haven't you done?'

I turned back. ‘I don't understand.'

You pointed to Tara, standing obediently.

‘What?' My voice was sullen, even in my own ears.

‘Look, Em, I know you're tired, but you take care of the horse before you look to yourself. Nothing but the work of a few seconds to turn her out. Can't just leave her standing here.'

I lifted my hands to her face, unsure.

‘Not the cheek strap. Just undo the throat strap there. The thin one. That's it. Now reach up between her ears and take the crown there. Pull nice and easy.' The bridle came away in my hand and Tara let the bit slip from her mouth, then gave her head a shake and moved off as you slapped her shoulder. Taking the bridle from me, you hung it on a nail in the railing and pointed to the bench on the porch. ‘Now, let me have a look at those feet.'

I sat down, stiff, as you made tea. Bringing out two cups, you handed one to me and dropped to your knees, fingers closing on my ankle. You lifted my foot and inspected the sole, making disapproving noises in your throat. ‘What am I going to do with you?'

‘Nothing. I don't want you to do anything with me.'

You examined the other foot. ‘Spider bite.' You felt the
skin around it, blackened like a bruise.

Jerking from your grip, I flinched. ‘Ouch.'

‘Don't be a baby. Do you feel hot? Sick?'

‘Cold. Just cold.'

‘And no wonder. You ain't strong enough to sleep rough. Didn't even make yourself a shelter.'

‘You . . . you followed me?'

‘What do you think?' You got up and went over to where the wooden tub sat and turned the tap, filling it with the crystal clear water.

‘Why didn't you help me, last night? I was so frightened.' My chin trembled.

You frowned, looking awkward and unhappy. ‘Thought you might see sense and come back on your own. Damned if you ain't obstinate.'

‘And you had to make your
point
, of course, didn't you?' I said, trying to be both dignified and hurt, like Mama.

Pushing to your feet, you went inside. I buried my head in my hands and cried a few exhausted tears, not feeling you standing over me until you threw a towel into my lap, frustrated. ‘For Chrissake, stop crying. It's pitiful.'

I sat up and flung it back at you. ‘Stop
making
me cry!' It hit your stomach, then dropped to the boards.

‘I told you to
cease
throwing stuff.'

Silence.

‘Just get cleaned up, Emily. Everything feels better clean,' you said, weary, and went inside. The door closed behind you.

I swiped a hand beneath my nose, quelling a sob, and
stripping out of my dirty clothes before washing in the chilly water.

As I got out you shouted from behind the door. ‘You decent?'

I wrapped myself in the towel, knotted my braid on the crown of my head and sat on the bench, quite a portrait of misery. ‘Yes.'

You opened the door. In one hand was an enamel bowl, and in the other a kettle. I could see a pile of dried herbs inside. You put them on the planks and poured the kettle over them, making a fragrant steam rise. You added some water from the tub and tested it.

‘Feet in.'

I did as you said, obediently. You handed me a blanket and I wrapped it around my shoulders, huddling up. Kneeling down and pulling my foot from the water, you examined it carefully, pulling thorns and splinters out where necessary with a pair of steel tweezers. I winced.

‘Oh no, lady, you've earned every part of this. The bite will bruise for a couple of days, but you've got away lightly, I reckon.'

‘I haven't got away at all,' I said quietly. The wind in the trees was the only sound for a few seconds. ‘Take me back, Nate. Please.'

You let go of my foot and sat back on your heels, head on one side, strange eyes fixed on mine. ‘Ask me anything else in that voice. Say my name like that. And you can have anything you want that I can give you.'

I swallowed. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Yes you do, Emily, you understand just fine.'

What you were suggesting . . . it was impossible. ‘We don't know each other.'

‘You don't know the man you were on your way to marry.'

‘My parents, they—'

You pushed up on to your feet, hard, towering over me. ‘They're selling you. You can't see that? I know how that feels, Emily, and it ain't good.'

It wasn't what you were making out, my marriage. It
was
a good thing. Everyone had told me so. I had to make you understand. Perhaps, that way, you would take me back. ‘I
do
know him. Better than you think. We write. They . . . they've shown me photographs. I . . .'

‘Photographs?' Your hands clenched into fists. You stalked away, inside the house. When I dared to peep in, you were hunched over the sink, shoulders at an angle.

‘I don't belong here,' I said, my voice unsteady as I stood in the doorway, feet wetting the pale floorboards.

You threw your tin cup into the sink in a sudden show of temper, denting it further and making me start back. ‘You don't know where you belong. That's your problem.'

Two days passed. You came and went but you barely spoke to me. When I tried to make conversation, you turned away from me so often that I lost my voice, confused by your obstinate silence. But soon I grew to be happy when I saw Tara grazing outside, for I knew you were around. Somewhere.
And the idea of being alone in the wilderness terrified me. Often, you stood near the corral, roping a wooden post, over and over again, snatching down the catch, rope scratching loudly as it tightened. You were clever with it, and sometimes I watched from the porch as you twirled it over your head, sometimes around your body, the noose fluid and ceaseless. On the second afternoon, you stood at a distance from the post and shot arrows from a small, sturdy bow into a deerskin bag filled with dirt. Over and over. Later you told me it was better than wasting ammunition out hunting, because every bullet counts.