“Is that Farrell?” Thomas asked. He rode behind her. “The second man on the horse?”
She frowned. “Probably.” She shook her head and the scowl deepened. “That wasn’t exactly the best move I ever made.”
“What move?”
“He helped me escape Moab. It was my third time trying to get out—I tried alone the other two times, and failed quite spectacularly. Nearly starved in the wilderness the first time. Got heat stroke the second time. Last summer. So, I enlisted him to help. He thought I wanted to run away with him, to marry him. I never said that, but didn’t correct him.”
“That’s not very nice.”
She shrugged. “I was desperate.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. Your father had issued you an ultimatum.”
“Get married or seek the gift of foresight. He’s so selfish. He just wanted me to be useful to him. Do you know what you sacrifice if you get the gift of foresight?”
Thomas thought about it as their horses rounded another switchback. His animal looked up at the slope, and groaned. He patted the horse, tried to console it with a few encouraging words.
“No idea.”
“You sacrifice the ability to remember new things. You can only remember what you’ve already got in your head.”
“Sounds miserable.”
“That’s what I thought. The Lich Mayor, however, thought it would be useful to have someone around with that gift, so he chose a man for me to marry that I didn’t want to marry—an old man, too, probably fifty years old—and said I either had to marry him, or get the gift. So, I created a third alternative.”
“You left.”
Thomas certainly understood her motive—he didn’t want anyone else shaping his life, either. But something didn’t make sense. It took years and years of preparation to be ready to petition for a gift.
“How could you get the gift of foresight if you already have the gift of grace?”
She looked back at him, confused. “Why couldn’t I?”
“It takes years to prepare for a gift. A lot of people only ever get one gift.”
“Yeah, so? I could potentially petition for the gift of foresight. And at least one other.”
He had a hard time believing it. She could ask for two gifts and hope to get them? It seemed impossible.
“Well, when did you get the gift of grace?”
“When I was eight.”
“Eight!” Usually, it took a decade or more to prepare to receive a gift; he only barely felt ready to seek the gift of a green thumb, and had started at about age ten.
“And I got my second gift at the age of fourteen.”
Six years? It had only taken her six years to get a second gift. And now she was ready for a third? Or fourth? What could her second gift possibly be? She hadn’t disclosed it, or even indicated that she had it until that moment. But not only did she have it, she could ask for two more gifts?
“What, do you just sit around all day developing your talents?”
“Yes, basically. My parents made me spend all of my time preparing for gifts.” Her tone became bitter. “They want me to be as useful as possible.”
He struggled with that for a minute, trying to figure out just how someone of her age could spend the time to develop so many gifts so quickly. It didn’t seem possible—unless it was the only thing she did, all day, every day. For him—and most people—it would prove impossible, what with normal life to live, daily work to do.
As they reached the fifth switchback, which would lead them up the last leg before they rounded a corner and entered the narrow canyon, the wind surged hard enough that it whistled in his ears. His horse whinnied and stopped. The poor thing breathed hard and heavy. He’d pushed her hard over the last several hours.
He patted her neck and spoke a few encouraging words. Not that it would ease her weariness.
“How old are you, anyway?” he said.
“Nineteen.”
The same age as him. “You said you have a second gift.”
She looked back at him and smiled. “Insight.”
“Insight?” he said, not because he didn’t understand, but because it surprised him and made so much sense.
“Yes, insight. The gift to look into someone’s soul and understand their motivations.”
All of the long, evaluative looks she’d given him suddenly made sense. The way she’d stared at people and the things she’d said about them, how she seemed to perceive the situation at the Bakers very quickly—it all made sense.
Plus it creeped him out. She could look at people and in just a few moments understand them. It seemed invasive, a little bit disconcerting. Except for one thing.
“Your gift doesn’t work on me, then?”
She didn’t look back this time. “I don’t understand it, myself. I understand most after spending five minutes with them. I know what makes them tick. I know what they want in life and whether they’re honest or dishonest. I know if they’re selfish or generous. Generally happy or sad.”
She stopped her horse and dismounted. The trail veered around an overhanging rock, to the left and into the narrow canyon. The overhang was low enough that they had to lead their horses by the reins, ducking, pulling the heads of their horses down low for the twenty or so feet. Before they rounded the corner, Thomas looked back. The zombies had reached the wagons below.
As they rounded the corner, the red cliff of the landing loomed over them, to their right. Now that they’d come closer, he saw that it wasn’t quite sheer, but rather jagged. Someone could probably climb up the rocks, using the over hangings and outcroppings for purchase and handholds. Not to mention the occasional tenacious bush that grew seemingly right out of the rock. He wouldn’t want to try climbing it, though—or come down that way. One slip would lead to an exhilarating fall and an uncomfortable end.
The trail stretched almost straight ahead of them, at a gradual slope. To the left, after the six-foot-wide trail, the ground sloped downward into a narrow gully filled with trees and bushes, then rose up in another steep wall. Where they stood, at the canyon mouth, the canyon stretched about seventy feet wide. However, up the length of the canyon it narrowed, probably to not much more than twenty or thirty feet. It seemed like a decent place to make a stand—if only he knew how to fight zombies and had the equipment.
They remounted and continued on at a solid clip. Thomas could practically feel his horse’s hatred for him growing.
“So,” he said, half mocking, half sincere, “why doesn’t it work on me? Why can’t you peer into the depths of my soul?”
She half turned her body and her head, as best she could at their speed.
“Don’t know. It may be because you haven’t settled on anything, yourself. I suspect that not even you understand everything about you. And if you can’t, how can I?”
The observation unnerved him. It was probably true. But wasn’t it true for most people? He said as much.
“I don’t think so. Most people, while they don’t understand themselves on the surface, at least have a pretty consistent set of motivations and emotions. They’re pretty much who they are. You, however, don’t have a clue. You’re not yet who you’re going to be. I see the same kind of thing in very young children.”
He wasn’t sure if he liked that comparison, or not.
“This is a super fun conversation.”
She shrugged. “I think it’s a credit to you. It makes you only the second person I can’t understand.”
“And who is the first?”
“Me.”
“You?”
She gave him a wry look. “Do you know what you sacrifice in order to get the gift of insight?”
He had no clue. “The ability to enjoy pork?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Then what?" he said. "You sacrifice your ability to get along with other people? So you can understand them and just can’t spend two minutes with them without sending them over the edge of sanity?”<
br />
She didn’t look amused. “Insight into yourself. You sacrifice the ability to understand yourself.”
“Ah.”
He didn’t really understand, though. It didn’t seem like much of a sacrifice. After all, he already didn’t understand himself. Getting the gift of insight wouldn’t be a sacrifice for him.
“It’s miserable," she said. "Understanding what everyone else wants and what their motivations are, and not knowing how to make a good decision, yourself. I’m constantly guessing. Always trying to figure out if this or that is the best thing for me.”
“I think I can relate to that,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes, that’s clear.”
They rode in silence for the rest of the canyon, until they reached the end. There, the trail switched back a few times, then reversed in a series of short, steep switchbacks. Each was only about thirty feet long, and there were about twenty of them. They stood at the bottom and looked up it.
“That’s imposing,” Miss Sadie said.
Thomas grunted. “Once we climb these, we’re to the overlook—we’re on the top of the ridge that stretches out into the landing. At the top of these, we’ll have to leave the horses behind, because that’s when the trail gets dangerous.”
Eventually, life settles into a routine. This is both a blessing and a curse. The routine bores you, yet it keeps life simple, and the pattern offers comfort and assurance that nothing too insane will happen. With any luck, you have some good bread to eat along the way.
Chapter 29: Mama’s scent
At the top of the switchbacks, the trail ascended just a little further to a relatively wide and flat area. During his previous visit, when they’d reached this spot, he’d thought they’d reached the summit. Now, looking to the east and at the spine of rocks rising above him, he wondered how he could have thought that.
So high up, the wind blew harder. Bushes and trees grew along the flat area. To the left, the ground sloped upward and widened into higher canyon walls, and to the right, toward the open canyon, it also climbed higher—but into nothing. It grew narrower and rose toward the rocky peak of the landing, about two hundred feet higher, and about a half a mile further. But making their way across that half a mile would take them nearly as long as it had taken to travel from the fork in the road further back, to the top of the twenty switchbacks. It was simply too treacherous to go fast.
He couldn’t imagine lugging a coffin up the rocks and along the cliffs they would soon traverse. There was certainly a good chance of dropping the coffin over the edge, and Thomas had a vague hope that it had happened. Although certainly his family would have turned back by now if it had.
“We should leave the horses here,” he said.
They tied the animals under the shade of wind-lashed oak trees. Miss Sadie took a pouch from her saddlebag and hung it at her belt. He imagined it contained things to cast spells with. As they walked away, if he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn the mare gave him a look of gratitude and bitterness.
Miss Sadie touched his shoulder and pointed further up the western slope. Charles’s horse stood watching them, tied to a tree.
They passed along a sandy trail—Thomas remembered thinking the sand so high up was a bit strange—and scaled a relatively steep yet safe course up some layered sandstone. As they did so, the ridge turned narrower, becoming only a few dozen feet wide as they came to their first obstacle.
“We’re going around that?” Miss Sadie said.
She stood back from the red sandstone and stared. On the left, rocks rose at an unclimbable angle about thirty feet up, and to the right, they dropped down. Not at a sheer angle, but steeply enough that if you slipped, you’d probably end up on the trail in the narrow canyon below. Between the wall above, and the drop below, a thin ledge stretched around the rock, so that if you leaned against the wall and shuffled, you could make it around.
“This is an easy part,” Thomas said.
“There’s not a more convenient place to resurrect her?”
He shook his head.
“Well,” she said, “I’m glad I’m not wearing a dress.”
"Or carrying a coffin."
They made it around safely, without even a toe slipping. Thomas lead the way, and realized that the Moabites and zombies would have to take this route single-file. In many places, they would have to slow considerably, or risk being strung out and separated. Further on, the ground changed every dozen feet, sometimes rising up in boulders, other times forcing them down between rocks. Frequently, they found themselves perched on the edge of a cliff, with nothing but a long fall welcoming them if they stumbled. Between the zombies behind and the prospect of a resurrected Mama ahead, the natural peril was a pleasant distraction, the danger of the fall nothing more than a mild thrill.
He found Miss Sadie’s spine admirable. She never hesitated to approach the edge, and never balked at a particularly difficult obstacle. He could imagine Clara May climbing along the trail, petrified at every turn, sobbing into Eli’s chest.
About a quarter mile up, the spine dipped into a saddle. Miss Sadie stopped at its top to look across it. The far side rose in a graceful arc to the top of the landing. Open air surrounded it. From their vantage point, it looked like a razor’s edge of boulders a thousand feet high.
“You’re kidding me,” she said.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Your mother brought you up here when you were how old?"
“Four.”
“That seems a little reckless.”
He shrugged. “You don’t know Mama, do you?”
The spine narrowed as they descended the saddle. At the lowest point, they could’ve taken a step to the right and gone over the southern edge of the spine, or taken a step to the left and fallen off of the northern face. Naturally, the wind was stronger there than at any spot, and as they crossed, a gust challenged Miss Sadie’s balance.
She yelped and flailed one arm to keep her feet, and grabbed his sleeve with the other hand and nearly pulled him down with her. For an instant, he could picture them falling off. Brady and the zombies would ascend and find the Bakers resurrecting Mama, and no one would ever know where Miss Sadie and Thomas had gone.
However, a quick adjustment of his feet and an arm around her shoulder steadied them. They stood there for a handful of seconds, supporting each other. Her hair still smelled fresh from her bath the night before. Flowery, like the first time he’d met her.
“It is worth this?” she said, looking up at him. “They could have already resurrected her, by now.”
He shrugged. “If so, I’ve got a tongue lashing in store when we get to the top. But if they were already done, wouldn’t they be coming back down?”
They continued on. Much to Thomas’s surprise, Miss Sadie slid her hand down his sleeve, took his hand in hers, and led him up the widening spine. He told himself she only held his hand for balance and no other reason. It was a silly time to make romantic gestures. And besides, he wasn’t interested in romance.
But looking at her back as she climbed up the rocks, he knew he lied to himself. He had as much interest in her as any of his friends had ever had in their future wives. She’d snared him. With her long looks and her coy smiles, her confiding whispers and gentle touch, she’d trapped him against his will.
It disgusted him. At the first opportunity, as she climbed a particularly tall boulder, he let go of her hand.
Not much further along, they found the coffin.
* * *
It lay closed, tucked up against the base of a rock. The light wood had scratches and scars all along the side and corners, clear evidence of the abuse it had taken in reaching this point.
Above, the climb looked particularly nasty and steep.
Miss Sadie stood back a few feet, looking at the coffin like a zombie might pop out.
“She’s not in there, is she?”
“Of course not.” Thomas knelt next to the box. “They pr
obably didn’t think they could carry it any more.”
He lifted the lid.
For an instant, he thought he caught a scent of Mama, of her clothes—the smell of dirt and flour mingled. A hundred—a thousand—visions of his past coursed through his mind, summoned by the shadow of the smell. He saw Mama standing above him, teaching him how to drive the mules as they plowed the field. He saw her holding him after a fall, when he was just little. He saw her at the kitchen counter, kneading bread dough.
The memories’ potency surprised him. They came from just an imagined whiff of dirt and flour—dirt from her working with him in the fields, flour from her labor in the kitchen.
She was always working. It seemed like during the day she didn’t sit down for an instant. Only once the rest of the family had retired. He’d often awoken late in the night and heard her in the other room, rocking in her chair and doing some needlework or reading from the Bible, by candlelight. And every morning when he woke, she was there, up already, making the day’s bread or out in the field getting a start on weeding or planting or watering.
The woman never seemed to sleep. Even on the verge of death, as she faded, she’d moved around the farm, doing her daily work. Now that he thought about it, when he’d seen her laying dead in her bed—that was probably the first time he’d ever seen her close her eyes for longer than a blink.
Always working. Always laboring. For a family that didn’t appreciate her.
Thomas, my boy. You’re almost out of time. Do you love me, or not? Move!
He stood and looked at Miss Sadie. From the way her face changed—turning utterly solemn—he knew his own expression conveyed his determination.
“What are you going to do to stop them?” she said.
“I have no idea.”
She smiled, cocking one eyebrow higher than the other. “Sounds like a great plan. Let’s do it.”
In another five minutes, after climbing three hundred feet, they spotted the rest of the Baker family.
Keep Mama Dead Page 26
