Dove Strong

by Erin Lorence

How had my family missed the racket of trees going down? And of the machines roaring around out here? The tunnel must have taken us further than I’d guessed.

  Yeah. There were no familiar tree-filled slopes in any direction, out to the horizons. The always visible, mammoth rock column, Steins Pillar, was missing. But I caught sight of a paw print next to Melody’s boots.

  I touched it and straightened.

  Dog.

  We were leaving our scent like crazy here. And scent was the most likely reason people with dogs and a bulldozer had hit on this isolated spot in the first place.

  “Keep up.” I sprinted around the pit with Melody at my heels. By the time we made it to the pines we’d lagged to a jog, and I held my side.

  I’d been suspicious of it at the time, but now it was confirmed. All those brutal, muscle-building exercises of Gilead’s had been a big, fat waste of time. I wasn’t even a shadow of the ferocious athlete-warrior hybrid he’d tried to remake me into.

  Given Melody’s condition, I could be worse.

  We dragged in air while plowing through juniper and bitterbrush. Because I was listening for it, I identified the sound of another body moving through the bushes not far away.

  Human? Or animal?

  “Get down. Freeze. And hold your breath.” I dropped into a crouch and scanned the terrain.

  She obeyed. Together our chests heaved like silent bullfrog throats.

  It sounded like a human. Moving nearer. From the east, from the side of the slope where we’d been.

  Time to test Mr. Brae’s miraculous claims about his daughter. “Dangerous, Melody? Or no?”

  Her eyes squeezed to slits. “No?”

  I nodded. Still, we weren’t going to be able to outrun whoever this was for long. We had to get up higher. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Melody’s supernatural radar for evil, but I didn’t.

  None of the trees here could conceal us all the way. But if we could get above eye level and stay still, we’d have a fair chance the approaching creature would move past and miss us. Unless it could smell us.

  I gestured to our best bet—a sturdy aspen—and formed a sling with my arms. “Step up.”

  She backed away.

  I had no time to talk her out of her fear of climbing trees. Or heights. Or whatever phobia this was.

  I grabbed her hips and boosted her toward the lowest branch. In our mute struggle, her wind-milling legs connected with my ear.

  Change of plan. I chucked her straight up at the branch and stepped aside in case she didn’t catch hold. Then I jumped and seized a limb next to where she clung. Using it, I swung myself up to the next set above.

  On the branch below, Melody squirreled around making a ton of noise. Why did she twist foliage around her torso?

  “Enough. Shh!” I massaged my sore ear.

  Seconds later, Micah crested the slope.

  I eased down until my mouth reached Melody’s ear. “Don’t you dare, sister. Hold your cover.”

  He’d slowed to a hunched-over creep. Ready to bolt if a chipmunk sneezed.

  He stopped and held his breath to listen.

  Melody wanted to call to him, but I shook my head. I had to end this tracking-us business. Now.

  Something white snagged my attention.

  The mass of gauzy web hung in the crook of the branch above me. Its center writhed with black bodies. I ripped a wide hole in the sticky fibers, and a couple adult-sized tent caterpillars spilled into my palm.

  The first one I released landed on Micah’s crow-like hair. And stuck. The next few bounced off, but at least one caterpillar went down his shirt because he shuddered and rotated a shoulder blade.

  I squinted at my empty fingers. I remembered the feel of the ropes going slack, the panic exploding through my body. And the itchy dirt that still riddled my clothes.

  I wanted more caterpillars.

  I wanted them all.

  The nest connected to one branch, but I made too much noise separating the limb from the trunk.

  “What the—”

  At least a hundred caterpillars rained down on his upturned face.

  He shouted and ripped at his shirt as if they were stinging insects. As he zigzagged back over the hill, slapping at his juvenile beard, Melody called, “I’ve got this, Micah, OK? You know I love you, but I got this. Go home.” Her voice dropped. “I can do this.”

  I sat, legs dangling, and flicked a caterpillar off her sleeve. “It’s not too late, you know. You can follow him home. Now’s better than later for tapping out.”

  She squinted at a blue jay on the ground. “Am I screaming? Worms don’t scare me.”

  I blinked. “Oh.”

  Her face broke into a wide grin, with a tooth missing like a six-year-old’s. “Did you see the fat one by his nostril? On his lip? And it hung there?”

  In the heat of the windless afternoon, the leaves of our aspen tree began to quiver, creating a cloud of flashing, rattling silver. It was as though God chuckled, enjoying the joke too. His sense of humor beat everyone’s. Anyway, who’d provided the caterpillars? And Micah? And since I was going there, Melody?

  Oh, OK, Lord. Sticking with Melody hasn’t been terrible. So far.

  With another snort, Melody shrugged off her bag and rummaged inside. She came out with two carrots—warm and super rubbery. I held one in my palm.

  She reached over and bounced hers off mine—a carrot victory bump—then took a bite.

  No. Not too terrible.

  10

  An engine hummed somewhere up ahead. From long habit, I scanned for a place of safety—the pine able to bear my weight. But I stumbled past refuge and into a clearing dotted with sagebrush.

  I faced another road. Another reminder to stay on our guard. The devil’s workers were nearby again. This was their territory, their road.

  It’d been three days since we’d left the Braes’ tunnels. Three days of avoiding a million roads and farmhouses.

  A bunch of times, we’d hiked miles out of our way because she’d deemed farmland in our path dangerous. These detours had zapped whatever strength we’d had when we started, which hadn’t been much in Melody’s case.

  Would I have to scale the black volcanic sides of Mount Jefferson with her dangling off my back?

  At least I’d gotten her to ditch the hairy blanket, cooking pot, and cloak. We’d piled them in the aspen near the remains of the caterpillar nest, figuring Micah would find them someday. And now we’d entered the hot, high desert country.

  Well, I was hot. Melody risked heat stroke wearing her head-to-toe fur. Her hair dripped as if she’d been out in a rainstorm, and her face glowed a brilliant shade of pink that wasn’t all sunburn.

  Thank you, Lord, for better clothing—long sleeves and pants woven from breathable plant fibers. My parents had drilled modesty into us Strong kids since birth. But they’d also pushed common sense. Never fur in August.

  We crouched in the stingy shade of a sagebrush near the road to decide when to cross. Since we’d had so much practice at this, we didn’t speak the words anymore. The engine faded away into the distance. A lone cicada’s clicking started up.

  I looked at Melody. Danger?

  Her eyelids closed. No danger, her slight headshake replied.

  I didn’t feel the Spirit telling me otherwise. So I stood and forced myself to lead onto the pavement.

  No matter how many roads we crossed, I’d never walk across them without shuddering. Never. The smell of burning tar. The sticky smooth feel of it under my feet. The artificial, too-bright yellow and white lines creeped me out more than the flattened jackrabbits that sprawled across them...

  Melody got across quicker, but I caught up on the far side since she only stood there, staring down at an undercut ten-foot drop-off to the desert below.

  In the distance, an engine whined.

  Should we jump down this thing? Risk an ankle?

  My pulse sprinted as if racing the engine that grew louder.

 
Help, Lord! Which way?

  My eyes zeroed in on a spot about a minute’s run ahead, where the drop-off from the road seemed a more gradual slope of scree.

  I pointed to it, but my question pertained to the vehicle ten seconds from reaching us. “Danger?”

  “N-no?”

  “Your call—quick!”

  “No.”

  Out of time. I stood my ground. But I turned in case Melody’s spiritual hazard radar was off. I’d rather take a hit to the back than the front any day. But I wouldn’t watch. I closed my eyes.

  In the seconds it took for the car to rush past, my knee joints loosened and started to wobble. I peeked at Melody—an exact copy of my own braced-but-flinching stance—and then at the squashed-egg shape moving toward the horizon. I couldn’t even see a driver, only a puff of white the same shade as my grandma’s hair.

  “C’mon.” I began to jog down the white line. Melody’s boot soles slapped behind.

  “Danger.”

  I trusted her enough. I did a quick check. I heard only our own footsteps and breathing. The bare blacktop shimmered in the extreme noon heat. Otherwise, nothing in sight but a squashed goose.

  I turned my eyes to the spot where we could get off the road.

  “Danger.”

  Melody’s voice sounded higher and farther away this time. I spun around. She’d stopped a few yards back. Paralyzed. Gasping for air double time.

  “No, Melody!” I raced back. “Don’t panic! You can’t! You can’t!” I shook her. I let go and took a deep breath.

  With forced calm, I locked her red cheeks between my unsteady palms. Although her dilated pupils focused on mine, she clearly didn’t see me. Shaking her hadn’t helped, so slapping probably wouldn’t either.

  “Melody Brae. Spit it out. What threat?”

  I tried again. “Melody. I know you can hear me, and you can’t do this now. God’s got you. He’s got you; you’re OK. You’re with me. Now move your stupid feet and run!”

  I dragged her with me, stumbling. Our feet tangled. What were we running from? I had no clue. But I could only think of getting off this road.

  Danger. “Danger!” Ripping free of my grip, she breezed past and plunged into the thickest part of the bushes a few yards shy of where I’d aimed.

  Good enough.

  When I skidded to the bottom of the broken-rock slope, my palms stung and the foliage needled me. I threw myself onto my belly on the jagged stones next to Melody, who’d buried her head between her knees.

  Fifty thudding heartbeats later, a soft whizzing-whooshing noise passed on the pavement above. Such a deceptively gentle sound. But one I’ve had nightmares about.

  The sound of bicycle tires.

  I despised cars and trucks—loud, bullying machines used by the criminals who visited our land to dump and vandalize—half weapon, half getaway machine. But I hated bikes more. Bikes were wicked and linked forever in my mind with Dead Nights.

  On Dead Nights, nothing running on electric power worked. Not even our own flashlights—or my grandpa’s spotlight that played a huge part in keeping our enemies at bay. The night sky became a menacing black without the city of Prineville’s glow on the horizon, and the devil’s workers were restless. And stealthier.

  They’d creep onto our property on their whispering bicycles. Sometimes to illegally dump trash. But usually with more hateful purposes.

  My dad died on a Dead Night. He was shot while confronting a man who circled our home’s trees on his bicycle with a container of gasoline.

  I glared up through the jumble of briars at the man above, straddling his bike at the spot where we’d left the road. A strap ran across his sunburned chest, and the skinny barrel of his weapon peeked over his shoulder.

  His hat’s shade hid his face as he scanned the terrain. Had he seen us on the road from afar? Or was he so filled with his master’s power that he could sense us?

  Either way, he knew we were here somewhere. We Christians.

  I tensed when he bent low and scooped up something from the ground. Before I could tell what, he’d launched it into the air. In a fluid motion, he reached over his shoulder and whipped his gun into a ready position, while the pebbles rained down onto bushes and stones.

  One ricocheted off my cheek and stung. But I wouldn’t be flushed into movement. Only my fingers twitched, curling around a splinter of rock.

  Oh, Gilead.

  My brother would only need this single shard to cripple the hunter who looked so much like our dad’s murderer.

  If my grandpa had been there, he would have corrected in his low drawl, “Stand down, son. You believe in the war? Then save it for then.”

  He said that a lot. “Save it for the war.” Each time my brother had a clean shot at a trespassing vandal.

  Gilead took my grandpa’s words to heart. He devoted his life to being prepared for that fictitious future battle.

  But Gilead and Grandpa weren’t here.

  OK, Lord. It’s all You now.

  I waited for the burning sulfur to rain on the pavement above. Or for the fiery tornado to touch down, ridding the world of one more bicycle-riding pagan.

  I lay on my belly, camouflaged in the scree and bushes, praying for skull-crushing hailstones. He pushed off and then glanced back three times.

  My body sagged. He’d gotten away.

  As soon as his back tire disappeared over the horizon, Melody opened her lids she’d kept shut since she’d fallen. “We’re good.”

  She announced it with that burst of confidence that cropped up every so often and always surprised me—though I never let on. She ruffled through her bag. Her family’s folded prayer result spilled out. She tossed it back in.

  “So, that there’s the peak we’re headed to, huh?” Her water pouch sloshed at the horizon of snowy peaks. There were a lot of them, so I didn’t know which she meant. But my mind ran along the Cascade line, role calling the names long drilled into me.

  Broken Jaw. North Sister. Middle Sister. South Sister. Mount Washington.

  My gaze steadied on this last one farthest away. Smaller and dwarfed behind a rolling hill.

  “Yeah.” I dug out my plastic water bottle. “Yeah, that’s the first mountain we’re heading for. Our next one’s more north, over that way. We can’t see it yet.”

  I kept drinking despite the ultra-dramatic intake of breath next to me.

  “Wait...first mountain, Dove?”

  “Of course. That’s not Mount Jefferson—where the Council meets. Ahead is Mount Washington. Did you think we’d reach the Council in less than a week?” I snorted.

  “First mountain? Why aren’t we heading north, then?” She groaned and buried her face in her hands. “We’re lost, aren’t we? We’re going to die out here—”

  “Enough, Brae. We’re not lost. We’re going to Mount Washington first because someone is waiting there. For us. Someone who’ll join us for the rest of our trip.”

  She dropped her hands, but her eyes narrowed. “Who? Who’s joining us? How do you know this? Oh, wait. This is from one of your God conversations. Isn’t it?”

  “Ha. Wrong. My grandma told me about it before I left. She thinks a warrior will be joining us there...something God revealed to her, and He hasn’t told me otherwise. I don’t know anything more. So don’t ask.”

  “A warrior?”

  “I repeat, don’t ask.”

  She did anyway. Enunciating each syllable. “A war-ri-or? A war-ri-or. Yes, yes, yes!” Her arms rotated in a tight circle. “Why didn’t you say something about the warrior before? Think how good it’ll be having someone with muscle on our side for a change!”

  I busied myself with my warm, plastic-tasting water so I wouldn’t be expected to cheer.

  I didn’t want a warrior—or any other person—joining us. Melody was enough. Plus, I thought it likely something super evil was coming at us. Why else would we need a warrior? It didn’t bode well. Not at all.

  But I kept my thoughts to myse
lf and let Melody do her happy dance. No need to panic her yet. Her panic would only slow me down.

  “So, you still coming then? Because it’s not too late for you to go home. You could backtrack OK from here.”

  “Dove?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go get us our warrior.”

  11

  Melody’s excitement about our soon-to-be traveling partner kept us moving at a decent pace until the late afternoon. Shadows lengthened as we passed from the high desert scrubland and into the trees again. Then, I was able to shake off the creepy feeling of spying eyes.

  A thick haze had gathered above. It blunted the sun’s heat and made the air heavy, tinged with the fragrance flowers release before rain. The patches of wooly sunflowers in parched crevices lifted their yellow heads skywards in anticipation. I imagined the drops on my face and tongue. Delicious.

  I interrupted Melody’s detailed description of her mom’s ambrosia potato recipe...or ambrosia turnips. Some root vegetable. “Got any water left?”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, not a drop.”

  “Me neither. We’ll keep going until we get to some. Then I’ll find somewhere to hang our tent so we can crash for a few.”

  My steps seemed lighter. We could use my tree tent again. It was a woven structure I’d brought along that hung between three trees—a triangular hammock with a woven canopy. The last couple of nights had been toe numbing. We’d slept on the desert ground for lack of trees, which allowed the morning chill to creep into our bones.

  “Oh good. I’m glad you know where water is, Dove. How far?”

  I widened my stride, increasing the distance between us.

  Of course I didn’t know where or how far from us water was. Just because I’d never lived in a hole in the ground—like she had—didn’t mean I was the expert on all things above ground. Which she constantly assumed.

  I’d navigated us by the sun. And now that I could see it, by range. The obvious animal droppings told me water flowed nearby somewhere. Probably.

  Lord Jesus, Son of Man, You know how it felt to be so thirsty. Remember how Your tongue stuck to the roof of Your mouth? How Your head ached? How Your legs got weak and trembly? Well, that’s me right now. Oh, Jesus, I’m dying here. Please, can I have a drink? Enough so I can keep doing Your will?