Lifting the Sky

by Mackie d'Arge

  Within minutes the new fawn was struggling to get to its feet. All the while Lone One licked it and grunted and cleaned up all the signs of its birth. All the while her brown eyes scanned the landscape.

  It was amazing how quickly the first little fawn had managed to stand, all tipsy and wobbly on its long spidery legs. It latched on to its mother to nurse—the shortest two-second nip ever—and then tipped over, bobbed up, and tried once again. The second fawn wobbled and rose halfway up and then sprawled back down on the ground. Again and again it tried. Again and again it fell back.

  I stared at the fawn. With the mother right over it I couldn’t see clearly, but something seemed to be wrong. Lone One made a loud honking sound and nudged under the fawn’s belly with her long nose as if she were trying to get it to its feet. It took a step, wobbled, and tumbled back down. The fawn seemed to favor one leg.

  The fawn finally tottered up long enough to get its first sip. The other fawn was already happily hopping about trying out its long spindly legs. Lone One seemed anxious now; probably she wanted to move the fawns away from their sheltered nest at the end of the canyon to a safer, clean place where the fawns could hide from hungry coyotes and such. Again she nosed the lame fawn up, almost pushing it out of the nest. Soon the family of three was headed for the nearby bowl-shaped valley, one fawn skipping ahead, the other limping behind with its worried mother stopping to grunt at it and to nudge it along with her nose.

  Me, I was a frozen lump of ice stuck to the snowy ledge. I could just see the headlines: “Ice Sculpture of Maiden Found in the Hills. Sculptor Unknown.” I pushed myself up and stood still as a fence post, not daring to move and frighten the trio below me.

  When they got to the bowl Lone One ran ahead, as if she wanted the fawns to follow her and climb up the hill. But the lame fawn lagged behind and limped toward a snowy clump of sagebrush at the foot of the hill and dropped down. The other one scrambled halfway up the bowl to huddle between snow-covered rocks. Lone One stared for a few seconds at each fawn’s hiding place and then turned and sprinted over the hill. I watched her go. When I looked back, both fawns had melted into the landscape.

  And then, because the odds against them were so great, I sent prayers up to the skies to please keep all the coyotes, golden eagles, ravens, mountain lions, and owls away. And to please, please keep the poor little lame fawn safe.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From the ridge I’d noticed Ol’ Yeller parked by the barn. It seemed strange that Mam would still be there. As I trudged through the snowy meadows the cows barely looked up. They’d been fed a big round bale of hay, and tractor tracks circled back to the barn. I hopped into the tracks and started to run.

  As I rounded the corner of the barn Stew Pot bounded over and thumped his big paws on my shoulder. He whined softly, which wasn’t like him at all.

  “Hey, boy, what’s the matter?” I asked as my eyes zipped across the barnyard.

  A dark, muddy gash led to the snowy creek bank and from there down into the rushing water and to Mr. Mac’s pet of a tractor. The tractor bucked and swayed as the water crashed and sprayed against its big tires. Its hay fork bobbled up and down as it seemed to claw at the gash in the creek bank.

  I sucked in my breath as I ran toward it. Where was my mom? No sign of her. I spun, not daring to breathe. Suddenly, over the roar of rushing water, I heard her voice coming from behind Ol’ Yeller.

  “I’ve really gone and done it,” she said.

  Honestly, it took a moment before I could tell her apart from Ol’ Yeller—they both were totally splattered with mud. Mam kneeled on the ground next to the tailgate, holding one end of a chain, which she’d just unhooked from Ol’ Yeller. The other end of the chain stretched out toward the tractor. Skid marks grooved through the mud-splattered snow.

  Obviously they’d been having a tug-of-war with the tractor. Just as obviously, they’d gotten nowhere.

  Mam swiped at her forehead, leaving one more streak on her already-mud-covered face. “I’d fed the cattle, and when I backed up to drive the tractor back into the barn, the bank just caved in,” she said, glaring at the tractor as if it’d just bucked her off.

  Down at the trading post I’d heard talk about “high-water day,” as it was called around here, almost like some sort of holiday. The creeks and rivers would gush over their banks while boulders, brush, and logs hurtled down with the rising water. I’d heard Clyde joking about some rancher who was always saying that if his bridge washed away at high water and floated downstream, why, whoever ended up with it could buy it for practically nothing.

  I could almost see the water rising as I stared up the creek, see it churning down from the mountains where snow had piled up and soon would be melting.

  See us having to tell Mr. Mac that his tractor had—well, had just floated away.

  See us loading up Ol’ Yeller.

  I was still taking it all in when, above the roar of the creek, I heard what could only have been Mr. Mac’s big diesel pickup, still out of sight behind the trees on the other side of the creek. Mam and I locked anxious eyes. After everything had been going so great, without a hitch or a glitch, now he came.

  Slowly the truck drove across the bridge and stopped. In the half-moons carved into the snowy windshield by the wipers I could see Mr. Mac’s startled face. I could see a hand wiping a swath across the fogged window. See a frown. I squinted, half expecting to see a spurt of dark red or maybe a cloud of dark gray sparking out of him. I stared really hard. I could hardly believe when his lights just flashed his usual pretty colors as if saying, “Never mind that monster in the creek.”

  The truck revved up and swerved into the barnyard. The door flew open. “Are you all right?” Mr. Mac asked as he hopped out.

  Mam wiped another muddy swath across her cheeks and just looked at him and nodded. I stood there swallowing and bobbing my head up and down.

  Mr. Mac scratched his chin as he studied the scene. “Each year when the water rises it gobbles away another big hunk of the bank,” he said in a deep, solemn voice. “One of these days it’ll nibble away so much that the bridge will tumble right in. I wouldn’t be surprised if the barn didn’t take off along with it. Of course I hadn’t thought of the tractor diving in, too….”

  And then, honestly, he beamed at my mom, his smile almost hooking up on his ears. Of course, anyone looking at Mam would’ve had a hard time not laughing. Really, she made quite a sight.

  Mr. Mac had a plan. We’d pull the tractor out with the winch that was attached to the front end of his truck. “Should be no problem,” he said. “This truck’s plenty big. Good thing I came by to check up on things after this storm.”

  From then on it seemed as if everything happened in fast-forward.

  I zipped about searching for rocks to wedge in front of the wheels of Mr. Mac’s truck while Mam attached pulley cables to the frame of the tractor. Her lights flashed pretty pinks when she brushed against Mr. Mac, but she still didn’t say more than, “I’m really sorry.” He just nodded and said, “It’s okay,” and then, “Better get out of the way.”

  Me, I jumped up and down because I really, really did have to pee, but not wanting to miss one second of all this, I galloped off along the snowy bank to find me a stump to crouch behind. I peeled off layers of clothes and stared spellbound at water spraying against a small dam up of sticks and brush wedged between rocks on my side of the creek.

  I’m sure it was fate that had me there on the bank all tucked in and zipped up when, back in the barnyard, the cable snapped loose. I looked up just as Mam dashed over to hook it back up. I saw her take a step backward, out of the way. Saw her arms whirl as if she were trying to fly as underneath her the bank crumbled and she tumbled backward into the creek.

  “She can’t swim!” I heard myself yell as I stumbled up the bank above the stick jam and without even thinking I threw myself into the water.

  Oh! Shock of water so freezing cold it was boiling! Then over-under rumb
le-bumping until smash! I exploded against the logjam and crash! Mam blasted into it too and I was wildly grabbing at her coat, water bashing against us, and then crack! Stew Pot hit the jam-up and swirled over it, looking helplessly back as he whirled down the creek. My mouth fizzed with icy hard-hitting water and I couldn’t hear myself think with the crashing roar of the creek, but I heard a loud screaming, either in my head or out loud, and suddenly a big hand reached out and grabbed on to my coat.

  Then we tumbled, all three of us. We slipped and slid and stumbled over slippery rocks and fumbled and flopped onto the snowy bank, where I pulled my heavy sodden self up on my elbows and threw up. My teeth clacked in my head so I could hardly hear the deep voice saying, Stew Pot’s okay. He’s a hero and Blue’s a hero too. I looked at the bright light of Mr. Mac’s hands as he scooped me up and I thought, He’s my hero, and I wanted to cry but I didn’t.

  Mr. Mac carried me to Ol’ Yeller. He pulled the door open and plopped sopping-wet freezing-me down on the seat and switched on the motor, turned on the heat, and then dashed to his truck to grab a horse blanket. He came back and tucked it around me, all the while asking was I sure I was okay? When I gulped that I was, he boosted a bedraggled Stew Pot into the truck beside me and ran back to help Mam. I heard her shivery voice saying, “I’m so sorry about the tractor.” Then I heard her silvery laugh and something about the tractor being a double whammy, twice causing him troubles, or maybe it was the hired hands causing trouble and not the tractor at all. And Mr. Mac’s laughing voice saying, “No, Mam, no double trouble at all.”

  He helped her to the truck, though I heard her protesting. As he opened the door she coughed and said, “I’m a bit waterlogged, but soon as I’ve dried off, I’ll be back down to help.”

  Mr. Mac shook his head. “No way are you to come back,” he said. “I’ll get dried off and have that rascal on dry land in no time. “Git, now,” he said, slapping Ol’ Yeller’s back fender same as you’d smack the rump of your horse.

  I shivered and shook all the way to the house, but inside me a warm spot grew, as though my heart had stirred up its own fire. As Mam and I dashed from the truck to the house I burst out laughing. We looked like zany sea creatures, our sopping-wet clothes stuck to our bodies, our hair a wild fright. Mam looked at me and laughed too. Stew Pot just looked at us as if we were nuts.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Late that afternoon, after I’d tossed my wet clothes into the wash, hopped into a hot tub, devoured three peanut butter sandwiches and two cups of hot cocoa and then curled up with my hero dog for a nap, I heard a truck rumble up to the house. I stumbled down to the kitchen, yawning and rubbing at a sore spot on my ribs. Mam stood by the stove sorting through her stash of medicinal teas as she waited for the water to boil.

  “Where’s Mr. Mac?” I asked, looking around. “Didn’t he come up?”

  Mam shook her head. “I ended up going back down. We had quite a time winching the tractor up the bank. He just left to go back to his ranch.”

  “Bummer,” I said, upset that I’d missed the whole show. “Double bummer,” I added as it hit me how much I’d counted on Mr. Mac coming up to check on the bums.

  “Multiple whammy’s more like it,” Mam said. “First the tractor gets dumped in the creek, then me, then you and Stew Pot and Mr. McCloud. Thank goodness the day’s almost over.”

  I slumped down on the couch by the window. Steam from the teapot clouded the panes. I wiped a clear strip and peered out. Was it only yesterday that the world had been spring green and crazy with birdsong? In the yard, ghostly bushes still sagged under the weight of the snow. Blue shadows stretched across the white meadows. The wind swirled around the house with a sound like a flute.

  Stew Pot padded over and stuck a cold nose in my palm. I scratched his ear with one hand and sighed. If only Mr. Mac had come up. I’d so wanted to see the surprised look on his face when he examined Wonder Baby’s leg, the way his eyes would twinkle as he saw how fantastic the two bums now looked. The way he’d run his hands down Wonder Baby’s leg to check it. How he’d reach for the other leg, thinking he’d got the wrong one … But now, by the time he returned again (after who knew how long!) the leg would’ve healed up on its own anyway. What a downer. “Serves me right for wanting to show off,” I muttered.

  “Well, so much for my day with no chores,” I whispered into Pot’s furry shoulder. Then, “Guess I’d better go feed my bums,” I said loudly, so Mam could hear me over the whistling teapot. From across the room she gave me a half smile as if to say she was sorry my day had been so messed up. She held up a tea bag, like, Did I want a cup? I shook my head. No. Maybe I’d go eat some worms.

  I shuffled through the mudroom and out to the front porch where I’d left the bottles—was it only a few hours ago? Back in the kitchen, I rattled them about in the sink and then shook them till the nipples almost flew off. I let the front door bang behind me.

  When I got back, the house was quiet. I knocked on Mam’s door and, when she didn’t answer, peeked in. She lay in her fairy-tale bed with the rose-patterned quilt pulled up to her chin, one hand resting on the open pages of the book at her side.

  I stood in the doorway studying her. The way her tanned, cracked, calloused hand somehow seemed fragile on the white pages of the book. The way her eyes had dark half-moons beneath them. The bright lights that I normally saw spinning about her now seemed sluggish and dim, and I could see darker places where I guessed she’d been battered and bruised by her dump in the creek. I had a few of those places myself. I thought of how she never, ever complained about feeling sick or tired or hurt. How she always smelled slightly of sage, as if she breathed in the land around her and breathed out its essence. I wrote that down in my journal a while back and was real proud of how the sentence came out. Sometimes she had smelled of gin, back then. She hadn’t bought any bottles of gin since we’d been at Far Canyon, of that I was certain. No wine, either. She knew she had to be careful. I thought of how I used to worry about her, and how one drink always seemed to lead to another. She always seemed so strong, but with that one thing she wasn’t. I crossed my fingers and made a quick wish that no temptations would land in her path. I smiled as her breath came out in soft whistles.

  Then all of a sudden it hit me.

  She could’ve drowned in the creek. How had she gotten out of the tractor when it slipped over the bank? It could’ve tumbled over, she could’ve been trapped! I could’ve lost her….

  I tiptoed over to the bed. I was so full of love at that moment that I could feel my heart puff up like a balloon. And the light. I could feel it around me, transparent and golden. A rush of energy surged through me, as if I was plugged into an electrical socket with a current of love and light flowing out of my fingers.

  I squinted, studying Mam’s lights. It was as if her normal patterns had gotten off balance, the way a musician might suddenly hit a wrong note. I let my hands ripple several inches above her body. When my hands were over the places where she’d thumped hard against the jam-up I could feel a prickly pain shooting up into my hands. Even taking my hands away, I could still feel it.

  That’s weird, I thought. Am I absorbing her pain? I don’t want it! I shook my hands really hard, and the hurt went away. I took a deep breath. My feet seemed glued to the floor, as if they’d grown roots that were keeping me from floating away.

  Carefully, so as not to wake her, I put both my hands on her feet. Then, for the longest time, I just stood there. It wasn’t me actually doing anything—I just stood there letting the light flow through me and through her. I watched as around the bruised places her lights changed as my light mixed with hers; watched as her lights flickered and fluttered and spun back into their usual bright luminous colors. When her lights seemed more like their normal pattern, I picked Mam’s hand up off her book and held it.

  Which made me think. I hadn’t held my mom’s hand since—well, since I couldn’t remember.

  Mam’s eyes blinked.


  I slid my hands away.

  “Blue?” she said sleepily. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  I smiled.

  Mam slid her hand under the cover and felt along her ribs. “I’m not hurting so much anymore. That medicinal tea I drank must’ve worked wonders.”

  “It’s good stuff,” I said.

  Mam yawned. “I’ve been thinking about those antelope fawns you told me about at lunchtime. It’s rare to see such a birth. You should feel really privileged.”

  “I do,” I said. “I was just wondering if I should go check on them.”

  “The sun’s about to go down—can’t you wait till tomorrow?” She yawned again, stretched, and closed her eyes.

  “I’m worried about the lame fawn. But don’t worry. I’ll be back in a flash, and my hero dog will take care of me.”

  She was already asleep again as Stew Pot and I slipped out the front door.

  A cold east wind lifted my blue baseball cap—I’d lost my knit one to the creek. I jammed it down and pulled up my collar. I’d left my boots on the furnace grate to dry, and my cowboy boots slipped and squeaked in the snow. We followed my tracks to the fence. Holding up one barbed wire with a gloved hand, I pushed down with my boot on the other and scrambled through.

  We cut across the hill to the ridge above the canyon. The wind gusted along the rim, spitting snow at us, and after going a short way I turned around and headed back toward the game trail that led into the canyon. Halfway down it, I hesitated. Much as I hated to leave Stew Pot behind, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to bring him along. I glanced around. Near the start of the trail was an overhang that looked like a good shelter from the cold wind. I hiked over to check it out, and then whistled to Pot.