by Dan Abnett
‘It’s time to snap out of it, Jacobs,’ said his pa. ‘Be kind to your sister, neh?’
‘I saved her stupid doll, didn’t I?’ asked Jake.
‘You did a wonderful thing,’ said Pa.
‘I did a stupid thing!’ shouted Jake. ‘Why didn’t I save my book? Why did I have to save stupid Emmie’s stupid doll? Why did we have to cross the river? Why did we ever join the stupid wagon train?’
‘You know why,’ said Pa.
Emmie began to cry quietly into her ma’s shoulder, and Ma looked at Jake, clearly hurt by his outburst.
‘It’s all because of your stupid loyalty to your stupid brother! I hate Uncle Jonas and I hate you, and I hate this stupid wagon train!’ said Jake.
‘Apologize to your ma,’ said Pa, his face as stern as Jake had ever seen it. ‘Apologize to me.’
Jake stood his ground and said nothing. Today proved that he was still a boy when he already felt like a man, and he was humiliated.
‘Then go and tend to the animals, Jacobs,’ said his pa. ‘Come back when you have something to say for yourself.’
Jake pulled his hat on, buttoned his jacket and threw the blanket over his shoulder. Then he turned and walked away.
Fine! He’d tend to the animals and camp out, and he wouldn’t be in the wagon when they woke in the morning. That’ll show them, he thought.
Away from the heat of the fire, Jake kept himself busy with the animals, hoping the work would keep him warm. Besides, he was more than a little worried about the fire. The Native had kicked over their fire the night before for very good reasons, and the flames seemed much too bright in the darkness.
It had been a long day and Jake’s adventure hadn’t been quite what he’d been hoping for. He was horribly tired and part of him wanted to climb into the wagon where he’d be warm and comfortable with his family. Another part, a bigger part, was too proud to go back. So he shook out his blanket and lay down against Bertie’s back for warmth.
Jake woke with a start. His heart was thumping, and he was on his feet and looking around before he was fully awake.
The air was split by the pained cry of some beast that Jake didn’t recognize, but he knew, instinctively, that it was the sound that had woken him. He looked up into a sky that was glowing an odd greenish colour. The light was intermittent, not like sunlight at all, or moonlight for that matter.
The animals were restless, and Jake wrapped his blanket around his shoulders with slightly shaking hands and strode over to calm his father’s horse. Jeremiah was rearing and pulling at the rope that tethered him to a tree for the night.
Jake took hold of the rope and tried to comfort Jeremiah. The horse’s eyes were wide and bright, and his nostrils flared. Heat rose from his sweating neck. The air was filled again with the wild cry, and Jake felt the terror in Jeremiah’s quivering flanks. He also felt the sweat of his own palms and looked quickly around to see what predator had come in the night to taunt and frighten the poor creature. Then Gertie made a sudden high-pitched noise, not at all like her usual grunting and lowing but more like a cry of pain or anguish.
Suddenly, the green light in the sky intensified, and there was a loud cracking noise, like the canvas cover of a wagon flapping in a high wind, except that the sound was deeper and slower and more like a throb. Then a gust of sudden wind swept Jake off his feet. Face down on the ground, he lifted his head as high as he could, only to see a flash of glowing light and a ball of fire bursting from the camp.
The wagons! thought Jake. The wagons are on fire!
He tried to get to his feet, but the rolling ball of heat kept him on the ground as a gust of hot air whirled over his back. As soon as it passed, Jake sprang to his feet, patting himself down quickly to make sure he wasn’t on fire. He was trembling, and his legs felt weak, but he took a deep breath and ran towards the wagons to help his family.
Screams started to shred the night. Men, women and children, all shouting or crying, slipped from their wagons and began to beat frantically at the fires with their quilts and blankets.
Pa Watkiss, in his long, red underwear and heavy boots, beat at the canvas cover of his wagon with his jacket. There was no hope of him quelling the flames, but he had to try to save his little house on wheels and all his belongings. Suddenly, the whole thing lifted two or three feet off the ground in a hot explosion. Jake threw himself flat on the ground where he lay still for several long seconds before he began to scramble towards the wagons.
Before he was five yards closer, crawling through the gritty, warm earth on his belly, another wagon burst into flames, and then another. Fireballs descended out of the sky, rolling towards Jake like orbs of lightning, flashing white-hot and turning the night sky green. He struggled to his feet, leaning into a hobbling run to try to get to his family and get them out of there.
‘Ma!’ he shouted. ‘Run!’
The rumble of flames, cut through with the screams of the animals and the frantic cries of the people in the camp, filled the night air.
Jake felt the ground beneath his feet quake and shudder. At first, he thought it was something to do with the fire and destruction that was happening all around him. Then he heard Gertie make that noise again. The animals panicked, pawed frantically at the ground, and then began to stampede, desperate to flee their fate.
Jake ducked and threw himself on the ground, covering his head with his hands. No one ever survived a real animal stampede in the wild with thousands of buffalo on the plains, but Jake desperately wanted to believe that he might survive this stampede of oxen and a few horses and mules.
He could not help looking up when he heard a horrendous screech. Bertie was flying through the air, wide-eyed and screaming. Jake was so horrified by what he saw that he ducked his face back into the dust. A loud thud, a few feet in front of Jake, made him jerk open his eyes. Bertie’s severed head, the eyes wide and milky and the tongue lolling out, rolled to a halt right in front of him. Jake thought he was going to be sick.
Then he heard another scream.
Ma needs me, Jake thought, clambering to his feet and running as fast as he could towards his wagon. It was on fire, and his ma and pa were beating at the flames with blankets. Emmie was nowhere to be seen, but Jake was sure that his ma had made certain she was safe, even if she only had her doll for company. For the first time since it had happened, Jake was not sorry that he had plucked the rag doll out of the water.
Not looking where he was going, but intent on getting there, Jake ran headlong into something that seemed to have fallen out of the sky right in front of him.
The object was hard and rounded and very big, like a great curving wall. There was also a smell, one that Jake recognized. He was forced on to his backside, and he sat for a moment, trying to identify the stench. It was the rotten-eggs smell of the sulphur that his pa used to treat wounds.
Without warning, the great curved wall began to move and shift in a sinuous way, like some huge snake. Flames from the latest explosion filled the sky with light, and Jake saw that the thing was black and grey, and made of solid flesh. It had a beautiful, iridescent pattern on its surface, like the prettiest of fish scales, only bigger … much, much bigger.
Then the air moved again, and Jake tried to get away from the beast, shuffling a pace or two on his hands and backside. Suddenly, he stopped, in wonder and fear.
Was this his elephant?
A great pointed head swung into view, and Jake was confronted by a living eye as big as his face. It blinked and stared, and the pupil dilated in a great purple iris. The eye blinked at him again, and then moved out of view. Then a great maw swung up, opening to reveal neat rows of huge
, pointed teeth.
The smell from the thing’s throat came suddenly and strongly, and Jake was knocked over by the stench of sulphur. It was so strong that he wondered if it was keeping him conscious when he was sure he should have fainted. His heart beat so hard that he could hear his pulse throbbing inside his head, and, once again, he was staring so intently into the eye that the edge of his vision was blurring. Then the thing exhaled, and its very breath sent Jake flying.
He thought that he must be dead or dreaming, or, maybe, that he had died in the grip of some terrible dream. Then he was cold and falling, tumbling with that familiar feeling.
His eyes opened, and he saw green strands of river-weed and tiny grey dust particles suspended in a brownish liquid. He was in the icy-cold, fast-flowing water of the river for the second time in one day.
The first time it had cost him his book. This time he honestly believed that the river had saved his life.
Once Jake was over the shock of the cold water, the adrenalin ebbed away, and he felt himself drifting off. He dreamed about his mother and the beautiful brooch that Pa had given her. He dreamed of the great black pupil in its vast purple iris, and, in his dream, he saw a person looking back at him, a human. He stared and stared until he could no longer hold back the urge to blink.
The first thing Jake felt when he awoke wasn’t the pain in his back, although his back was sore, and it wasn’t the jolting gallop of his ride, although he was certainly being jolted. It wasn’t the chill of his wet clothes or the dread of losing his family to a fire. It wasn’t the searing heat in his arm or the throb of blood in his head from his position bent double with his backside in the air.
The first thing Jake felt when he awoke was the tickle in the back of his throat, the itch in his nose and the hot swelling of his tongue. The first thing that Jake wanted to do when he woke up was sneeze.
In the end, he had no choice. He sneezed hard, twice, banging his head against firm flesh with a short, smooth covering of tough hair. He felt a broad hand on his back, spreading a little warmth, and he heard the single word ‘Rest’, spoken with a calming accent.
That was all.
The second time Jake awoke, he wished he hadn’t. The pains in his arm and back were worse than ever, he was still cold and damp, and his face was so swollen that he could barely open his eyes. Then he heard what he thought might be words, coming from behind and above his head. With all the strength he could muster, and despite feeling like his back would break, Jake lifted his head to see where the voice was coming from.
The face above Jake’s, with its fine dark skin, its glossy hair and its grim mouth, reminded him of someone, and, although he couldn’t have explained why, it made him feel safe. He closed his eyes and then blinked them open again. It was the same man who had come to Pa’s camp and helped the little wagon train cross the river. Jake wanted to ask a question, but, by the time the Native realized he was awake, Jake’s shoulders had slumped back over the side of the horse, and he was once more unconscious.
The third time Jake awoke, he was lying comfortably on his back, swathed in a layer of blankets and skins. Someone was squeezing his hand and speaking to him gently, and he could feel warm, sweet breath on his face. His face did not feel as tender as it had done when he was being jolted over the horse’s back. Jake’s horse allergy mostly subsided once he got away from them, but he had many other ailments.
‘It’s smoky,’ he said before he’d even opened his eyes. Beyond the smell of sweet breath he could detect woodsmoke, a smell like almonds roasting, yeasty bread and ripe fruit.
‘Rest,’ said a light voice with the same calming accent that he’d heard before.
He looked up into a pair of black, gleaming eyes in a smooth-skinned, noble face.
‘The smoke is medicine,’ said the girl.
‘I can’t go near horses,’ said Jake, relaxing and breathing the fine veil of smoke that hung in the air. He inhaled deeply, allowing the velvety smoke to soothe the back of his nose. Then he breathed out through his mouth so that the same smoke rolled over his sore throat and swollen tongue. He felt better almost immediately. He blinked twice, and even his eyes seemed less sore and dry.
‘Good,’ said the girl.
Jake took this to mean that he should continue to breathe deeply. The next time he exhaled through his mouth, a wispy trail of smoke hovered around his lips. He crossed his eyes in wonder, trying to look at it. The girl laughed.
‘I’m better,’ said Jake, trying to lift himself up on his elbows. Then suddenly he felt weak and hot and had to lie back down.
‘The fever will return,’ said the girl, ‘and your arm and hand are not healed.’
Jake lifted his left arm. It felt strangely numb, but he vaguely remembered a searing pain there. His arm was encased in a thick gooey bandage, like the poultices that Pa and Aunt May used to treat cuts and burns.
‘Pa? Where’s Pa?’ asked Jake, suddenly frantic.
‘You are safe here,’ said the girl. ‘There was a fire and you were hurt.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Jake.
‘My name is White Thunder,’ said the girl. ‘I am of the Nimi’ipuu people. My father is our medicine man.’
Jake had stopped listening. He was thinking about Pa Watkiss’s wagon and of landing in the water. He had flashes of a huge purple eye as big as his face. He blinked hard to shift the image, knowing that it must have been a dream.
On the third day, White Thunder’s father, Tall Elk, changed the poultice on Jake’s arm and examined the lines and curves of the vivid blisters beneath. The scars would be as elegant and as complete as any he had ever seen.
White Thunder was right: the fever did return, brighter and hotter and fiercer than ever. Jake bucked and twisted in agony under his blankets on the floor of the teepee. The air was thick with smoke, and he could hear a low, sonorous moaning that reminded him of the Native’s voice. Then he remembered that he hadn’t seen his family for so long that he couldn’t keep track of the passage of time.
Sweating and thrashing, Jake opened his eyes to see bright, yellow lights among the sweet-smelling smoke that filled the room. The low moan was like a chant or a song, and he saw feet pounding the floor close to his head. The feet were the colour of pecan nuts and were ornamented with beaded, tasselled ankle cuffs. The feet wove intricate patterns, hopping and stamping in rhythm to the chanting. Jake looked up, but he could not see who they belonged to in the pall of smoke.
When he awoke again, he felt a strange sensation on the skin of his chest, a tickling feeling, followed by sharp stings. He opened his eyes to see brushes made of feathers and leaves smoothing a sheen of perspiration from his torso. He breathed the smoky atmosphere and smelled the salt tang of his feverish sweat.
His dreams were of green skies and of birds with scales instead of feathers. He dreamed of breathing fire and of flying. He dreamed of brown-skinned strangers riding on the broad necks of massive Thunderbirds. He dreamed of blood-red eyes staring deeply into his soul. He dreamed of his ma too, and of Pa and Emmie. He dreamed of magical storybooks and of rag dolls that came to life.
One day, he dreamed that he lay still for a very long time while White Thunder’s gentle voice sang him the strangest lullabies. He dreamed that, while she was singing, someone was writing or drawing pinpoint patterns around his wrist and up his arm. He felt a million pinpricks and a thousand scratches, almost as if he had pins and needles in his arm for hours at a time. The next time he awoke, the memory was so vivid that he looked at his arm. It was covered in the poultice that smelled of herbs and mosses, and was wrapped in bandages.
Sometimes the teepee was filled with smo
ke, but sometimes Jake thought the inside was swarming with Thunderbirds. Then he would blink and realize that the Thunderbirds were painted on to the skins that made up the walls of the teepee.
Once he opened his eyes to find a huge scaled snout pushing its way around the door-flap, snuffling and snorting. He blinked and it was gone, but he could hear a voice outside scolding. There was a whiff of smoke in the air, despite there being no fire in the teepee. Moments later, the Native who had helped them cross the river was hovering over him.
‘Hello,’ said Jake. ‘You’re … You helped us cross the river.’
‘My name is Yellow Cloud,’ said the Native guide.
‘But clouds aren’t yellow,’ Jake said, and then he thought better of it. ‘Except the ones in my dreams.’
‘Ah … dreams,’ said Yellow Cloud, as if there was some sort of mystery. Jake wondered if the Native had misunderstood the word.
Jake had seen other people delirious with fever, when his pa had treated them, but he had never suffered himself. Lying in the teepee, he often felt that he didn’t know the difference between his dreams and the real world. He felt so peculiar, and he saw such surprising things, and yet sometimes they seemed so real that they made him gasp with wonder.
The next time Jake awoke, he was in a frightful panic. He almost pushed White Thunder aside in his struggle to get out of bed and run to his pa. He stumbled around outside on weak legs, his knees wobbling beneath him. Then he caught sight of where he was, and his eyes widened in wonder and his mouth fell open.
He stood on a plateau so high, he could see for miles. The sky was streaked pink and orange, and the sun hung like a great yellow ball right in front of him. Jake saw a crowd of teepees with their animal-skin coverings and a corral full of beautiful Appaloosa horses, not at all like Jeremiah, the old nag his pa rode.
