The Wild Path

by Sarah R. Baughman

  “Let me get this straight,” Mom says. “A, you took Sam riding in the dark, on the coldest evening we’ve had yet this fall. B, you’re always supposed to text me first. Obviously. And C, how did Sam cut himself? Remember the first rule—”

  I break in before she can finish her sentence. “Always look out for the horses,” I say. “I know. But Mom—I was. That’s what I—”

  She holds up her hand, cuts me off. “You know, I haven’t forgotten your equine therapy idea. I’ve been reading more about it and thought it might actually work, as long as we could get Andy on board and convince your father. I planned to get started on some initial training exercises with Sam tomorrow when you were at school, to get a feel for how he might do. But with this cut, Sam won’t be much use for a while.”

  “What?” Tears spring to my eyes, and my stomach wavers, sickness welling. Mom doesn’t know about Andy’s letter. She doesn’t know Andy’s not on board. I shut my eyes tight to squeeze that thought away, then open them again. If I win the prize, Andy might not need to be on board, at least not right away. “It’s only a little cut, though, right?”

  “It’s deep enough to worry about,” Mom says. “I’ll have to keep an eye on it, make sure it doesn’t get infected.” She looks at me and her eyes smolder like coals. “You don’t want Sam going lame, do you?”

  I shake my head, my throat thick. Sparrows flutter out of their nests and whirl around my shoulders.

  “You’ll help me, then,” Mom says. “We’ll have to tend to the wound every day.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. Tears cloud my eyes and I rest a hand on Sam’s warm neck. I was thinking too much about the wild horses, and not about the one right in front of me. I open my mouth to apologize, but Mom holds up a hand and shakes her head.

  “I’m too upset to talk more right now,” she says. “Clean and bandage the cut properly. I’ll come back to check on him later.” Then she stalks off, her arms crossed.

  I lead Sam into the barn, put him in cross-ties. After I’ve cleaned his cut as gently as I can with water and saline solution, I apply ointment and wrap a padded bandage around his leg. He stands still, his head hanging just a little.

  “I’m sorry, buddy,” I whisper. Then I lead him into his stall and make sure he has hay and fresh water.

  My phone sits like a stone in my pocket. My fingers go to it, then draw back. I remember Maya’s face, the soft chill of her voice when she said, Then maybe you’ll understand. I’ve made so many mistakes today, but I know at least one I can try to fix. Maybe two.

  I breathe into and through the wings that fill my chest. What if Maya doesn’t want to talk to me? Not just now, but ever?

  But then I remember Nari’s reading: Isn’t it easy to want to control everything that happens? And Sharon’s word: honesty.

  I thought I knew what Andy would say about equine therapy, but I didn’t. I can’t know how Maya’s going to feel either.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to make things better.

  I start and delete about ten texts before I settle on the simplest one:

  Hey can we talk?

  Even before the dots appear that show she’s writing back, I can already feel the healing start, a bandage patching up the torn parts of my heart.

  Not because I know how things are going to turn out, but because I did what I needed to do.

  Ping. I look down and see just one word:

  Sure.

  The next day during lunch we eat fast, not saying much. But it feels good to sit together.

  Maya takes a swig of chocolate milk. “Ready?”

  I pop one last grape in my mouth. “Let’s go.”

  Since our school is small, with nine grades in one building, we still have a playground, plus the basketball court and soccer field. We eat lunch at a different time than the little kids, and it’s kind of funny how many of us decide to use the slide and merry-go-round once we’re done.

  Maya and I sit side by side on two of the swings. It’s been ages since I actually pumped as hard as I could and soared into the sky. But it feels good to rock my legs back and forth while I think about what to say.

  I fumble around with some explanations and unfinished sentences, but as soon as I say “I’m sorry,” Maya’s face relaxes, and I continue. “I thought about it and… I know it’s not your fault that your dad told Andy to go to rehab. It’s not your dad’s fault either. Jail would have made sense too. Lots of people have to do that.”

  “Like I said, he was only trying to help Andy.” Maya twists her swing a little ways toward me, then lets it fall back again. “In the long run, I mean. He had to think about the law too.”

  “I get that,” I say. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to think about Andy, honestly. At first, I didn’t think that what he did was actually him.”

  “It’s kind of funny that you can believe in wild horses you barely see, but not in something that for sure happened,” Maya says quietly. It might sound mean, but I know it’s not. It’s just true. And I haven’t forgotten what Sharon said about honesty.

  “Well, I guess it’s more about what I want to believe,” I say. “And now Andy’s the one I’m mad at. I can’t figure him out.”

  “Well, my dad said that what makes the whole thing really hard is that the people he has to sentence are often great people who just happen to have this problem.” She’s looking at me, and her eyes are kind. “Maybe Andy isn’t one thing or the other, you know? Maybe he’s both.”

  For a while, I can’t speak. The words clump together in my throat. I feel like Mr. Hamilton, wondering how his dad could have been completely wrong when someone in the same room is trying to prove that he might have been right.

  All I end up saying is “I hope so.” Then Maya pushes her swing near mine and hugs my shoulder.

  “How’s your dad?” I ask.

  “Much better,” Maya says. “He’s on a special medicine, and they’re giving him all these anti-stress techniques too.”

  “That’s awesome.” Relief washes through me. I really want Mr. Gonzalez to be okay.

  “It’s a start,” Maya says.

  “So… are we good?” I look at her, trying to read her eyes.

  She smiles. “We’re good.”

  Other students start to stream out the cafeteria doors. Some roll themselves down the huge hill at the end of the playground. Others head toward the field: we aren’t allowed to have leaf fights, but apparently football is okay, even though those games usually get intense.

  Jamila and Cory sit in the two empty swings next to Maya and me.

  “Hey, guys,” Jamila says. “You nervous about the History Fair?”

  “Not really.” But Maya’s words don’t match her voice. She’s put more effort into her project than pretty much anyone else.

  “I think I’m prepared,” Cory says.

  “Ha.” Jamila rolls her eyes. “If by ‘prepared’ you mean you spend all your time editing this one single video you’re using instead of making sure you have all the required sources, then—yes! You’re prepared!”

  “She’s harsh.” Cory looks at us pleadingly, but Maya just laughs.

  “Be more like her,” Jamila says, nodding toward Maya, “with her binders and notes all organized. Then I’ll stop giving you a hard time.”

  “How about you, Claire?” Cory asks. “Are you ready?”

  I think about my poster, divided into its neat sections. All I’m missing is a horse.

  “As ready as possible.” My voice sounds pretty confident, even to me.

  “Well,” Cory says, hopping off the swing, “since nobody’s defending me, I’m going to have to throw some leaves at all of you.”

  Jamila grabs a handful and lobs it at his jacket. “Beat you to it.”

  “Hey!” Cory says, hurling some back. “At least it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I’ll get revenge with some serious snowballs.”

  Then Maya tosses a bunch of leaves at me. “That’s for getting mad at
me,” she says, but she’s smiling.

  Pretty soon we’re all laughing and throwing leaves. We manage to squeeze in about two minutes’ worth before Mr. Jenkins notices and yells at us to stop.

  CHAPTER 22

  I would rather ride Sam. There’s no question about that. Especially since the snow Cory talked about has started, tiny flakes drifting from a gray sky.

  But a lot has happened since the pheasant spooked Sunny and the world sped by so fast I thought it was going to turn upside down. I think she and I will be okay.

  We need to be. I still need to catch one of the horses and make sure the tunnel I saw at Pine Lake leads where I think it does.

  The question is how to ride Sunny without Mom noticing. After what happened to Sam, she won’t want me taking horses anywhere.

  But Sunny doesn’t know that. And when I put on first her saddle blanket, smoothing the hair underneath it, then the saddle, cinching it tight, she doesn’t budge. She swings her neck around to look at me once, her eyes big, kind, searching my face. Trusting me. Next comes the bridle, the cold bit and the throatlatch, then leading her around the back of the barn so Mom doesn’t see.

  Now I’m on Sunny and she’s picking her hooves up high, her haunches coiled up under her, ears pricked forward. I’m trying to sit heavy, knowing she’ll be able to sense it the moment I hesitate. It’s hard, because the truth is, I’m nervous.

  We follow the edge of a cornfield, sandwiched between forest and fields. Snow falls lightly, like lace. We have to be careful of the fence line—I don’t want her getting tangled up in anything, and sometimes when a piece of fence is down it’s hard to see clearly. Wire can cut into a horse’s skin fast and leave pencil-thin gashes up and down their legs, worse than Sam’s.

  Plus, horses panic when they get caught, and panic makes everything worse. I know that from experience. When my flutter feeling starts, nothing seems to work out right.

  Even though Sunny moves quickly, it takes a long time to get to the part of Cedar Lake I’m trying to reach. I try not to think too hard about the snow, and I do arm circles to keep my upper body warm.

  There’s a mountain-biking trail that circles all of Cedar Lake, but it’s much too narrow and rocky for me to attempt riding Sunny around it. Fortunately, there’s also an area before the beginning of the trail that’s set up with a few benches and a bike rack. I figure I can leave Sunny there. She’ll be safe long enough for me to at least figure out if my guesses about this tunnel are correct.

  As I slide off Sunny’s back and tie her to a tree near the bike rack, I grab the stone from the box and close my eyes. Tell me where to go, I think.

  It would be weird to say the stone pulls me. After all, I’m holding it in my hand. But the air’s shimmering again, and I feel like I’m going where I need to. Like a magnet’s drawing me through the trees while cedar leaves brush against my skin. And sure enough, a cavern opens up, right where the lake meets the forest floor.

  It’s exactly what I expected. Ringing the hollow are piles of beautiful black stones, just like the one from my box. Just like the ones from Pine Lake. The land curves, and I’ll have to step a bit into the water to see the opening up close.

  I sink my foot about a half an inch deep. My boots are thick, and they don’t leak. Carefully, I move about two feet toward the hollow, holding the stone.

  It looks just like the cavern on Pine Lake. Taller than I am, lined with sand and stone, and wide enough for a horse to pick her way through.

  I close my eyes and I can practically see them: the wild horses. I can see their story unfolding right in front of me.

  They tumbled into the hole in the ice here at Cedar Lake. At first the cold water shocked them, made them sputter. Jack, his wet arm stuck to the ice, pulling himself up and up, would have watched them sink, his eyes blurring with tears. The cold would have set into his limbs as he forced himself to turn away and worked to climb back onto the still-frozen ice.

  But the horses somehow swam together, the wagon snapping loose behind them. And far below the surface of the water, where everyone thought they’d find their bones one day, the horses found a path out instead. A tunnel, dry and safe. They walked through and through, until they ended up at Pine Lake, where the shore was easy to reach and the woods thick and the mountains high. They climbed free of the tunnel and shed the last of their harnesses over frozen ice, and when spring came the tack floated into the lapping water for Jack to find a piece of it.

  I scoop a few handfuls of stones into my saddlebag. They’ll be perfect to display for my project, alongside the horseshoe Mr. Hamilton found.

  Then I scramble back up the bank, through the trees, shouldering the saddlebag that got a whole lot heavier. “Oh, Sunny! Guess what I’ve got for us!” I push through to the path and the bike rack and—

  Sunny isn’t tied up anymore. She’s gone.

  She was just here.

  It hasn’t been that long since I made my way down to the lake. Has it? I check my phone.

  Ten minutes—okay, longer than I thought. But still, she’s waited that long before. Did she get spooked, without Sam by her side? Did someone take her? Hardly anybody comes down these paths when it’s snowing. I look wildly around, cold air catching in my throat, a mix of leaves and snow crunching under my boots as I spin. Inside my chest, wings flutter awake.

  “Sunny!” I call again, loudly singing her name. My voice echoes off the mountain on the other side of the lake. “Sun-ny!”

  The snow’s falling more heavily and I suddenly remember walking through the woods with Andy in winter, how when I was littler he’d help me figure out which animals had passed through the forest because of their tracks. “Snow tells stories,” he’d say, then he’d kneel down and point to deep impressions, fresh powder just kicked out the back or compacted in wet ice. Deer. Fox. Possum. And once—Bear.

  Snow. Fresh snow will tell me where to go. I need to look down, not up. And when I do, I find the first hoofprint. Then the second. I follow them, hoping they’ll wind up the path and cut into the woods past the lake, the ones that eventually run into cornfields and down to my house.

  Gray and green branches brush my sleeves. The first blue jays of winter dive in front of my eyes. I walk and walk. As long as I follow Sunny’s hoofprints faster than they fill in with new snow, I should find her eventually.

  There’s one major problem with my plan. I don’t know where I am.

  I mean, I know the general direction of home. But it isn’t hard to get turned around in the woods. The snow makes it easy to see where I’ve been, but it’s tricky to tell how far I need to go… and it’s cold.

  I check my phone: no reception. That’s typical by this lake because the mountains are wedged so close together, they cut the signal. The sparrows skitter against my bones, brushing their soft feathers along my heart. I shiver.

  It’s okay, I think. You’ll find her.

  The woods are shadowy now, not quite dark but getting there. Fading light on the blue-white snow is all I have. The hoofprints go on and on.

  I keep walking, the stones knocking together in my saddlebag. My legs move steadily, but they burn. I need a rest, just for a minute. I lean against a tree and close my eyes while branches crack and sigh above my head.

  Then, like thunder, a pounding. But not from the sky. It’s from somewhere else, farther up the mountain. My eyes fly open. I look around.

  Hooves, curling up, then striking the ground. Tails, streaked with silver. Outstretched necks. I rub my eyes, trying to adjust to the growing dark.

  The hooves slow a little as they bear down beside me, then widen and turn until I realize I’m surrounded by a circle of horses. They look at me with their liquid eyes, calm as ponds. They nicker softly, air whooshing through their soft noses. They bow their heads.

  “I don’t know where to go,” I say out loud.

  One of the horses tosses her head and I follow the motion, up to the top of what I now see is my favorite maple tree, the o
ne with low branches and a huge V right in the middle, close enough that even when I was little I could always climb up, nestle in, and see far.

  I thought I was so far away. But I’m almost home.

  I follow the path to where the forest empties out in the pasture by our barn. A light, cold breeze brushes over my cheeks.

  For just one moment, I turn back toward the trees.

  A swish of tail, midnight black and the color of the moon.

  Dappled-gray legs, dancing away.

  Come back, I think. I need to catch you.

  But that thought wisps away as another one grows. Sunny. I need to find Sunny.

  “Claire?” a voice calls from inside the barn. A voice I know, but haven’t heard in so long it feels like a dream. “Is that you?”

  My throat feels locked and dry. I stoop to grab a handful of snow and stuff it in my mouth, hoping it will get my tongue back to normal. “Um, yeah?” I call. I rise, open the barn door, and tiptoe in, past the hay wagon, to the stable.

  Sunny’s there. In her stall next to Sam, crunching grain.

  And the voice belongs to exactly who I thought it did.

  Andy.

  “How are you here?” I whisper.

  “How are you here?” he shoots back. “Mom and Dad are freaking out! Dad’s in the woods looking for you, and Mom’s at the house hoping you’ll show up. When we saw Sunny here with her tack on, we had no idea where you could be. She told me to wait here just in case.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I have no idea how Sunny ended up back in her stall, but I decide to pretend like I’m not confused. Besides, I can’t believe Andy’s acting like it’s no big deal for him to just show up. “I was in the woods. Seriously, how did you get here?”

  “I was going to surprise you,” he says. “I told Mom and Dad not to say anything, and I guess they didn’t. I really want to get started with my agricultural mechanics program.”

  I can’t believe he’s finally home. Part of me wants to reach out, take his hand. But my arms feel stuck in place.