Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,1

has been eaten down. A sluggish spring between a circle of rocks has provided us with a little water, and the animals are crowded around it.

I tweak Gert’s teats, and she doesn’t even raise her head from the shallow pool. I catch the stream of warm milk in my palm and wash her teat with it before moving Wolfie’s hungry cupid mouth beneath it. If I crouch down with him lying in my lap, I can milk her and feed him at the same time. I’ve gotten better at it, and Gert’s grown accustomed enough that she doesn’t bolt. She’s sweet tempered for a goat, unlike every other goat I’ve ever known, who bleat like the Israelites did when Moses destroyed their golden calf.

Gert whines, and her cry confuses me for a minute. I freeze, and the cry comes again. It isn’t Gert.

“Elsie’s had her baby,” I say to little Wolfe, who gazes up at me with eyes that Ma says will someday be as green as my own. “Praise the Lord,” I breathe, and Mr. Bingham repeats my sentiments.

“Praise the Lord,” he bellows, and the wheel is forgotten and the men stand. Pa pounds Mr. Bingham on the back, whooping, clearly relieved for him, relieved for poor Elsie. Someone else whoops, and I am not alarmed, rapt as I am in the wriggling babe in my lap and thoughts of the babe just come into the world. I assume it’s Webb or Will celebrating too. As quickly as my thoughts provide an explanation, my eyes swing, discarding it. My brothers don’t sound like that. The land rolls and the rocks jut, creating a thousand places to hide, and from the nearest rise, horses and Indians, speared and feathered, spill down upon us. One is clutching an arrow buried in his belly, his hands crimson with blood, and I wonder in dazed disbelief if Will accidentally shot him.

Gert pulls away, and I note the way her teat streams, watering the dry earth as she flees. The oxen bolt too, and I am frozen, watching the Indians fall upon Pa, Warren, and Mr. Bingham, who stare at them in rumpled confusion, their sleeves rolled and their faces slicked with sweat and grime. Pa falls without even crying out, and Warren staggers back, his arms outstretched in protest. Mr. Bingham swings his arms but doesn’t succeed in shielding his head. The club against his face makes an odd plunk, and his knees buckle, tipping him face-first into the brush.

I clutch Wolfe to my chest, frozen and gaping, and I am confronted by a warrior, his hair streaming, his torso bare, and a club in his hand. I want to close my eyes and cover my ears, but the cold in my limbs and lids prevents it. I can only stare at him. He shrieks and raises his club, and I hear my mother scream my name. Naomi. NAY OH ME. But the final syllable is cut short.

I am ice, but my ears are fire, and every scream of pain and triumph finds the soft drums in my head, echoing over and over. The warrior tries to take Wolfe from my arms, and it is not my strength but my horror that locks my grip. I cannot look away from him. He says something to me, but the sounds are gibberish, and my gaze does not fall. He swings his club at my head, and I turn my face into Wolfe’s curls as the blow connects, a dull, painless thud that stuns and blinds.

Time rushes and slows. I hear my breath in my ears and feel Wolfe against my chest, but I am floating above myself, seeing the slaughter below. Pa and Warren. Mr. Bingham. The Indian with the arrow in his belly is dead too. The colorful bits of feather wave at the placid blue sky. It is Will’s arrow. I am sure of it now, but I do not see Will or Webb.

The dead Indian is hoisted onto his horse, and his companions’ faces are grim and streaked with outrage at the loss. They do not take anything from the wagons. No flour or sugar or bacon. They don’t take the oxen, who are as docile in war as they were in peace. But they take the rest of the animals. And they take me. They take me and baby Wolfe.

And they burn the wagons.

I will myself higher, far away, up to the heaven that awaits me with Ma and Pa