VAGABONDS: An American Fantasy

Traveling

The Four Sisters were still so self-centered. They argued over who had to sleep closest to the den entrance where the light was brightest and who got to claim the darkest—and warmest—spot near the back wall of the den. They knew only the den and the stream and a tiny patch of woods around their hillside. Tonight, Galen knew, this journey to the Great Clearing, it would shake them out of their small world. What would they think of the Colony?

When Galen led his Sisters south toward the Great Clearing, he put Number One in front where she couldn’t stop to look at things and Number Four in back where her constant hunger would drive them onward. Two and Three were always in the middle, a place they griped about but didn’t really mind.

Galen set a fast pace at a steady trot, which meant he covered twice the ground when he ran back to speed up Number One—she had stopped after all to examine a curious spring flower—or forward again to show Number Four—she had pushed forward to be the lookout for an ant nest— where to go. Three months ago, Galen might have traveled this much every night, but caring for the Four Sisters had kept him homebound and out of shape.

Despite Galen’s worry, they made good time. Within an hour, they reached the North Fork River and turned southeast, where the way was easier due to the deer track along the river. The armadillos’ claws clicked on the packed dirt.

Galen congratulated himself on the choice of trails. The Great Clearing lay almost due south, but that land was farmed, and farms meant dogs. No, they would follow the river southeast until they were almost due east of the Great Clearing and then turn back west and ford the river. The river was his only other worry. They needed a shallow place to ford; he didn’t want to take the time now to teach the Sisters how to swim.

“Who is El Garro?” Number One had fallen back to run beside Galen. “Papa talked about him, but I forget.”

Customs, traditions, stories, ballads—these were the armadillos’ way of passing along their history to the next generation; it meant they knew how to listen. Galen loved this part of caring for the Sisters; just as he had enjoyed listening to his parents, he loved watching the Sisters learn to listen with their hearts. “El Garro is the head of the Diego family. We cover a large territory and sometimes you can go weeks without seeing another armadillo. When El Garro calls, you must obey,” Galen instructed. “And when it’s time for the three youngest Sisters to trek, he’ll tell you where to go. He talks with other Colonies and will know where we’ve searched and where we haven’t.”

“Searched? For the Faralone Falls?”

“Yes. Mama told you the stories?” The hair on Galen’s belly pricked with a sudden pang of loneliness. Mama had often told the beloved stories of their exile and their search for the Faralone Falls, and he yearned to hear his mother’s voice. To know if she approved of how he had raised the Sisters.

Number One just nodded. She tried to stop and look at a purple flower, but Galen prodded her. “Come on.”

They pushed on throughout the night until, an hour before dawn, they saw the White Cliffs off to the east and reached the ford of the North Fork River. Galen stood on trembling legs and looked at the water. Spring rains had swelled it, and even here, at the ford, the water was high, running swiftly through a stand of cattails.

He sighed. They would have to swim after all. But, Galen’s legs felt like massive stones, impossible to move. He flopped onto his armored back and thrust his aching feet upward.

Immediately, Number Four started digging at a sassafras tree. When the others realized what she was after, they joined in. For the next few minutes, four baby armadillos dug at the tree’s base and chewed on roots, while Galen lay on his back, resting tired feet.