Ro thinks he knows how to git through the harsh stretch of desert awaitin' us, but the problem is, it's gonna take a little time to make his plan happen. If it works at all. We got several more days here on the farm, at least, and that means several days to fear Orin's pa and his law friends showin' up.
"Reba and Nessie weren't never trained to be pack animals." I try my best to impress this point upon Ro as he finishes hitchin' the girls up side by side. He's got a sled ready and waitin' fer 'em made in haste out of an old sheet of tin that used to cover the north side of the shed. "They're just milk goats."
Ro's plan is to git the girls to do the hard work of travelin' by carryin' some of our supplies on their backs and pullin' us fer at least part of the way. Them goats are scrappy, and they're stronger than they look. So it ain't a bad idea, 'cept when you think about how you gonna direct 'em and keep 'em movin' forward. Ain't they gonna resist that on account of it's a lot more work haulin' water and people over the dust than what they're used to doin'? And by "used to doin'" I mean standin' 'round in their pen or, if they're feelin' particularly ambitious, breakin' through the fence so they cain destroy my lettuces.
It may be futile, but I agree to let him try. I know his ankle still gives him grief, though he won't admit to it. I think he's worried he'll slow me down out there, and the desert ain't no place fer taking' a leisurely stroll. We gotta go and go and go.
It's a good thing Ro's got them two goats wrapped 'round his finger. I don't know what it is 'bout him that calms them so, but they tolerate him tyin' ropes 'round them to create a sort of halter, a contraption they never wore before in their lives. 'Fore he attaches them to the sled, he takes the reigns and leads them 'round the yard. At first, they wanna stop every two seconds, whenever they spy something they think is edible, which fer a goat is purdy much everything. But he nudges them on and they comply. He awards them with a handful of our dwindlin' supply of grain, one of the many necessities Granddad failed to bring back from town all them months ago.
We take 'em through this same routine again that day, and three times the next. I do my share of guidin' 'em 'round, cuz if I don't make him, Ro won't rest that ankle nearly as much as he should. We go on like this fer a whole week, anxious every day that we've spent one day too long here. Finally, it's decided they gotta be ready fer the sled. Once he gits it attached, and that takes some doin' given the limit of our supplies and experience in sich matters, Ro hands the reigns over to me. "We should start them out slowly, build up to the full weight. You're lighter than me, May."
"Yeah, but they like you better." I imagine them goats flyin' every which way till they dump my ass in the dust. Still, I am curious as to how this is all gonna work out, so I set myself down on the sled and hold the reigns in my hand like I saw in one of them books about horses Pa gave me as a child. The girls don't go nowhere. "Now what?"
Ro looks thoughtful, which I take to mean that he ain't got no idea. After a moment, inspiration must alight inside him, though, cuz he sticks out his hand and gives Reba a little swat on her backside, then does the same to Nessie. "Go," he says. "Git."
"Did you just say 'git'?" Well I guess he chose his desert lingo correctly, cuz at that moment, I feel myself jerked back as the sled begins to move forward. "Oh my gods, Ro, it's workin'!"
I grab the edge of the sled to steady myself and try to keep hold of the reins as we thump along.
"Go," I say, "Git." I slap the reins against the girls, hopin' that it keeps 'em movin' without hurtin' 'em none. They stick with their forward momentum, even pickin' up speed a bit.
As we leave the yard and hit the used-to-be fields where the dust has nearly taken hold, the bumpin' and jostlin' lessen. It's gonna be a smooth sail over all them dunes out in the desert, I cain see it now. Ro jogs alongside the sled as best he cain, and I give him a big smile. I was right to trust him. There're some mighty fine notions in that head of his.
"Steer, May!" he yells at me.
"What?" I don't know what he means. I thought a steer was one of them animals from our ancestors' world—a male cow. These ain't no cows, though. The wind whips my hair across my face. I wish I had an extra hand to brush it away, but one hand holds the reins and the other's clenched tight to the sled and it's got no intention of lettin' go.
"Use the reigns to make them turn," he shouts over the wind. "Pull on the left and they'll go left. Pull on the right and they'll go right."
"Well, I'll try." I give the left hand ropes a tug, thems the ones that are on Nessie's side. Sure 'nuff, Nessie turns left, and Reba with her since they're tied together and she ain't got no choice in the matter. "Git," I cry.
I practice this several more times. Left, right, left, right, and then lead 'em back to their paddock. When we finally come to a halt, Ro takes the reins from me and pulls me up. I nearly fall back over, my body cain't quite believe it's in one place again. Ro catches me and brings me to him, laughin' all the while.
"You did it!" He spins me 'round.
"Yeah, not like you had a hand in it or nothin'." I kiss him quick and then we see to the girls, relievin' 'em of their burdens and givin' 'em more grain than we should on account of how joyful we are that we're on the cusp of an actual escape.
Tomorrow, we'll practice again, only this time, both of us will be loaded in the sled, plus all our gear. If they cain handle that, then by the day after tomorrow, we'll be on our way, ridin' the dust south, and hopin' that it tolerates our passage, goats and all.
#
He ain't drunk. That's the first thing I notice, and that's how I come to know right from the beginnin' that this is a fantasy I'm havin' while fast asleep.
"Only in my dreams would you come back to the farm whole and sober." Granddad grins at my words and sets himself next to me on the porch. His eyes are clear and alert.
"This used to be a beautiful place," dream Granddad tells me. "Them fields were green. That was before you came along, Missy May."
Missy May. He ain't called me that since I was shorter than the fence running 'round the goat pen.
I git me an impatient sort of feelin'. I should be happy to see him, cuz he's finally back, but then again, this ain't but a dream. If he was here fer real, that'd be different. As it stands, I still got me some unanswered questions.
"You never came back. Why'd you leave me all alone here?" If I cain't accuse the real Granddad, this dream one will have to do.
His grin disappears and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Some things cain't be helped, May."
I snort. "That ain't no explanation. It ain't even an excuse, much less an apology."
"Am I to blame, girl?" He shakes his head. "I cain't rightly say. I don't know what happened to me."
"Well, that makes two of us then, so we're right back where we started."
Granddad places his feet on the railing and tilts his chair back. "I ain't here to talk about me, anyways. It's you I need to see to."
Because he did such a swell job of it in the past, I suppose. I huff a bit, but I figure it cain't hurt none to hear him out. "What about me then, Granddad?"
He puts his feet back down on the ground and turns to me. "Yer in what they call 'quite a quandary.' And what that means is, you gotta go, May."
Just how much does this fake Granddad truly know about my predicament? "What's that now?"
"Missy May, you ain't got the time you think you have. This ain't yer home no more."
Ain't my home? "It's not like I got a summer lake house to vacation at. This farm's the only home I know."
Granddad turns his head from side to side. "Well, look at that, it ain't day no more."
In the span of that sentence, the light of the sun has slipped away, and, as though there needs to be something to replace it with, a mighty wind whips up something awful in its wake. Granddad's eyes hold a squall. They command the air's roilin' course as it churns 'round us. Boards held by rusty nails to the sides of the house start to come undone, slammin' against the house's frame. With a squeal, I throw myself to the floor, holdin' my arms over my head. Like that'll be enough to save me from—from whatever this is.
"This is." He says the words at the same time I think 'em. He's reading my mind now, which makes perfect sense to me in the dream. It's expected, in fact, cuz ain't he just a bunch of my thoughts and deliberations bunched together into Granddad form anyhow? I cain't ferget that this is my dream. I'm makin' all this occur.
"This is," he repeats, "where folks like me die, Missy May. Not you, though. I ain't intendin' it to be yer end, too."
"Stop this, Granddad! Stop it, or surely I will die!"
"You stop it," he shouts at me. "Yer the one. Damn it May, this is on you!" He is drunk now, old Granddad. Drunk on the wind and the dust it carries. "Pick yerself up and go!"
He grabs my shoulders, cold bony hands lift me from the floor. Soon as I'm standin' I send my feet flying. Off the porch, past the goat shed, out into the field filled with a starless darkness. I run with no sense in where I'm goin' and no vision to git me wherever I'm headed. Granddad's voice carries on the wind and he says I shouldn't stop so I don't. I let the wind transport me away from the home that ain't my home no more, until I burst from the darkness back into the day.
I'm surrounded by sand—real sand. The beach kind. But here, there ain't no water to accompany it as far as I cain see. My feet, suddenly without their customary boots, sink into the sand's warmth. Toes curl, diggin' themselves under shells broken down into fine grains by nonexistent waves.
I turn myself around, strainin' to peer over the dunes, and that's when he appears.
Ro.
He's standin' next to me where he wasn't just a second before, but at the same time, I git the feelin' he's been alongside me ever since the beginnin'. Since all that sand was the living shells of sea creatures and this barren stretch was a teaming tidal pool.
"My home is gone." He says it, but he don't look sad about it.
"Mine too." We've both been stripped bare of our past. We are both fleeing a home that no longer welcomes us.
The past is gone, but home — well, that's yet to be discovered. I'm filled with assurance. With purpose. Our true home is out there. It's waitin' fer us. Past the dust and the sand. Past whatever is beyond.
Together, we take a step forward.
A/N: I don't know about you, but it seems May and Ro have an awful lot riding on those two persnickety goats. And May's dream... what's that about? It ends well, sure, but Granddad's appearance didn't exactly herald in a time of peace and abundance...
Today we're back to collecting charitable votes. This time they're for the "May and Ro Escape the Farm Fund." I think we can all agree that they'll be needing every last one. Thanks so much for your support!
This chapter's dedicatee is the wonderful cindyhiday. What a fabulous storyteller she is! Her adventure FATHER, SON, AND GRACE looks into the lives of a widower, a young boy with Down syndrome, and a woman facing dementia. Cindy is keeping the first eight chapters of this tale up on Wattpad, and I suggest you read every single one of them, and then seek out the rest of the book on Amazon. It's totally worth it!