The Savage Boy

48



IN THE NIGHT, surrounded by the warm silence of the dunes, the Boy heard the breaking waves beyond their camp rolling hard onto the beach.

We will continue straight into the south, he thought. According to the map there was an old highway that ran along the coast there.

He thought of the map in his mind. He saw Monterey south of where they were now, a place called Carmel and the old highway south to Los Angeles.

Everyone knew Los Angeles was destroyed. Sergeant Presley always said so.

On the map there was a large red X across Los Angeles.

They will not follow us there.

You would say, You think so, Boy.

And

Or do you hope so?

I am doing the best I can, Sergeant.

And

I know. I just got to ride ya, Boy. Make ya check yourself.

I know. You would say that to me. You would tell me to be both cautious and sure at once.

The breaking waves pounded the shore beyond the silence of the dunes.

If we could live here . . .

When he returned to their fire, Jin had reorganized their packs.

Sergeant Presley’s lay open.

There was the knife.

The flannel shirt.

And the gray feather with the broken spine.

“I have . . . never seen a feather like this . . . before,” she said, holding it up, inspecting it. “Where did it come from?”

The Boy knelt down beside her.

“I don’t know.”

“Boy” is what they called you. It’s the only thing you responded to. So “Boy” it is.

But why then did you keep the feather, Sergeant? Why is its touch almost familiar? As though it meant something once . . . about me.

I remember being carried as we ran. There was yellow grass and a blue sky. Someone, a woman, was screaming.

And the feather.

And . . .

“I think, it was once my name.”

She stared at the feather.

Then she looked at the Boy.

She said nothing.

IN THE MORNING, the Boy smelled other horses coming out of the north.

They could have been anyone’s horses. Even wild ones, roaming. He’d seen them before.

But he knew it was a lie even if the voice of Sergeant Presley didn’t tell him so.

They’d be coming.

“Let’s go.”

Soon they were dressed and away from the bones of the old lodge sinking into the dunes. Horse threw up a great spray of sand as they kicked away from its ruin.

Farther down the beach there was no smell of horses. The Boy listened to the wind.

He heard no jink of harness and tack.

No cries of men calling to one another as they searched.

Behind him, the Boy saw the trail of Horse through the sand and grass and knew they were not hard to follow.

There was little left of the place once called Monterey, the skeletal remains of a few tall buildings, the foundations of many smaller buildings consumed by fire and forest. Massive green pines grew in wicked clumps up through the old roads and foundations.

They rode up a long hill of once-neighborhoods that are now little more than ancient charred wood overgrown by sea grass and pine. Just before starting down the other side, the Boy turns to scan their backtrail.

He saw the men on horses coming for them.

A line of riders picked their way along an old road. Ahead of them he saw individuals running back and forth across the fields and ruins, searching for their trail.

The Boy urged Horse and they rode hard over the small saddle of the mountain and down into a forest the map would name Carmel. Huge foundations of houses that once must have been little palaces dotted the sides of their track. The forest floor was littered with pine nettles and thick brush.

They will follow us easily, thought the Boy.

Off to his right and down toward the rocky coast, he could see the remains of other ancient stone palaces crumbling into the sea.

Don’t just run, think.

They’re following you like dogs.

You would say that, Sergeant, wouldn’t you?

We can’t run. Horse might fall and then that would be then end of us.

I could start a fire to cover our trail.

Too damp from the storm.

Stay ahead of them for now and look for a place to lead them into a trap.

It’s all I can do.

“Is everything . . . good?” asked Jin.

“Yes. We are good.”

But he heard her worry. He thought of what traps he might make.

What do I have?

The tomahawk.

The rifle.

What remains of the parachute cord.

Two knives.

It’s not much.

It is all I have.

THEY KNOW WE are on their trail, thought Shao Fan.

He rolled a cigarette and wished it was the weed he smoked at night, alone, in the dark.

I have been too many days at this.

You are an assassin.

There is no rest for the assassin.

No rest for the wicked.

He looked at the marks on the ground.

The horse had turned several times. They must have watched them come up the valley.

We will have to watch their trail for traps now. It is their only chance to escape us.

‘Savages! he thought, and spit bits of tobacco out onto the forest floor.

The afternoon was ending. Shadows long and blue surrounded his company.

How much longer can I push them? They are cold and hungry and if they miss a sign or the makings of a trap . . . then disaster.

He told them to make camp. They would sleep until morning and be fresh for the trail.

Besides, the savage and the girl are running into the poison lands where no one may go and live long. They are up against a wall. They will have to turn or stand and fight.

He thought of his lacquered box of weed. Since they are camping, he reasoned to himself.

“Be careful who you love,” he mumbled and set to loading his pipe.