Say That Again (3 page)

I would care for it and sleep with it. Guard it at all costs. It was mine. All mine. A source of purpose. An undemanding companion.

For a while, I forgot my hunger and weariness. Renewed, I trotted on and on, following the trail as it veered away from the river and onto a broader plain where the hills parted and the ground rose gradually.

There, at the top of the path, stood a man. Taller than the tallest Tall Ones I had ever seen. A man of middle years with tawny golden hair. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted toward the valley from which I had just come.

“Hannah! Hannaaahhh!”

Slowing, I looked about, expecting a ‘hannah’ to burst from the underbrush. Maybe that’s what the masked creature was? But everything all around was still. There was nothing but me and the man. No sound, no movement. Just the two of us and a bunch of trees and hills and the river in the distance.

I turned, searching for a hiding place. But just as I did so, he spied me. And started running toward me.

A recognition, a sense of ‘knowing’, sparked deep inside me. I quickly brushed it away and focused.

“Is that ...?” He tossed a look behind him and hooked his arm in the air. “Jenn, here. Hurry! There’s a dog down there. He’s got Faustine.”

Faustine? Was a ‘faustine’ anything like a ‘hannah’?

“What do you mean
‘He’s got Faustine’
?” a woman’s voice called. “Where?”

“This way!”

Heavy feet tromped downhill toward me. Soon, I heard a third set, lighter and more nimble, but no faster.

Frantic, I leaped from the path to bound through grass and weeds. Cockleburs snagged at my fur. Stiff stems of broken weeds poked at the pads of my feet.

“We’ve got to find her, Dad!” the younger one screeched, her words followed by sobs.

“Don’t worry, honey. We will, we will.” But he sounded no surer than the others.

The faster I ran, the more my lungs burned for air. My time beneath the water had weakened them and filled my legs with lead. I heaved for air, but as I did so, the furry thing fell from my mouth. I was several feet beyond it before I could swing around and turn back. Just as I dipped my head to grab it again, the man appeared before me.

We both stopped, staring. I wanted my prize back, but didn’t dare risk going closer.

Kneeling, he extended a hand. His voice was soft, soothing, but carried the slightest tremor. “Please, where did you find that? Show us.”

Again, that feeling. A sense of familiarity as I met his gaze. I wasn’t sure what it meant or why I felt it.

The others came to a stop behind him, faces drawn with concern, almost scared. The younger one was a smaller version of the woman. Tears streaked her face.

“Please,” he begged again.

I didn’t understand what he wanted. Was he asking to take the thing? Or for me to come to him? Or something else entirely?

Although instinct begged me to trust him, experience told me not to. The last human I was with had done a terrible thing to me.

So I did the smartest thing I could think of.

I ran.

––––––––

C
old. Absolute, piercing, bone-shattering cold. Little Hannah McHugh felt it in her core. Her heart, which at first had raced in fright, now beat sluggishly. Fear had gripped her for only a moment. And then the shock of coldness snatched even that away. She simply existed — frozen, submerged, unable to move or breathe or even think.

Slowly, a question formed in her mind:
Where am I?

But no answer came. No awareness. No reaction. She saw nothing. Felt nothing. Could not move.

She opened her eyes, blinking hard as tiny particles of silt scratched at them. A murky haze of green swirled around her, lightening, shifting.

What is this place? How did I get here?

She began to remember. Wandering away from her cabin in search of fairies. Following the bluebird. Kneeling beside the river. Faustine falling in. Reaching. Slipping. Plunging ...

She was in the river!

Hannah opened her mouth to scream for help. Water rushed in. Her throat constricted. She gagged. Her chest seized, trying to summon a cough, but her lungs resisted, determined to hold on to what little air they contained.

Desperate to get out, she flapped her short arms like a fish moving its fins. But an eddy was sucking her downward, pulling her farther beneath the surface. A whirlpool had been created by a bend in the river, the bottom scooped deep by countless floods.

Again, she flailed her arms and kicked her legs. The water above her grew deeper, heavier, pushing her down. She closed her eyes. This was not happening. She was not here. She was back at the cabin, safe in her sleeping bag beside the fire, dreaming. That was all.

A weight squeezed her ribs. Her lungs ached. Pressure pushed outward from within.

Once more, she kicked, extending her legs far. Her foot caught on something. She yanked it toward her — or tried to, but the thing held her firm, pressing sharply against the sides of her foot. She’d caught it between two rocks, wedged it there somehow.

Panic gave way to despair and quickly became resignation. Opening her eyes, she looked up. Saw light, white and warm. In that halo of hope, there appeared her parents’ faces and beside them Maura, smiling sadly.

Hannah smiled back.

A fish swam by, paused before her face. Its mouth opened, shaping a word:
Listen.

“I am. I hear you.”

It wiggled its head up and down, as if nodding. And then with a flick of its fins, it was gone.

Tranquility filled her. Happiness. She was floating, weightless, no longer tired or afraid.

Out of nowhere, a hand clamped on her wrist and wrenched her free.

––––––––

C
aution isn’t the same as fear. To be cautious simply means being alert and careful. Which I always was. Because it kept me safe. To be afraid is to be certain of a bad outcome. And I wished to ensure a good one.

Which was why I ran. Because I would not risk my fate in the hands of a stranger. I trusted myself, not that man I did not know. The river had swallowed me, sucked me into its icy depths. But I had battled for my life and won. And for hours more I had wandered on my own, undaunted, determined. Tired, hungry, yes. But alive. A survivor.

And alone. Which suddenly seemed like not such a good thing. I missed my mother, although my memories of her were vague. For a few short weeks, she had fed and cleaned us. Indifferently, perhaps, but to us she had been our whole world. When we all got our teeth, she had dug under the fence and run, never looking back. As if her freedom meant more than caring for us.

I had heard Ed mutter, as he filled the hole, that she hadn’t been worth the trouble and it was a good thing the truck had flattened her just down the road from their house. I knew that meant she wasn’t coming back. For the most part, I had had little interaction with Ed, which was a good thing. He was a heartless man.

Carol, however, had shown a trace of kindness. She fed us, patted us on the head sometimes, and cleaned our pen, although not often enough. My siblings had thought nothing of rolling in their own filth. Yet I missed them now, even as smelly as they were. Missed the shared warmth of their bodies when they piled one atop the other to doze contentedly. Missed the joyful yips and growls as they tumbled and played. The way they cleaned my ears and washed the gruel from my face after mealtime.

Yes, I even missed that thin, tasteless slop that Carol had fed us after mother left. It had filled our bellies, although I suspect there was something not quite right with it, as my stools turned from firm and my bowel movements regular, to watery and unstoppable. It felt as though my insides were being scoured out with each poop — or squirt, rather. Every time Carol had to clean up those messes, she cursed at us and pushed us away. She even turned the hose on us. Still, the next time she brought the slop, we devoured it. It was better than nothing. Puppies are always growing and growing means being hungry.

Nothing was what I had in my stomach now as I ran through the woods blanketing the hills above the river. I could endure the cold as long as I kept moving, but hunger sat heavy like a stone beneath my ribs. My stomach twisted in on itself. My bowels cramped. Finding food became my sole objective. If that man, the one who wanted Faustine, were to offer me food right now, I would take it, no matter the risk, because my hunger was becoming so bad that my energy was draining rapidly away. I was already tired from nearly drowning in the river and trying to swim free and all the miles I had covered that morning. But no matter how far I went, I found nothing to eat. I tried chewing on grass, but that only made me retch. I vomited a clear fluid that tasted vaguely of river water.

I had to rest. After a while, I could go on, search some more. So I looked for a place to lie down. Somewhere safe where I could not be seen by others.

A wind began to blow, cold and damp, carrying on it the scent of rain. The sun was now low in the western sky. A blanket of clouds began to obscure its light, driving the chill of early winter deep beneath my fur. But in that fading light, I saw an outcropping of rock halfway up a hill nearby. My feet aching, my legs weary, I climbed that hill, driven by the promise of sleep and safety.

Great slabs of stone, leaning at angles against one another, formed a roof. I ducked beneath the top slab, grazing my head. The first drops of rain pattered upon the frozen ground outside, but in here I was dry, if not warm. I went to the very back of the little overhang and there the wind ceased. After circling around several times, I lay down on a nest of dried leaves. As I tucked my legs in close and rested my chin on my front paws, I thought of Faustine, that droopy scrap of fur that for a short time had belonged to me.

I even missed her.

––––––––

—o00o—

––––––––

I
awoke sometime in the night. It was a while before I remembered where I was. On my belly, I scooted to the edge of the little cave and watched. Between shifting patches of clouds, moonlight shone down, etching branches in silver. Wind moaned softly through the trees, gathering to a roar as it rushed down to the valley, then dying away as it met the hills’ broad swell of earth.

Here, I was safe from wind and rain and cold. But I was still not fed and I was still very much alone. Come morning, I would have to leave.

So I did, when the sun returned, pale and distant, beyond the eastern treetops. This time, after taking a drink from the river, I went straight toward the rising sun. I had grown used to the hunger, but my legs shook with weakness. Slower and slower I went, stumbling often.

Twice before the sun was overhead, I had to stop and sleep. When I woke up again the second time, the sun was hidden behind gray clouds. I was disoriented. And so I picked a place where the hills parted and went that way, even though I was aware that it smelled more and more like humans. But where there were people, there was food.

As I reached the edge of the forest, I paused to gauge my surroundings. In the distance was a cluster of buildings. Cars and trucks rumbled along the road that led there. But well before the town sat a house. A small house where an inside light glowed through drawn curtains. To the side of that house was a shed. With chickens.

Oh, glorious bounty! A buffet of feather-covered meat. Saliva filled my mouth.

Carefully, I wormed my way closer, hiding behind trees, watching to make sure the humans did not see me. A clothesline stretched from a hook at the corner of the house to a rusted metal pole. Bed sheets dangled from clothespins, the damp fabric stiff from the cold, obscuring the view to the house.

When I was within striking distance, I hunkered low next to an empty trash can, twitching with excitement. I studied the pen, trying to figure out how in the heck to get in. There was a gate, but the latch was up high and by the looks of it too sturdy for my puppy teeth. In one corner of the chicken-wire fence, a gap yawned, just big enough for a young dog like me to squeeze if I flattened myself and wriggled through.

Yes, there
.

To be truthful, I never thought I would actually need to hunt for my supper. I wasn’t sure I could. Yet if I didn’t, I could die right here, writhing in hunger, my lips contorted in a snarl of pain. I stepped out from beside the trash can, being as quiet as I could.

A gust of wind stirred the sheets. They snapped loudly, then fell. I jumped back, but when I saw there was no one there, I went forward again.

A hen lifted her head, having caught sight of me. I froze. She swiveled her tiny yellow beak side to side, beady eyes glinting in the fading light. Unconcerned, she lowered her head again and scratched at the dirt. Another hen clucked, but did not look my way.

There must have been twenty of them. If I ate one right away and carried another off with me, I would be full enough for a few days, at least. I could return later as needed.

But what if they sounded the alarm well before I was inside? I pondered it. Unlikely. They were all too busy searching for bugs and weed sprouts to eat.

One last time, I glanced toward the house. No cars sat outside it. No voices came from within. No shadows moved across the window. It was possible they weren’t even home. In which case, I could feast to my stomach’s content.

And while the thought of it revolted me, if I wanted to survive, I
had
to do this.

By the time I pushed my nose into the space between the wire and the dirt, the chickens had gotten used to me. Because I had approached slowly. I took in the distance to the house, how far back from the road it sat, where the back door was, and considered the nearest hiding places for future raids.

Unfortunately, there was no alternate escape route once I was inside the pen. The best course, I decided, was to take one chicken and run. I could eat it elsewhere, then come back later if I didn’t find an alternate source of food.

It was all going so well. Bolstered by the thoroughness of my plan and the ease with which it was unfolding, I slid underneath. When my rump was free of the fence, I stood.