Her heart lightened at the thought of seeing him, and she prayed that he would be home. If only she could see him once more, to have the chance to tell him again how she loved him! Surely he would hear her this time. Surely he would not turn her away again. She thought of the way his eyes gentled when he looked at her, at the feel of his smooth skin under her palms, of the softness of his lips. She flung herself into the next tree. Rounding it, she heard the water straight ahead, and the ground leveled off into a nearly flat little valley. Carefully, she threaded her way through a mighty oak grove toward the sound of running water.
Yes, there it was, just ahead. Surely, it was the same stream by which they had camped the night before. But she should not take any chances. She would work her way back upstream until she could look up and see it falling over the ledge. Then she would hurry downstream as fast as she could and make as much progress as possible before the others missed her. No need to make them worry any longer than necessary. If she made good time, surely she would find help by early afternoon, earlier if Howard were at home. She remembered her Mazda. She could drive for help, but she did not know how to get to Lenora and Ike’s house. And it would be impossible to tell anyone how to find the little lost group up high on the ledge. She prayed that Howard would be home. This time her need was more urgent as she thought of Jimmy Lee’s injured leg.
She stayed by the creek bank and walked upstream until she found the place she was looking for. Sure enough, above her, the water spilled down a hundred foot cliff of sheer rock face and over the small ledge that had miraculously saved Jimmy Lee. From her vantage, she could not see anyone on the ledge, but she could see the ledge itself plainly outlined against the cliff. Just above it was the scrabbled path they had used to climb up and down, and above that was the scar in the face of the rock that had been the main trail. Assured that she was on the right track, she turned back downstream.
The going along the creek bank was rough, but she knew better than to get into the swift water. A fall could mean a broken leg, and the rocks looked as slippery as oil. It would be better to make her way through the dense rhododendron and laurel, even though it meant slow, torturous going. Sometimes she had to get down and crawl, but she knew she would be better off staying within earshot of the creek. It was her only guide. If she lost it, she would merely have to go back to find it again.
After nearly an hour, the rhododendron hell gave way to a rocky slope, with poor, ragged trees scattered desolately upon its surface. The stream flowed smoothly beside her across the rock, then slipped noisily over the side. Another waterfall. She inched her way carefully forward to peer over the edge. A fifteen or twenty foot drop. She would have to go around. Carefully, she picked her way back up the incline, keeping her eyes open for a good place to veer away and find a more suitable descent.
She turned back into the woods to try to pick her way through the dense underbrush back from the waterfall, but the way continued to be steep for a good while. She walked until she could no longer hear the water, then decided to find a way down the slope without going any farther. If she lost the stream, she would also lose her way.
Leaning against a tree, she peered downward to try to gauge the incline. If she could hang on to low branches and the sturdy roots of trees and bushes, she could make her way without too much difficulty. The earth was soft here; there was no danger of slipping on rocks and plummeting. The worst that could happen would be a bit of a slide. Very carefully, she inched herself downward until her feet could no longer resist the pull of gravity. She sat on her haunches and grabbed for the first tree, then swung herself from limb to root to bush, making her way down the mountain. She reached for a clump of Joe Pye weed, erect and proud, with its blossoms just beginning to burst open, then moved her other hand downward toward a dead limb standing drunkenly askew from an ironwood. Just when she thought her hold was secure, the limb snapped and she tumbled down the hill, grasping desperately at bushes and weeds along the way.
After what seemed like several minutes of plummeting and sliding through the dark, rich humus, she finally managed to get her feet under her. She slid all the way to the base of the slope on her feet and backside.
She looked at her hands. The heels were scraped raw. They stung but did not bleed much. Her shoeless right foot felt terribly strained, but she lifted it and worked it carefully. Nothing bad wrong. It would not be comfortable walking on it, but it was not sprained.
Hastily, she picked her way back toward the direction of the stream, and found it only after having crawled through a cedar thicket so dense and sticky that she thought she would be scratched to pieces before she could find her way out again. By the time she made it to the stream, she was so filthy she could no longer identify the color of her pants. Sap and grime clung to her skin and hair; when she tried to push her hair out of her face, the sap on her hands stuck to it.
But at last she heard, then saw, the blessed stream. She was hot and thirsty. The sticky sap attracted insects, and she was itchy and miserable all over.
Limping, she entered a clearing caused by poor, rocky soil where nothing but butterfly weed and snakeroot grew. Through this the stream tumbled madly. By now she had been gone longer than she had thought it would take to get to Howard Knight’s house, and she realized that she probably had not come very far over the rugged terrain. The sun was high, and her shoeless right foot was caked with mud and loose rocks. Wearily, she removed the sock and washed it, then put her foot in the icy water, scrubbing the mud away from between the toes. There was a deep purple bruise and a raw scrape on her ankle, and the whole foot was throbbing and hot. She soaked it in the creek while she splashed water on her arms and face. The sun had turned the day hot, and although she remembered what Howard had told her about drinking so far from a pure spring, she was so thirsty that she was willing to take her chances. If she came down with Weil’s disease, she would pay for it later. But she was not certain that wild boar really existed in these hills, anyway. She had never seen one, although Howard had told her about them, and she had heard plenty of mountain folk talk about how they wreaked havoc over the fecund woods.
The clear, cold water was just too tempting, and her thirst emboldened her. As she bent her head and cupped her hand to take the fresh, white water, she heard a crashing in the trees across the stream, and the very beast whose existence she had just denied came trotting across the rocky slope toward her.
She made herself as small as possible and inched backwards, hoping the beast would not see her. But the wind shifted, and he suddenly lifted his head and poised, listening for noise in the air. His little, vile head with the razor sharp tusks tossed, then paused until he could see her with his little pig eyes.
He was about twenty-five feet away, with the stream between them, and he looked huge and mean as hell. Geneva backed away slowly, hoping it would not cross the water. She did not know how aggressive wild boars were, but the look of those tusks terrified her. She drew in a breath, telling herself not to run unless he made a break in her direction.
No sooner had she thought this, than the animal actually did charge at her. Snorting and growling savagely, it lowered its head and ran straight for the stream. Geneva scrambled backwards and ran for the safety of a medium sized tree just behind her. It would not offer her much shelter, but it was the best to be hoped for on such short notice. She made it in time to see the hog splashing through the stream, still charging straight at her.
Searching ahead of her into the better protection of the fertile soil where the larger trees grew, she darted across the granite earth, leaping over rocks and scraggy little bushes. At one point she stopped just behind a large boulder and glanced back behind her to see if the animal were still chasing her.
It had stopped, but to her horror, it was very close, only about ten feet away—close enough for Geneva to see the short bristles on the top of its head and the small split hooves, caked with filth. The beast stared at her through eyes running with matter. Muco
us streamed from its nose, too, so copiously that when he slung his ugly head, she could see it fly from its face and spatter the nearby bushes. Abandoned by all possible sources of help, she stood alone in the clearing. She knew she was lost, and she was more afraid than she had ever been in her life. The forest seemed exceptionally still and silent as she tried to pull her eyes from the terrible face, violent with hatred.
The deep forest was just behind her. Only a few yards away stood a giant tulip poplar, a tree so large that had there been three of her, she could not have circumscribed it with her arms. Gently, trying to glide almost without touching the earth, Geneva took one step away from the small safety of the boulder. Immediately, the boar seemed to explode, charging at her with the energy of a hundred thundering horses, his eyes glaring red and horrible as he anticipated her blood.
She leaped, then ran. The massive tree stood like a beacon of hope against the mindless charge of the raging boar, and to that beacon she fled, offering all her trust to its mighty trunk. She gained safety behind it just as the animal reached her, then it rushed by. Geneva felt its hot, foul breath as it flung its razor tusks at her. There was a resounding thud and a cracking sound as the tusks ripped deep into the flesh of the tree. Geneva’s knees turned to water. She leaned against the solid safety of the poplar, and forced herself to turn and discover where the beast had stopped.
He was a scant ten feet away, perfectly still, regarding her with what seemed to be supreme irritation. Geneva could sense it considering, weighing the possible events of the next charge. In the eyes of the beast glimmered a malevolent intelligence that told her she might not be able to dodge him again. Perhaps this time he would circle the tree; he would slice her lovely legs just below the hip. Geneva let her horrified gaze fall to the fresh, deep gash in the tree trunk, wickedly clean, with the bark peeled away, exposing the flesh of the soft, yellow wood. From the wound, sap welled and bled down into the forest floor. The tree could still stand after such a brutal attack. She would not. Already, she could imagine the fragile flesh ripping away from the bone, then the bone itself snapping before the massive weight of that flailing head.
In the pause before the boar took aim to begin its next assault, Geneva felt her blood screaming its anguish with each beat of her terrified heart. She saw the slime running from the beast’s snout as he studied her.
Was it possible to outsmart it a second time? A dozen or more feet away stood a ragged pine with a low, solid branch not far above Geneva’s head. With her thoughts nearly inaudible above the pounding of her heart, she tried to calculate the distance and the time it would take to reach it, but her brain refused to work. A split second later, the boar charged again, and without hope, but with courage born of the desire to live, she leaped to the other side of the tree, just far enough to be partly visible from the pig’s vantage. The animal altered his course instantly, zeroing in on his target with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.
Wait… Wait… She forced herself, as the milliseconds ticked by like long minutes, and then, when the boar had come too far to swerve to the other side of the tree, she gathered her strength and switched sides, then sprinted through the clearing. The pine stood solidly, offering its branch like a lover’s arms, and as she reached it, she leaped, summoning all her power in her arms and legs to swing herself up and embrace it.
She had bought herself just enough time to stay one step ahead of the boar. It had indeed encircled the tree in anticipation of her ducking behind it the second time and had saved the violent toss of the head until it was more certain of its target. But its cumbersome body had negotiated the turn awkwardly, and Geneva had gained enough ground to make the safety of the high limb.
But her legs, although willing and nimble, were too slow. Just as she felt them swinging upward to embrace the limb, the hog overtook her, running directly under her and lifting its tusks into the deadly, flashing arc. She felt the breath again, and a split second later, a thin, sharp pain in the back of her right thigh. Her leg went limp, then both legs lost their purchase on the limb. For a moment, they hung down, dead weights pulling against the strength of her arms. There was a tickle in the sensitive spot at the back of her knee, and a second later, at the ankle. She dared not look, but she knew that already her blood was wetting the ground below her.
Her hands, clasped together around the pine branch, were wet with fear and pain, and she felt the strength ebbing from her arms. She tried again to wrap her legs around the branch, but her throbbing leg kicked feebly. The bare foot only scraped across the rough bark, then slid downward again. Now she did not know if she had the power to lift her legs at all; this time she must use her arms to pull her body higher.
Before she could think, she heard the snorting animal thundering toward her again. Her brain shut out the sound, and her body, in a last burst of self-preservation, pulled itself up high; her knees tucked up under her chin, and her elbows bent up tight to the prickly safety of the pine bough. The wind rushed under her once more, but this time, there was no responding pain.
There was a long silence while Geneva hugged the tree. The sickening smell of the filthy hog filled her nostrils, but still she was aware of the clean smell of the pine and the less comforting, sharp smell of her own terrified sweat. Sweat darkened her shirt, and she could feel it running into her eyes, blinding her with the dirt and grime it carried. She was afraid to look down, but at last she wiped an eye on her shoulder and peered through the crook of her arm, quivering with fear and fatigue.
The awful thing was standing still, staring at her, dripping at the nose and mouth, and then he tossed his deadly head, snorted once, and very deliberately ran headlong into the trunk of the pine.
The whole tree shook, but not as much as Geneva’s arms. Again she tried to sling her legs up and over the branch, but the pain in her thigh weakened the attempt. Her left foot hooked over the branch, but lost its grip and then slithered down again. Adrenaline and lactic acid together made an unholy mix, and as the tree trembled, Geneva felt her own weight, heavier than she ever dreamed possible, pulling against her quaking arms.
The beast charged at the tree again, twice more, three times more. Geneva began to cry, knowing that the muscles in her arms and legs and stomach would surely fail her in a matter of seconds. With each blow at the base of the tree, she felt her fingers slip farther and farther apart.
Oh, dear God! she cried. Do something! Don’t let me be ripped apart by this awful thing! And she sobbed aloud as she struggled to make her sliding fingers marry.
Again came the thunder of hooves, and the world shook. She knew she would fall this time, and she peered down to face the demon that was bent upon killing her. She saw him charging; she saw the lifted tusks, and she knew that this time he was aiming for her. Screaming, she begged her stomach to pull her legs up tight, her arms to embrace the tree, her hands to hold steady, but already they were giving away, all at once. Her legs turned to lead, her stomach muscles refused to pull any harder, her fingers, oily with sweat, determined to part. There was an explosion in her ears, and blackness enveloped her as she felt herself falling, falling into the cruel tusks of the wild boar, to his open mouth, to pain and certain death.
There was a violent jolt, and then a strange kind of warmth, and she felt herself no longer falling, but moving swiftly. Dazed, she opened her eyes to look down, and she dimly perceived that she might be flying. The prostrate form of the animal that had surely killed her floated below her. And then she felt another jolt, then a smooth rocking motion. Odd, she mused dimly through a swirl of pain and darkness. Dying feels just like cantering through the forest, only warmer. It’s not as bad as I expected…
Then she lifted her eyes to see ears and a flying mane. Slowly it came to her that she was, indeed, riding a horse, and then eventually, she realized that she was lying in the arms of a man. When her eyes opened again, the sight of the mane streaming toward her face gave her greater joy than she had ever known.
A name c
ame to her, swirling in darkness and confusion, and before it was fully formed in her brain, her lips were already shaping themselves to caress it. “Howard,” she moaned, “You’ve saved me!”
The male arms tightened around her, pulling her close and comfortable against the warm, taut chest. “Not Howard, darling,” came the low breath in her ear. “John.”
She fainted before she could lift her eyes to his face.
Thirteen
It was cold. Geneva blinked once and whimpered, “Mama, I’m cold.”
“I’ll get you another blanket, sweetie,” came Rachel’s voice through a haze. “Mama stepped out for a minute to get a bite to eat.”
Geneva blinked again. The light was dim and hazy. She hurt somewhere, but she could not tell where. It just seemed that there was an unhappy feeling somewhere in her body. She tried to move her leg, and winced when the dull unhappiness intensified. She let a tiny moan escape her lips.
Rachel moved toward her with a blanket and threw it over her, then tucked the edges around her shoulders tightly. “There, that should be better. You’ll be warm in a minute.”
“Where am I?”
“In your hospital room.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, the usual. You wandered off from the group like a very bad camper and tried to mess with a wild boar. He was considerably bigger than you, and his teeth a lot sharper. Do you remember?”
Geneva tried to move her leg again and winced. “Oh. Yes. Somebody saved me.”
“Yep.” All your fantasies come true. The way I heard it, John came charging up on his white stallion right in the very teeth of the murderous beast and swept you right up out of the air. Too bad you were bleeding too bad to appreciate the moment.”
The Women of Jacob’s Mountain Boxed Set Page 33
