Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality: The Complete Novels Wild Angel and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell (10 page)

“It is better to take what does not belong to you than to let it lie around neglected.”

—Mark Twain

T
HE SUN SPARKLED ON THE ROCKS
by Bear River. Soon the snows would come, but now the air was balmy, warmed by the late-autumn sunlight. The river was little more than a stream now, a trickle that placidly meandered among the boulders of the riverbed, spreading to form a pool where the rocks formed a natural dam, then wandering on.

Sarah crouched beside the pool. With both hands, she splashed water on her face, washing away the smudges of blood on her chin. A few steps downstream, the rest of the pack was drinking. The pups were six months old, already traveling with the pack. Not two hours before, the pack had killed a young doe, born just that spring. The wolves were well fed, ready to nap in the sun for a time.

Sarah still wore her grimy sweater. The garment was filthy; it was unraveling at the hem, where Beka had chewed it during one of their play fights, and at the end of one sleeve, where Sarah had caught the yarn on a bush and pulled it loose. But though the sweater was unraveling around her, it still kept her warm at night.

Sarah stood up. Rolon was lounging beside a granite boulder, where sunlight reflecting from the stone and sunlight from above combined to warm a patch of sand. Marek and Istas were wrestling nearby, with Istas getting the worst of the match. Luyu watched, obviously glad that she was not part of the game. Wauna and Yepa had settled down on a patch of sand, napping comfortably. The other wolves were drinking, wandering among the boulders, relaxing after the hunt.

Beka came up beside Sarah, wagging her tail. The young wolf nuzzled Sarah’s cheek, then yawned an enormous, gaping yawn. It was an invitation to curl up for a nap together.

A jay squawked in the bushes, then took flight. Beka pricked up her ears and Sarah stared in the direction from which the bird had flown. The air was still.

“Robby, come back here,” a young girl’s voice called in the silence.

A little boy, not more than five years old, emerged from the brush beside the river. He was overdressed for the weather. He wore a bright red flannel shirt, a wool sweater, sturdy canvas trousers, and leather boots. He marched toward the water with great determination, a child with a mission, ignoring the wolves, ignoring Sarah.

Sarah watched with great interest. Pausing at the edge of the water, the little boy yanked his sweater over his head and dropped it on the rocks. The shirt followed. He sat on a rock by the pool and tugged one boot off and then the other.

“Robby, where are you?” The girl was close, but still hidden by the bushes.

Robby did not reply. He had finished with the boots and was busy yanking down his canvas trousers, exposing his pale bottom to the autumn sun. He saw Beka and Sarah staring at him—they were nearer than the other wolves—and he stared back.

“Doggie,” he said to Beka, in a tone of accusation.

He was naked now, and Sarah stared at him in fascination. She had never seen such a small, naked human before. He was hairless, like her. He had hands, rather than paws—not so good for running but better for grooming and picking up rocks and such. As she studied him, she noticed that he wasn’t exactly like her—he had an extra bit of flesh dangling between his legs. But on the whole, he was more similar than different.

Beka was already standing beside Robby, sniffing his face. The other wolves were watching, ears up, alert and curious. Marek and Istas and Luyu were heading over, and Rolon had gotten up. Sarah stepped over to meet this strange creature. He was so small and softlooking; she wasn’t afraid of him as she was of other humans.

At that moment, Robby’s sister Martha stepped from the bushes. Their wagon train had stopped for the day in a meadow a short distance downriver. Her mother was washing clothes; her father was trying his hand at panning for gold in a small stream that flowed into the river.

Martha was supposed to be watching Robby, but she had been distracted by a school of minnows swimming in a shallow pool. She had splashed in the water, trying unsuccessfully to catch the fish in her hands. When she finally gave up, she realized that Robby had wandered off, following the trail that ran alongside the river.

She had pursued him, hurrying to catch up. “Robby, you come back here. Mama said we shouldn’t go too far…” She had left the shelter of the bushes behind before she realized that Robby was not alone. A pack of wolves and a little girl in a dirty sweater watched her with great curiosity.

To Martha’s credit, she did not scream. She stood very still returning Sarah’s stare.

“Robby, come here,” she said, her voice a perfect imitation of her mother’s commanding tone. “Right now. Not another word.”

But Robby was laughing as Beka sniffed his face. He stayed where he was.

Sarah watched as Martha hurried to her brother’s side and grabbed his hand. Marek was just a few feet from the boy now, pushing Beka aside so that he could examine these strange creatures. Sarah could see the tension in Martha’s body, smell the fear in the girl’s sweat—Martha was ready to run, which would have been a terrible mistake.

At the moment, the wolves were curious. They had fed recently and weren’t hungry. But if Martha ran, they would chase her—that was an instinctive reaction, triggered by the sight of a fleeing animal.

Sarah stepped between Marek and Martha, taking hold of the girl’s hand, just as Martha held her brother’s. Martha stared at her, eyes wide and fearful. Martha said something—“Who are you?”—but Sarah didn’t understand the words, funny noises that reminded her of the past.

As she gripped Martha’s hand tightly, Sarah stared at Marek, warning him off. She growled and bared her childish teeth. She never used her teeth in her play fights with the young wolves, but snarling and showing her teeth communicated her intentions. Her knife, the weapon that substituted for her teeth, was already in her hand.

Beka turned to face Marek, standing beside Robby. She added her growls to Sarah’s, warning her brother to back off.

Marek hesitated, uncertain. Like any bully, he preferred situations where he could gain the upper hand with no risk to himself.

Taking advantage of his uncertainty, Sarah tugged on Martha’s hand, leading her back to the path through the bushes. The girl followed willingly, dragging Robby with her. Beka lagged behind, watching Marek to make sure he didn’t attack.

Sarah led the two children along the river, until she could smell the smoke of a campfire. As they walked, Martha asked her questions: “Who are you? What are you doing here? Where is your mama?”

So many strange sounds. Sarah remembered that long ago time when she had talked to her mama and papa. She had known several dozen words, which she strung into sentences and questions of a sort. “Hungry now.” “Mama eat?” “We go now?” Old memories.

She stood by the river, sniffing the breeze. Campfire smoke and coffee and corn bread baking by the fire.

“Robby! Martha! Where are you?” A woman’s voice calling. Sarah hesitated, still holding Martha’s hand.

“It’s Mama,” Martha said. “Come on.” “Martha! Robby!” A man’s voice.

Sarah stiffened, remembering the crack of a rifle shot, Omuso falling, a man’s voice calling.

She released Martha’s hand and stepped away. “We go now,” she said, shaping the old words. “We go.”

She turned and ran, with Beka at her heels.

Martha’s mother was dubious about Martha’s account of the encounter with the wolves and very upset about the loss of Robby’s clothes. Martha’s father threatened her with a switching for telling lies, but she stuck to her story and led them to where she had seen the wolves.

Sarah and the wolves were gone, along with Robby’s clothes. Martha found the grimy sweater that Sarah had been wearing, tossed in the bushes beside the river.

Sarah wore Robby’s clothes through the winter. In the spring, she cached the sweater and shirt and boots in a rocky cave. The wolves cached food, burying kills for later consumption, and Sarah had, even at her young age, recognized the value of saving something for later.

Sarah remained weaker and slower than her packmates, but she compensated for her physical lacks with her keen intelligence. She learned from observing the creatures in the world around her. Seeing raccoons hunt for frogs in the marshy meadows, she tried it herself—and discovered that spring peepers can be tasty. Watching a spotted skunk raid the nest of a quail, she learned to search out nests and devour the eggs. Observing squirrels feasting on the seeds of the sugar pine, she took to harvesting the cones herself, cracking the nuts between two stones and eating the tasty meat inside.

From the cougar, the golden lion of the California mountains, she learned stealth. When she lay still, she became one with the land beneath her. From the badger, she learned the value of putting up a fierce appearance. From the black bear, she learned to look beneath the surface. After watching a bear turn over logs and find tasty grubs, she added these insects to her diet.

Though she lacked the strength and stamina of a young wolf, Sarah had abilities that the wolves lacked. When a burr got caught in Rolon’s ear, Sarah’s clever hands yanked it free. She could climb up oak trees and scramble up rocky faces too steep for the wolves to ascend. She could snatch a choice bit of meat from a kill, then escape into a tree to eat in peace, out of reach of her hungry packmates.

After Omuso’s death, she had been careful to stay out of sight of any humans—but she observed people without being observed. The brown-skinned people who had lived in these hills long before the settlers had come from the east knew what plants could be eaten. Sarah watched them from hiding and followed their example, harvesting the bulbs of wild onions and quamish plants that grew in wet meadows, eating the sweet flowers and leaves of wild mountain violets, the tender shoots of bracken ferns, and the spicy leaves of wild mint.

White people both frightened and fascinated her. One of the trails that emigrants to California followed down to the Sacramento Valley ran through the southern edge of the wolf pack’s territory. When the pack was traveling in that area, Sarah often hid near the trail to watch wagon trains of emigrants pass, marveling at the lumbering oxen and the creaking wagons.

Once, Sarah saw two boys playing by the riverside. The older of the two, a lad of twelve, was skipping stones in a wide pool. That had been a valuable lesson. Later that day, Sarah had tried throwing rocks herself. Her first attempts were weak, but she persisted until she could lob a stone with considerable accuracy and power. It was a glorious day when a stone she threw struck a fat quail squarely in the head, bringing the bird down.

She was still wearing Robby’s trousers when she learned to throw stones. She took to carrying rounded stones in the pockets, ready for use at any time. When the weather grew warm, she used her knife to cut off the trouser legs, but continued wearing the rest, unwilling to give up the convenience of pockets.

Another time, she spied on a man who sat by the river and sharpened his knife, honing the blade on a stone worn smooth by the river. That, too, she had imitated, using a river rock to sharpen the blade that she wore at her side, honing the steel to a razor-sharp edge.

Sometimes, she stole from the emigrants, snatching clothing that had been spread to dry on rocks by the river. When she outgrew Robby’s trousers, she stole another pair. More than once, she slipped silently into emigrant camps at night, wandering among the sleeping travelers, looking for items that she could use: a pair of wool socks, a new pair of moccasins, suspenders to hold up her trousers, a hunting knife that was stronger and sharper than hers.

By the time she was seven years of age, she was an amazing young savage. From her youngest days, she had done her best to keep up with the pack. As she grew older, her stamina increased until she could run for hours without tiring, eating up the miles with an effortless loping pace.

She could climb like a squirrel, scrambling up rocky faces and sprawling oak trees with ease. She could sit quietly in the forest while a covey of quail walked within a few feet of her, unaware that the motionless figure beneath the trees was a human being. She knew every rock and tree in the pack’s territory—the best time and place to find berries and birds’ nests and edible greens, the best hunting grounds, the best places to hide.

Her life among the wolves was happy. Wauna and Yepa were her mentors; Beka was her friend. She remembered her true parents only dimly; they were vague figures that appeared in her dreams. Mama was a soft voice and a comforting lap, a memory that blended with her memory of cuddling up to Wauna’s warm fur. Papa was a rough voice and a pair of hands that lifted her high above the earth.

She knew that she was different from her packmates. Their bodies were covered with warm fur, while hers was smooth and hairless. Their teeth were strong and sharp, while hers were small and blunt. She had a flat face and a tiny nose and she ran upright, rather than on all fours.

Even so, she thought of herself as a wolf. She watched people—the Indians and the miners—but she did not think of herself as one of them. No, she belonged to the pack. She watched people; she stole from people, but she was not one of them.

“There are many humorous things in the world; among them, the white man’s notion that he is less savage than the other savages.”

—
Following the Equator
; Mark Twain

S
TANDING ANKLE DEEP IN MUDDY WATER
, Malila dug for nettle roots. The village chief was suffering from aches and pains in his joints. Malila’s grandfather, Hatawa, was the village healer. He said that bathing in water in which nettle roots had steeped would soothe the chief.

A short distance up the creek, Hatawa was gathering the shoots of the horsetail plant. A tea brewed from these plants would ease a feverish patient. Malila could hear him chanting, giving thanks to the horsetail and the nettle for their help. A shaman and healer, Hatawa knew the proper way to behave. In a world that was changing, it was his duty to strive to maintain the balance between the people and the spirits, a task that had become more difficult since the coming of the strange people who seemed so intent on destroying the world.