Under the Willow Root

Chapter 7

The moon is up, so we travel well into the night. I wonder why we didn't just stay in the town. Maybe they were afraid of thieves, or maybe they have a deadline. Whatever the reason, the guards seem determined to cover as much ground as possible. It's easier now that we've left the woods and hilly terrain behind, but now there's the caravan of supply wagons slowing us down. Unfortunately, none of those supplies are for us. We've also left behind what little protection the trees gave us. The wind cuts right through, and I'm once again grateful that I'm not on the edge. I even manage a lukewarm thought for Pouter, who shields my right side.

The next two days follow the established pattern: we doze throughout the day, exhausted from the previous night's shivering. The water bottle gets passed around just often enough to keep us alive. We tactfully ignore bodily functions but occasionally engage in furious bouts of poking and kicking when the absence of personal space becomes unbearable. We cry and gasp through the pain in our legs and backs and lean against each other to rest.

Then, on the third day, the guards bring food. It's just crusts of stale bread, but it tastes like heaven. Pouter inhales her portion and then tries to snatch mine. I jerk it away and bite her grasping hand, lips pulled back from my teeth. She glares at me and rubs her hand, like I've done something rude, like she has every right to my food. I want to throttle her. The only thing stopping me is the fact that I'd have to let go of my bread to do it. I glare back and chew as slowly as possible, both to make it last and to rub it in Pouter's face. I hope they sell her soon.

With a slightly less empty stomach, I fall into something almost like rest as we rattle along. And, as seems to happen every time my eyes close, I dream. I'm in the dance studio with Melanie and Tara, showing Baba Nadia the trio we choreographed for the spring showcase. We move together flawlessly, so attuned to each other it's like we're limbs of the same body.

With Melanie and Tara's energy feeding my own, I feel I could rise right up into the air. And I do. The three of us fly into perfectly synchronized jetés, arms and legs outstretched like birds in flight. We've been dancing together for so many years that we each mirror the others' movements as easily as we draw breath.

I catch just a glimpse of my grandmother's face glowing with pride before the dream fades into jumbled images of wolves with glowing eyes and corpses scattered in the forest. I grasp desperately for the feelings of freedom and power that were so strong in my brief flash of memory, but they slip away like wisps of smoke. I wander in and out of woods, houses, empty hallways, dark streets...always frightened, always alone.

I wake with tears on my face and a horrible pain in my head. I don't know how long I've been drifting, neither asleep nor awake. I haven't truly slept since waking up in the clearing. How many days has it been? Three days? Five? I don't know, but I guess it doesn't matter.

We pass through forests and meadows, over hills, and into valleys. We cross streams sparkling with flashes of sunlight, fields blanketed in wildflowers, forest beds carpeted with ferns and lush greenery. The beauty of the landscape mocks us as we become thinner and dirtier and more hopeless by the day.

We stop in another town. This one isn't as big as the first one, and business isn't as good. I get the impression the stop was more to top up the supply waggons than anything else. It makes me wonder how long the journey is going to last.

One of the littlest girls is sold to a well-groomed man with a young daughter who squeals with delight and throws away a doll made of cloth. Two men are sold and immediately herded away by a man with a short whip like a riding crop. I watch them go, fear tightening my stomach. That's three fewer people between me and the auction block.

We leave town right after the last sale, as before. I try to pay attention to my surroundings as we rattle along in our cage on wheels, but I can't. It's just too tiring. Thinking is tiring. Wondering is exhausting. Worrying...impossible.