Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality

by Pat Murphy

  Sarah shrugged. “Family, pack—where is your family?”

  “I don’t have one.” Max scowled at his drawing, then began darkening the lines with short, hard strokes of the pencil.

  “Why are you angry?” she asked him.

  “I’m not angry,” he snapped.

  She studied him, wondering why he would deny something so obvious. “You are angry,” she said.

  The pencil lead snapped, and he put it down, still frowning. He did not look at her. “I am not angry at you,” he said softly.

  She studied his face. He was angry, and he was sad. She did not want him to be sad. She reached out and took his hand. “I had a family once,” he said. “But that was a long time ago.” She squeezed his hand, not knowing what to say. “My wife is dead. My daughter was better off without me. I did something wrong. I broke the law and went to jail.”

  She did not know what the law was, but she was sorry that it was broken, since that made Max sad. She did not know what jail was, but clearly it was not a good place to go.

  “Can I be your family?” she asked him. “Beka and I—we will both be your family.”

  He nodded, squeezing her hand. “I think you already are.”

  As the days grew shorter, Max tried to persuade Sarah to return with him to Selby Flat. One night, sitting by the fire, he told her, “You belong with your people.”

  “I belong with the wolves,” she said.

  “You are more human than wolf,” he said.

  She gazed at him. Beka lay beside her, staring into the fire. The wolf’s eyes gleamed in the firelight; her tongue lolled out over sharp white teeth. “People are dangerous,” Sarah said.

  Max smiled. “Some people think wolves are dangerous.”

  Sarah nodded gravely. “Some wolves are.”

  “And some people are dangerous. But not all people. What did you think of Betsy and Ellie?”

  “I thought I would talk to them,” she said. “To see if they were dangerous.”

  “That’s good.”

  She stared into the fire. “Some people are not dangerous,” she said grudgingly.

  “Some people are nice.” She nodded.

  “Mrs. Selby wants you to come to Selby Flat,” he said. “She wants to make you apple pie and biscuits. Your aunt wants to see you. She lives very far away, but I could take you there.”

  Sarah looked nervous. “I don’t want to go far away,” she said. “I belong here.”

  It was hard for Max to imagine what she would do if she came with him. He could not imagine her in proper clothing, hampered by skirts, sipping tea in the parlor and fussing about ribbons in her hair.

  “I will come back next summer,” he said.

  She nodded. “I will look for you.”

  After Max left, she returned to the pack. She had been away from the pack for more than a month, spending her time with Max by the lake while the other wolves roamed their territory, hunting wherever game was most abundant. She found them high in the mountains, far from the mining camps.

  She saw Istas first, a sweet-tempered female who had been littermates with Marek. As soon as Sarah saw Istas, the girl knew that something was wrong.

  Istas was an easygoing, mid-ranking wolf that avoided squabbles whenever possible. But Sarah could tell that she had been in a fight not long ago: Her right ear was torn and scabbed; she was limping, and her left front paw still bore the bloody marks of a bite. Sarah ran to greet the wolf, eagerly touching noses, stroking the wolf’s soft fur.

  Istas seemed glad to see her, but Sarah noticed that she was hesitant to lead the girl to join the rest of the pack. Sarah understood why as she approached.

  The pack was resting in the shade of a pine. They had killed a buck and feasted on venison. Now they were sleeping and grooming each other, exhausted from the hunt and sated with meat.

  As Sarah approached, Yepa stood to run and greet her, then hesitated, staring at the black wolf who crouched in the sun in the center of the pack. He returned her look, flicking his ears back to communicate his disapproval, and Yepa sank down again.

  When Sarah had left the pack, Rolon had been the pack’s leader. Over the years, he had grown a little slower, a little stiffer. But his minor physical decline had been offset by his wisdom. Rolon knew the mountains like no other wolf. He could find game when food was scarce; he could unify the pack in a hunt as no other wolf could.

  A month later, Rolon was gone. He would never have submitted to Marek. Sarah knew that. She knew that the old wolf was dead, killed by his son in a fight for dominance. Now his son led the pack.

  Marek stood and stretched, his black fur glistening in the sun. He grinned, opening his mouth and letting his scarlet tongue loll out, relishing his power.

  Marek was watching Sarah, staring openly in a gaze that was both a warning and a challenge. Secure in his power, he wanted her to fight him.

  Sarah dropped her gaze, acknowledging his supremacy. They would fight, she thought, but not here and not now. She needed time to prepare.

  She thought about Max, and she thought about lying. She was lying to Marek, deceiving him with a gesture just as misleading as a lying word. Perhaps Max was right—maybe she was more human than wolf.

  The deception had the desired effect. Marek lay down and rested his head on his paws, keeping his eyes on Sarah as she strolled to Yepa’s side and greeted her sister. The other members of the pack gathered around, greeting her with gently wagging tails and covert glances at Marek. He did not interfere. He simply watched, the sunlight glittering in his yellow eyes.

  Rolon had been a benevolent ruler. When the pack was hunting, he tolerated no insubordination. Each wolf had a place and a role, and he would chastise any who failed to perform. But when the pack was loafing or playing or traveling, Rolon relaxed his discipline. Confident in his power, he did not require constant acknowledgment of his position. He would let pups pounce on his tail or romp on his head without reprimand. He played with the others on occasion, chasing leaves, wrestling, and romping.

  Marek was, by contrast, a petty tyrant. The slightest transgression, real or imagined, earned the offending wolf a savage beating. It was such a punishment that had left Istas bruised and limping. Whether the pack was resting or playing or traveling, the wolves kept watch on Marek, alert to changes in his mood, wary of a possible attack by the black wolf. Marek was happy, but the others were nervous, restless, ill at ease.

  Game was abundant, and the pack lingered in the high country, where Sarah had found them. The snows had not yet started and the weather was crisp and cold. In the high country, trees were scarce and granite boulders lay tumbled on granite slopes like the building blocks of a giant child.

  At age thirteen, Sarah was a formidable opponent in any fight. What she lacked in strength, she made up for in agility and intelligence. She knew when to fight and when to run, how to outsmart a stronger opponent. Her agility let her wiggle out from under an opponent at startling speed. Her muscles were strong from running and climbing. Her endurance was remarkable, gained from hours of running with the pack. She was indifferent to ordinary pain, ignoring the pricks and scratches of thorns, the irritation of minor bites and cuts. She was not fearless, but she was confident in her own abilities and did not waste her time on pointless anxiety.

  There in the high country, Sarah laid her plans. On a rock slope, she found a tough, old juniper tree that had been blasted by many a winter storm. One thick branch had been cracked by the previous year’s heavy snowfall, and she worked it loose, breaking it from the trunk by working it back and forth. From it, she fashioned a club, breaking the branch to the length she wanted, shaping it to her hand by whittling the narrow end. She cut a leather thong from the hide of a deer that the pack brought down, wrapped it around the club, and threaded the loop of the thong through her belt so that she could carry the weapon with her. She wandered the rocky slopes and canyons, searching for places that could give her an advantage in a fight. And then she waited, pa
tience being a virtue she had learned long ago.

  The time came, as she had known it must. On a clear, cool afternoon, a rabbit ran along the edge of the meadow where the pack was resting. The wolves had downed a yearling doe the day before, but most of the carcass had been consumed. The youngest wolves were gnawing on the bones, already eager to search for other prey. Rolon would have already roused the pack for the next hunt, but Marek had delayed, lazing in the sun. He had fed well, and he was content.

  That was when the foolish cottontail ran by.

  Sarah was harvesting sweet wild strawberries from the plants that grew in the shade at the edge of the meadow. She was hungry, but she had chosen not to leave the pack to hunt on her own. When the rabbit dashed by, she quickly nocked an arrow and let fly. The arrow found its mark, and the rabbit fell, pierced to the heart. Hungry for fresh meat, Sarah ran to snatch up the fallen rabbit.

  She was crouching in the meadow, skinning the rabbit with her knife, when a shadow fell across her. She looked up to see Marek. The black wolf was staring at her, staring at the fresh meat. He was some twenty feet away, strolling toward her. Sarah growled, warning him off, but he continued toward her.

  Her choice was clear. Give up the prey that she had killed for herself or fight with Marek. Sarah showed her teeth in a ferocious grin and took off running, carrying the dead rabbit.

  Marek chased her. She had known that he would. His reaction was instinctive—by running away, she had shown weakness, and any wolf would give chase.

  She had a head start. She maintained it as she dodged through the scrubby trees at the edge of the meadow and onto a slope of granite, scraped clean by the passage of glaciers thousands of years before. Her bare feet pounded the smooth stone, propelling her forward as fast as she could go.

  Wolves often chased one another in play, but this was no game. She heard Marek growling as he gained on her. The black wolf was at her heels as she dodged into a narrow canyon formed by a wall of granite and a tumbled granite slab some six feet high. The canyon ended where a rockfall had closed the way.

  She ran to the rockfall, dropped the carcass of the rabbit, and whirled to face Marek. This was the spot she had chosen for her fight. In the narrow canyon, Marek could not circle her. Her back was protected by the walls of the canyon and the rockfall.

  She faced him, a slender, blue-eyed girl clutching a club in one hand, a knife in the other, pitted against a raging wolf. It was a scene to break a human mother’s heart. Compared to the black wolf Sarah seemed so tiny, so frail. How could life pit her against such an opponent? How unfair! Surely this battle was hopeless!

  But Sarah had no illusions about fairness, and she did not view the battle as hopeless. She grinned at Marek, showing her teeth. Blunt-tipped human teeth, useless in this battle except to signal her willingness to fight.

  Yes, she was ready and more than willing. She had waited and watched and now she faced her opponent with savage joy in her heart and a smile on her lips. She had learned from Dur’s mistake—she would show no mercy, give the black wolf no second chance.

  Marek charged her with a roar.

  Sarah had watched Marek fight, had observed his weaknesses. He relied on his superior size. He always began by rushing his opponent, charging in at top speed and smashing into the other wolf. More often than not, he bowled his opponent over, then went for the throat, attempting to lock his jaws around his rival’s windpipe and choke the other wolf.

  Marek charged as Sarah knew he would, but the girl leapt out of the way, springing up to a foothold on the granite slab that formed one wall of the canyon. She had chosen the spot because it allowed her to add a third dimension to the fight, taking advantage of her ability to climb.

  Marek skidded on the slick granite. As he turned to leap at her, she jumped over him, landing behind him with her back to the rockfall. He whirled again, amazingly fast for an animal of his size. She was swinging the club as he turned, and she heard his teeth snap closed as the club connected with his muzzle.

  He lunged for her, and again she sprang upward, finding a foothold on the other canyon wall, just out of his reach. She tried the same trick again, leaping behind him and swinging the club, but he was ready this time, dodging the strike to his head and taking a solid blow on his shoulder while he snapped at her legs.

  His jaws slashed her right leg, penetrating the skin, but did not close quickly enough to hold her fast. She was away again, leaping up onto the rockfall. With one foot, she pushed a loose rock, sending a few rocks tumbling down. Marek dodged the falling rocks, then threw himself at the slope, struggling to reach her.

  Already, she was in motion, jumping for another perch. The wound on her leg was bleeding now. She left a splash of crimson blood behind on the rock as she leapt away to another perch.

  She leapt from perch to perch, swinging the club. Sometimes, she connected, but more often the black wolf dodged and darted in to slash at her legs again. Her skin glistened with sweat. Bloody footprints decorated the rockfall and the canyon floor.

  Marek was relentless in his pursuit. The black devil lunged and slashed and whirled, giving her no opportunity to rest.

  Marek lunged, Sarah leapt for a foothold, and her foot slipped on the blood and the sweat. She fell, landing in a crouch before the wolf. The black wolf sprang for her throat, but as fast as he moved, she was faster. She lifted the club, turning it horizontally to the ground and jamming it between his open jaws. At the same moment, she stood, swinging her leg over the wolf to straddle him, placing her full weight on his back and bearing him downward. With one hand, she pulled on the club, forcing it into Marek’s mouth like a bit in the mouth of a horse. With the other hand, she drove her knife into Marek’s throat, through the thick fur and into the artery that carried blood to the brain. She did not hesitate. She showed no mercy. She remembered his battle with Dur and knew that she could give him no second chance.

  Marek’s blood joined hers, pumping from his throat to darken his glossy fur. His blood stained the granite at her feet. The wolf struggled, his claws scrabbling weakly against the smooth rock in the struggles of a dying creature. Then he collapsed beneath her on the canyon floor.

  Sarah’s legs were trembling when she walked out of the canyon. She was bleeding from abrasions where she had scraped her skin against the rough granite, from places where Marek’s teeth had slashed her. In one hand, she held her club, notched with the marks of Marek’s teeth. In the other, she clutched the knife, dripping with his blood.

  At the entrance to the canyon, Yepa and Beka greeted Sarah with concern, circling her, licking her wounds, leaping in joy at her return. The rest of the pack gathered around, welcoming her with a frenzy of wagging tails and grinning faces and low moaning howls of excitement.

  Yepa raised her head and howled in earnest, just as she would to gather the pack for the hunt. The others joined in, a joyous chorus. Sarah lifted her head and howled with the others, weary and battered, but triumphant.

  Sarah had killed the pack’s leader, but she did not take on that role. She had always been set apart from the others, and that situation did not change. Yepa was the alpha female. After some squabbling among the males, Duman, one of Dur’s litter mates, became alpha male. He was a sturdy wolf—an excellent fighter, a skilled hunter.

  With the pack under the leadership of Yepa and Duman, Sarah felt free to wander the mountains alone or in Beka’s company. She was restless, no longer content to live from day to day with the pack. She did not belong with the pack; she knew that. But she did not know where she did belong.

  16 HER OWN KIND

  “The rain… falls upon the just and the unjust alike; a thing which would not happen if I were superintending the rain’s affairs. No, I would rain softly and sweetly on the just, but if I caught a sample of the unjust outdoors I would drown him.”

  —Mark Twain

  TOM MORRIS WAVED TO HIS COMPANIONS as he made his way across the log that served as a bridge over the creek. “Good-bye,�
� Tom called. “I’ll see you in San Francisco.”

  Tom and his friend Joe had been camping by the creek and working a claim. It had been a profitable summer—they had taken almost two thousand dollars’ worth of gold from the creek. But when Joe decided to head for the lowlands, Tom wasn’t quite ready to go. His share of the summer’s earnings was nine hundred dollars—and he hoped to make a hundred more before he went to the city. He had set himself a goal of a thousand dollars, and he was determined to make it.

  “Don’t stay too late,” Joe called back.

  Tom waved back, smiling but dismissing Joe’s advice. After two years in the mines, Joe considered himself an old sourdough. Though Tom had been in California for less than a year, he felt he was quite competent to do without Joe’s advice.

  “Don’t forget—if the rains come, get to high ground.”

  Tom smiled and waved. Joe sometimes acted like Tom was a fool, without a bit of common sense. Of course he would get to high ground.

  For the first few days after Joe’s departure, the weather was cool, but clear. Tom shook his head and laughed, thinking of Joe’s warnings about the winter rains. On the third day, the sky was overcast. Late in the day, drizzle dampened the soil. It was inconvenient, Tom thought, as he retired to his tent, but nothing to worry about. If it kept up, he would pack out in the morning—even if he was still short of his goal.

  In the shelter of his tent, he prepared a cold dinner of ham and biscuits. As he ate, the drizzle became a downpour. He watched the water rush down the bare hillside on the far side of the creek. He and Joe had cleared the hillside of vegetation and shoveled the loose soil into their long tom in their quest for gold. Now the rain washed dirt into the creek, a torrent of silty water.

  Tom eyed the rushing creek with some trepidation. The water was rising quickly. Already, it was eating at the bank that supported one end of the log bridge. He and Joe had felled the tree to make a bridge to the north side of the creek, where granite slabs formed a sheltered campsite. Tom squinted at the wet log that spanned the creek. That bridge was his path back to civilization. Surely the creek couldn’t rise high enough to jeopardize the bridge.