STILL DARK WHEN MUSA slipped out of the trees above Lick Creek, looking down at the strikers’ encampment pitched along the banks of the rocky branch. The smell of cold woodsmoke drifted through the air, a bluish sting in his nose; early dew shone on the grass. Little movement around the place. The leaves shivered around him. A sense of impending storm.
Since splitting with Big Frank at the mouth of the old mine, he’d covered the better part of thirty miles, keeping to the creeks and game trails whenever he could, stopping only to refill his canteen or pick some sustenance to keep him going. Puffballs, blackberries, or dandelions he ate blossoms and all, chewing as he went.
When he started to get tired, he thought of Aidee. She was a jolt in his bloodstream, wings for his spirit. He’d think back to the first time he met her. The little creek that divided his family’s property from hers. She was sitting cross-legged on a flat rock in the middle of the raveling current with a flurry of dragonflies around her, flashing in the shaft of sunlight, almost metallic, like some kind of whirlwind. She seemed in a world of her own, bent over a book.
Musa had happened upon her during a hike for gooseberries.
She didn’t look up from her book. “I see you looking.”
Musa jumped. He never got caught out like this, by anyone, ever. He felt like a startled deer. “I didn’t mean to spy. I just now come up on you.”
She turned a page. “I know.”
Musa came a little closer, standing barefoot in the stream. He didn’t want to spook her. She seemed some kind of magical fairy or sprite. Her skin luminous.
“What are you reading?”
She looked up, turning the book so he could see the spine: THE JUNGLE BOOK by RUDYARD KIPLING.
“One of my sisters has that on her shelf,” said Musa. “Do you like it?”
“I do.”
“Do you think I’d like it, too?”
She looked him up, down. Her big, spring-green eyes seemed to take in every part of him. His outfit of cutoff overalls and bare feet, belt-knife and tatty plug hat. She seemed to smile at the corners of her eyes, and then her mouth gave in, too. “I got a feeling you might. But I’d have to know you better, to make sure.”
Musa squatted on a rock across from her. “What do you want to know?”
MUSA CAME DOWN THROUGH the grass with the dew wetting his trousers and the sky a vast dark ocean, the holler sides steep and black as canyon walls. In the night, he thought he’d heard singing on the wind, an old hymn or ballad flying with the bats and nightjars. Just the ghost of a song. Then gone.
Miss Beulah’s tent was high at the back of the camp, a little distant from the others. As if she had some kind of special status. An elder. He could see her in the rocker in front of her tent, chin in hand. Up early. Probably she couldn’t sleep.
As he neared, he saw an animal curled up at the old woman’s feet. As if it felt his gaze, the animal rose and turned toward him. Musa froze in midstep. He thought he’d seen a wolf—a creature of myth, not seen in these parts for years. A miracle. Then he blinked and realized it was not a wolf but a large dog, slim and leggy, arched like a racing hound, with wild smoky hair that blended well with the surrounding dark, as if kin to the night.
A wolfhound.
Musa was watching the dog so closely he didn’t notice anything amiss until he was at the edge of the light thrown from Miss Beulah’s lantern. A trembling pool. And he saw the old woman seemed still, even for someone sleeping. Too still.
He squeezed the strap of his possibles bag with both hands and focused on her chest, the sharp washboard of her breastbone where it showed above her rough cotton shift. He saw no movement, no rise and fall of breath. He needed to get closer, to check her pulse. Musa looked at the dog. Great dark eyes behind a long snout, whiskers sprung wiry from his chin. The animal sat back on his haunches, allowing him.
Musa nodded. “Thank you, buddy.” He came forward, knelt down, and placed two fingers against the old woman’s neck as his father had taught him. Her skin was cold to the touch. No pulse.
She was gone.
She’d died with her chin in one hand, looking down at the dog at her feet. Musa pulled his fingers from her neck and gripped them in his opposite hand, squeezing as if to comfort them.
Gone. Tears sprang up in his eyes. The dog shifted slightly on his front paws, a worried look on his face. Musa looked at him. “She’s gone, buddy. Though I reckon you already knew. I’m sorry.”
The hound took a step forward, lowered his eyes, and pushed the crown of his head into Musa’s chest. Held it there. Skull to sternum, as if the bony architectures of head and chest were made for each other. Musa looked down in disbelief at the animal now attached to him. Then he held the dog and began to cry.
After a minute, he lifted the dog’s head. “Just a minute, bud. Something I got to do.”
He rose, cupped his hand to Miss Beulah’s ear, and whispered the words he’d promised he would. Then he pulled off the red bandanna and put it gently over her head. A piece of Mr. Frank to stay with her. When he was done, he rose to alert the rest of the camp. Then he would start for home, the hound following with him.
A storm was coming, and he had to get everyone across the river.