THE HORSES PROVIDED FOR our journey were quite handsome – a cross between trail-savvy Indian ponies, and broad-chested farm animals. One was glossy black with white knee socks on all but his right foreleg. This gave him an eccentric and lopsided appearance, which seemed a deliberate decision on his part. One imagined him choosing to leave off wearing a sock on that foot, like some ornery youth, or trend-setting dandy, and the rest of us could learn to like it, adopt it for our own fashionable purposes, or lump it. I dubbed him Puck for his spirited and amusing temperament.
His counterpart was a steadfast sorrel with a suggestion of appaloosa showing itself in a constellation of dark spots dotting his left rump cheek. He was graced with an uncanny legerdemain of the four-hoofed variety. I never knew him to so much as stub his toe, or miss a step, even by close of the longest day over the roughest terrain. Although he most decidedly deserved a name to match his noble character, I came to affectionately call him Brownie. If a horse could be kindhearted, Brownie was. When I removed his bridle at eventide, he would often nuzzle my shoulder in a show of gratitude. I found he had a gentle and rolling gait, and so of the two animals I tended to ride Brownie more often, as he made it easy on the buttocks after long hours in the saddle. Puck was relegated to packhorse, but he did not seem to mind his lowly station. He carried twin trunks slung over either side of his sawbuck, filled as they were with our kitchen kit, baby paraphernalia, an assortment of girl clothes, and, of all humorous curiosities, a full-size wedding dress to be delivered along with the child.
Both horses got to be good friends with me, and although I tended to spend more time on two legs than they did, there was an air of equality among us as we set about in teamwork to perform our common cross-country commission.
The goat, I argued with Thurman, would only be a hindrance. How would she ever keep up? But as he so vividly illustrated, she was a necessary member of the caravan.
“The child will need milk,” he admonished. “And Mister Rain, unless you have developed an ability beyond the typical male of your species, I suggest you take her along.”
I soon learned my worries were unfounded. The long-legged gal turned out to be an intrepid traveler. She jogged right along with the horses, tirelessly, her bulging milk bag swinging in cadence to mark her steady pace. I had never seen her breed before, but I guessed she was of some variety cultivated in the Arabian Desert, or some other locale geographically severe and wide on the map. She was completely the color of sand, right down to her eyeballs and horns. For all I know, she might have been part dromedary. She came to me nameless, and nameless, I am ashamed to admit, she remained. For she was, after all, an invaluable member of our band, and I have often regretted not treating her in a more kindly manner.
But the truth is she bore an uncanny resemblance to Old Sarah, all the way down to the wiry hairs on her chin. It was as if the hag had slipped a part of her own soul into the creature’s skin so she could keep a close watch on me. This put me off in more ways than one, but never did it bother me more than when we had to make a stop so that I might fill a pail on Virtue’s behalf. At such times, kneeling beneath the nanny, and tugging away at her dusty udders, I would sometimes see Sarah’s dehydrated face floating before me. She nodded approvingly at my work, and I had to force myself to think of other things less revolting.
“Come with me and be my love,” I quipped. “And we will all the pleasures prove…”
But Sarah only smiled more broadly. “Bless thee!” she bleated. “Bless thee!”
This unnerved me to no end.
*****
I carried Virtue in a type of sling that held her high against my chest. This ingenious contraption allowed my arms to remain free underneath so that I might work the reins and steer my horse. It was reasonably comfortable, although my neck did ache something fierce by day’s end. The little girl proved an admirable traveling companion, not too much trouble except for those horrendous, odoriferous diapers, and her endless thirst for milk.
To put it casually, Virtue was unusual in many ways, and would prove herself even more glaringly extraordinary as our journey progressed. I have no doubt that any other youngster would have been screaming and fussing the whole time, driving a sane man over the edge of his patience. Most children I had observed generally acted in such a manner. But Virtue possessed a sagacity that belied her age. She seemed astute enough to understand that no matter how uncomfortable she might be – no matter how sunburned, bug bit, or in need of a stretch – it was not going to serve her to complain. Any time I looked down at her, she was looking back up at me, patient and calm, her eyes reflecting the cloudless blue sky, as if in meditative contemplation of her rightful place in the world. I had heard the term Old Soul used to describe certain characters in novels and in poems, but until meeting Virtue, I had never encountered anyone to whom such a moniker so aptly applied. Was I in charge of an angel?
Still, I was used to a more galloping pace when making my deliveries. And although it was now high summer, and toastier than a raging inferno, I already feared falling short of the City of Rocks before first snow. The space between us and there was great, with many perils strewn between, and having to stop all the time to boil bottles, drink milk, and rinse laundry was a major detriment to our forward locomotion.