bull rider

Sandra looks out into the crowd. Her face is firm, her lips set in a straight line. This is it – the moment she’s been waiting for for nearly ten years. She pulls her hat brim down over her eyes and pulls on her gloves, worn from the hard labor back when she helped her father on the ranch. She pats the pockets on her old jeans and straightens her favorite blue shirt. Then she turns and walks to the pen where the bulls are kept.
She climbs on the bull – with help from the rodeo clowns – and begins to tighten the rope around her hand. She looks up and as she does so, sees her brother-in-law, Roger, wave at her from the crowd. She doesn’t smile, just nods, and lets her mind wander to the day this all began.

It had been a splendid day; the sun was up and shining down on the red dust that carpeted the ranch and everything on it. She had risen early, wanting to get her chores done so she could have some time to herself.
Sandra had breathed in the deep smell of desert, soaking in the lovely hues of the place everyone called wasteland. Her home had never been that to her – it wasn’t the middle of nowhere at all. On the contrary, it was right smack in the middle of Mother Nature and all her other children. Sandra knew she’d never leave – Arizona was much too beautiful to ever leave behind.
Sandra talked to the horses as she shoveled out their beds of hay and stocked their trough with oats. Her favorite was an amber mare brought in from the wild a few years ago. She had taken to Sandra and Sandra had eventually given her a name – Dawn.
“An’ how you doin’, Ms. Dawn?” Sandra had asked, giving her a loving pet on the nose. Dawn whinnied in reply.
“Yes, I reckoned you’d say that,” Sandra replied, looking out the window of the barn. “It sure is a lovely day.”
Sandra had been twelve then, just barely blooming into a young lady. She loved flowers and kittens, horses and little children, too. But there was one thing in her life she lived for – bull riding.
Technically, it wasn’t bull riding yet – Sandra had barely been a year at riding calves. But someday she would graduate to bulls – if her sister didn’t stop her first.
Sandra had just finished her chores and was taking out her favorite calf – Little Yellow Jacket – when her father and Roger appeared at the corral. Sandra didn’t mind them – they often came out to the corral to talk about something or another.
Sandra seated herself on Little Yellow Jacket and bent down to whisper to him. “Give me your worst, Little Jacket; I’ve ridden you every time.” With that, she gave his hindquarters a jab with her spurs and they set off in a whirlwind of dust and kicks.
Sandra held her hand high, trying her best to stay on. Most calves went into a wave motion when spurred, so that all the rider had to do to stay on was to move with them. Little Yellow Jacket was different – he’d twist and jump, curving his body into impossible angles and jerking to the sides when Sandra least expected it.
Somewhere in all the melee, Sandra heard Roger say to her father, “Whoa! She’s good! You teach her?”
She heard her father reply, “No, she did that all by herself. She is awfully good, isn’t she?”
Sandra could hear her sister, Diane, her elder by ten years, yell from the house, “Oh, you boys! Don’t encourage her!’’
Diane had been the girly-girl, the one who loved cooking and wanted to stay inside all day. Sandra had never been like that – she had always loved the smell of the wind in the evening and the color of the Arizonan dust on her black boots.
After a while, Sandra was finally bucked from Little Yellow Jacket’s back. She got up slowly as her dad led the calf away. She dusted the red from her pants and turned to go back to the house. On the way there, Roger stopped her.
“You’re good,” he said.
“So you say,” she answered. She was tired and her throat was aching for a glass of water.
“Would you like to go to the Championships one day?” he asked.
“Yeah, one day.” She turned to go back inside when Roger called out to her.
“You could, you know!’’
She slowly pivoted on her heel. “What are you saying? That I could go to the Championships?”
He smiled, a bit gap-toothed, his face sweating beneath his rusty orange hair. “That’s what I said.”
“But no woman has ever made it to the Championships.”
“How would you like to be the first?”
Sandra was silent for a moment. “You really think I could?”
Roger’s smiled widened. “Sure do.”
“How? I don’t even have a trainer.”
“Sure you do.”
Sandra looked around, as though expecting to see a trainer magically appear from behind the crates stacked against the stables. “Where?”
“Well right here!”
Sandra almost giggled. “A funny-looking man like you being my trainer?”
“Yes,” Roger nodded. “I don’t think Diane ever told you this – I think she might be embarrassed by it, don’t know why – but I used to be a bull rider.”
Sandra cocked her head. “Really?”
“Yes, I almost made it to the Championships, but,” he shook his head, “I got out on the qualification rides. I got paired up with a really old bull – I reckon he had been all ridden-out years before.”
“Ah.” Sandra scuffed the dirt with the heel of her boot. She understood. Riders were not only judged on their ability to ride, but also by how healthy and hard-bucking their bull was.
“Could we start tomorrow then?”
“What?” Roger looked slightly bewildered.
“Tomorrow. Could we start training tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Roger and Sandra walked into the house together, discussing her new training that would begin the next morning.

That was how she had gotten here today.
Sandra tightens the rope that connects her hand to the bull’s back and looks up into the pink faces of the crowd. They’re booing and whispering among themselves. Sandra can’t blame them. After all, how did a skinny, freckle-faced, frizzy-haired woman of twenty-two ever make it past the preliminary qualifications anyway? And the bull she is riding doesn’t help.
Sandra brings her free hand down to pat the snorting bull, its once-cinnamon hair now graying and coarse. This bull has not been ridden successfully for nearly seven years. Out of the 53 tries to ride the bull for eight seconds, not one cowboy has managed it.
Sandra tenses her body, ready for the pen to open as the announcer blares, “Now, Sandra Allison riding Widow Maker!”
The pen opens and instantly Sandra is thrown into a hurricane of jerks and twists, her body wrenching and slamming into the bull’s back. She keeps one hand held high, just as Roger taught her, because if her free hand touches the bull all her training and work will go to waste as the announcers declare it a no-ride.
She tries to concentrate on keeping herself on the bull’s back as it twists itself into a complete circle, and a thought vaguely flickers across her mind of the day she first came to Las Vegas. It seems kind of ironic to compare a bull to a city, but that’s what Las Vegas was like. So full of colors and lights, all blaring and fighting each other for your eye’s attention . . .
Widow Maker suddenly bucks into a wave, a classic cattle move Sandra does not expect. Her head slams into Widow Maker’s shoulder blades and she begins to slide off. Her head is pounding, but she knows she must stay on. With a mighty show of strength she throws her body weight to the side, letting herself slide back into position.
Quite suddenly, the bell rings out, jogging her out of her concentration. Sandra straightens as best as she can while trying to stay on Widow Maker. Now comes the hard part. She lets go, forcing herself off to Widow Maker’s right side. But something is wrong. Her hand is stuck, tied onto the bull’s back with coarse rope. Sandra knows this is a common thing to happen, but all the same, that does not make it any less dangerous.
Sandra tries desperately to free her hand, twisting and pulling at it until her palm starts to bleed. She is being pulled alongside the bull now, and every so often an ill-aimed kick flogs her. She has almost gotten her hand free when Widow Maker makes a sudden turn, throwing Sandra in front of his forelegs.
Sandra’s cry is lost in the gasp of the crowd as Widow Maker’s left shiny hoof strikes into Sandra’s ribs. The force of its blow rolls Sandra onto her back, only to be kicked again by the bull’s back legs. She doesn’t cry this time, merely groans as Widow Maker’s hooves plow into her and he snorts and paws the ground.
Her hand is free now and as she rolls from under Widow Maker’s hooves the rodeo clowns jump in front of Widow Maker to distract him and chase him back into his pen. Sandra lies there a moment, then, thinking Widow Maker might come back for her; she crawls over to the side and slowly stands up. She leans against the wall as one of the rodeo clowns brings her hat. She nods gratefully and puts on the hat, tugging the brim of it down to hide her eyes. The rodeo clown helps her as they walk back to the gates. The crowd, which has been silent except for a few scattered gasps, suddenly erupts into cheers as Sandra looks back and smiles, winking at her brother-in-law in the third row.

emily

mEmily shaded her green eyes from the hot Nevada sun. A tiny breeze blew a loose strand of her dusty brown hair and relieved the humidity that made the air hang thick and heavy. Her mother’s horse, Sweetie, shifted impatiently beneath her.
Emily reassured her with a pat, but her mind was in the craggy mountains that loomed high and forbidding above horse and girl. She strained her eyes, searching for a cloud of dust kicked up by a figure on a lone horse. Finally she saw movement. A mustang, running wild and unkempt in the hills. Behind it was a small herd, all shabby and scarred. All of a sudden, they broke into a gallop. The stallion screamed his shrill emergency call. Was it a bobcat that so upset the herd?
But then she saw a man who was waving a long lariat atop a bay quarter horse. Only then did she relax. She watched, enthralled, at the scene going on far above. Man and horse closed in on a handsome mare, coat gleaming in the sunlight. The horse received small signals from his rider that were only seen by the experienced eye. After lassoing a few mustangs, the pair rode down the steep cliff toward Emily. The man grinned with pride at the fine mare he had caught.
“She ought to fetch a fair price,” her father determined. He worked for the Bureau of Land Management, capturing mustangs to sell at silent auctions to qualifying owners-to-be.
“Yeah. Ain’t she gorgeous,” Emily replied. “Mom’s looking for you.”
“All right. Let’s go down to the house together.”
The smiling Sarah Jenners came to the door to greet them in her apron, flour coating her arms up to her elbows. Nevertheless, she hugged her husband and daughter, speckling their clothes with whiteness. Joshua and Emily flicked the flour off onto the dry ground.
Sarah looked at the mustangs Joshua had caught with a dreamy look in her eyes. “They’re so beautiful,” she told them.
“That one isn’t so pretty — look, he’s got scars all over him. He’s a sorry sight, all right,” Joshua commented.
“Oh, no — he’s the most beautiful of all.”
Emily couldn’t say she agreed with this, but she decided not to press further.
During supper, Joshua described his capture. “I was chasing the herd, and a pretty little mare caught my eye. I brought Wild Thing close to her to try to corner her, and just for a second I was distracted by a rearing horse. When I looked back toward the mare, she was gone.”
“Maybe she went off in a hidden crevice,” Emily suggested.
“You’re probably right,” her father agreed. “There are plenty of hiding places in the mountains.” He pushed his plate aside and rose from the table. “Well, I’d best get a good night’s sleep — I have a hard trek tomorrow.” Emily remembered that her father was going to the next county to sell some cattle, and wouldn’t be back until after dark. Joshua said good-night to his wife and daughter before getting ready for an early bedtime.
“I wonder what happened to that mare Dad talked about,” Emily said to her mother when they were clearing the table.
“Oh, I don’t know. The mustangs have secrets humans will never know,” answered Sarah.
But Emily wanted to know. The question nagged at her even as she fell asleep.
Emily was riding a horse through the mountains. She didn’t know whether it was Sweetie or Wild Thing or some other horse. She was searching for something exciting, but this was unknown to her also. Suddenly, a gleaming palomino mare stepped out of the shadows. She seemed to be glowing with some inner light and stood out like a beacon in contrast with the black night. Emily knew this was what she was searching for. She sat looking in awe at the magnificent creature looking back at her with large, wild eyes. They both remained motionless, as though frozen. Then, wisps of fog abruptly started to curl around the mare, shrouding her from Emily’s view. “No, no!” she cried out, reaching her arms desperately toward the mustang. A wail of disappointment tore from her throat. She woke up with her pillow damp from tears.
Emily dressed like a zombie, eyes staring into space, thinking about the palomino mare. She pulled on her jeans and headed outside to saddle Sweetie. After scrawling a short note that said “Gone riding, back for breakfast,” she headed for the mountains.
For the first two hours, Emily saw no sign of life except for the occasional jackrabbit springing across the path and the hawks soaring high in the sky. It was eight o’clock, and she knew her mother was up by now and preparing breakfast, but Emily had no thought of turning back — not until she saw the mustang mare.
Another half-hour passed. Now her mother was probably getting a little worried. Emily continued to ride deeper into the mountains.
Here was a low canyon, surrounded by mountains on all sides, except for the narrow space between. A brook bubbled across it. Emily’s heart leapt. This spot was the perfect home for a herd of mustangs!
She directed Sweetie to the brook and gave her a long drink of the cool, refreshing water. Looking down into the water, she gasped. Behind her, she could see the reflection of a palomino horse! Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned her head so she could glimpse the mare. Nervously, the mustang sidestepped, wary of this human drinking at her brook. The sunlight made her smooth golden coat shine, and her mane and tail were long from years of growing. The mare stared at her with her big, deep brown eyes. Looking at her under the clear blue sky, for one shining moment, Emily thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world.
Suddenly, Emily heard the shrill neigh of a mustang break the silence. The mare heard her stallion too, and galloped away to him in the pass between two mountains.
“No!” Emily breathed. She sank to her knees and wept. “I’ll never see the mare again,” she cried. But she ached with a burning desire to have that mare. She needed her. She felt that if she couldn’t have her, she would die of a broken heart. Wait — my dad is the best mustang catcher in the state! He could capture her for me, she thought happily.
She took Sweetie’s reins and mounted. Kicking the mare’s sides, she told her, “We’re goin’ home.”
It was nine o’clock when they reached Emily’s home. Sarah was waiting at the open door, frowning, and as soon as Emily walked toward her, her mother reached out and held her daughter to her, resting her cheek on Emily’s brown hair. She kneeled down to look Emily over for injuries or stains and, finding only dusty soil on her jeans, stood up to smooth her hair back. She kissed her daughter’s head.
“I was so worried about you,” she said at last.
Emily looked at the ground and bit her lip, wishing she had checked the time. But it was worth it to see that mare! she reminded herself. She pushed the dirt into a little clump with the toe of her boot. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll come home earlier.”
“Good,” Sarah responded firmly. “So go inside and wash your hands; the waffles are getting cold.”
After breakfast, Emily told her mother about her ride while helping her wash dishes.
“And I saw the most gorgeous palomino mare — she must have been the one Dad was chasing yesterday. I’d love to have her.” Emily turned her green eyes on her mother appealingly, trying to let her mother know how much she wanted the mustang. Sarah studied her daughter searchingly for a long moment before turning her back and silently drying a plate, staring at it unseeingly as she ran the cloth over its smooth white surface again and again.
Emily gazed at her mother’s back, forming a plan in her mind. If only her parents understood the desperate need she felt! Emily knew the palomino mare was the one from her dream, and that the beautiful mustang was meant to be hers. She loved riding Sweetie, but her mother’s mare was placid and calm, not wild and spirited like the palomino. Besides, Sweetie was her mother’s, and Emily was ready for a horse of her own to train, to ride and care for. If only the mare was hers . . .
Emily couldn’t sleep that night, and lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, images of the mare — her mare — flitting across her mind. She turned toward the wall, looking out through the window screen into the moonlit night and listening to the insects chirping. A coyote howled somewhere in the mountains, dark shapes on the horizon blotting out the stars. His long, lonely call echoed through the still night, and Emily’s heart ached with longing for the mustang mare. Where was she, at this very moment? Emily wondered. Was she safe? Was she, too, staring at the bright stars twinkling in the velvet sky and listening to the coyote’s mournful howl?
Emily heard the front door creak slowly open, and footsteps coming from the kitchen. For a second Emily was alarmed, but then she smiled as she recognized her father’s cough. He was back from the auction. Emily waited for a few minutes until her father climbed the stairs and peeked into her room, his silhouette blocking the light from the hallway.
“I’m awake, Dad,” Emily whispered.
Joshua nodded and walked into her room, bending over Emily’s bed as he hugged her.
“Dad, I saw a beautiful mustang mare this morning, she . . .” Emily’s rush of words was stopped when her father touched her lips lightly with his finger.
“Tell me tomorrow,” he whispered.
Nodding reluctantly, Emily kissed him good-night. Joshua gently tucked a lock of her brown hair that had fallen onto her damp cheek behind her ear. Giving her one last kiss on the forehead, her father rose and walked out of the room, leaving Emily alone again, impatient for the morning to come so she could carry out her plan.
The next day, Emily jumped out of bed, eager to tell her father about the mare and try to convince her parents to get her the palomino. She hurried down the stairs to the kitchen, where she found them eating breakfast at the table.
“Morning, dear,” her mother greeted Emily.
“Did you sleep well?” her father asked.
Emily nodded, smiling with excitement. “Yep,” she answered. She accepted an English muffin from the plate Sarah held out, and plopped down in a chair opposite her father.
“Dad, yesterday I went riding and I saw a gorgeous mustang mare . . .” Emily told her parents about the palomino mare she had seen, telling them about her rich color, her powerful conformation, her nice size. “I really want her,” Emily finished. Glancing at her mother and father anxiously, wondering what they were thinking, Emily rushed on. “I was thinking, my birthday is pretty soon, so maybe you could get me the mare . . .”
Sarah averted her eyes down to the table, tracing the outlines of the flowers on the tablecloth with her finger. Sensing her husband’s questioning gaze, she raised her head and stared back at Joshua, her face expressionless and her eyes unfathomable to Emily. Joshua looked at his wife for a long moment, seeming to read in her face what Emily could not see.
At last he turned back to his daughter. “We’ll see,” he answered, returning to his breakfast.
Disappointed and frustrated, Emily finished her English muffin and pushed her chair back from the table. “Well, I’m going for a ride on Sweetie,” she announced, starting to walk away before her father’s voice made her pause.
“Oh no you aren’t, young lady. Don’t you remember what you have to do today?”
Emily scrunched up her face in thought. “Oh, yeah,” she answered, shoulders sagging. Her battle for the palomino had made her completely forget that she was supposed to check the fences in the back pasture. Riding out there, mending any broken boards and returning to the house would take most of the day.
By the time she returned, sweaty and tired and with a splinter in her right palm, it was late afternoon. Sweetie traveled along the path to the barn at an easy, ambling walk, her head low and her tail swishing away the flies, enjoying the sunshine. Emily, however, was anxious to rest, cool off and then resume planning how she would acquire the mustang mare.
She was about to dismount when she heard voices near the circular paddock behind the barn. Wondering why her parents would be there, Emily quickly switched Sweetie’s bridle for a halter, clipped her to the cross ties in the wash stall, and hurried toward the paddock.
Emily skidded to a stop before her father, who had been talking with her mother in the space between the barn and the house. Beyond that was the paddock, and Emily glanced at her parents’ faces, glowing with anticipation and excitement, before straining to see over them. Joshua looked at his wife, and the corners of Sarah’s mouth turned upward into a small smile.
“Happy birthday, Emily,” Sarah whispered before she and Joshua moved aside so their daughter could see what was in the paddock.
Emily gasped as she glimpsed the form of the palomino mare standing in the middle of the paddock. From the trampled ground and the sweaty sides of the mare, she could tell there had been a struggle. Emily’s heart soared at the thought of the palomino’s — her palomino’s, at last! — wild spirit. Fumbling to open the gate, Emily slowly made her way to the mustang’s side, extending a trembling hand to stroke her horse’s side, her head filled with plans and dreams for herself and the mare.
The mustang flinched at her touch, watching her with distrust. Only then did Emily really see the palomino mare.
The horse’s once gleaming coat was muddy and damp with sweat. Her long mane and tail were tangled and stained and filled with burrs. Worst of all, her beautiful, intelligent, wild eyes were listless and defeated, and her golden head almost touched the ground.
Emily took a step back from the mustang, her green eyes startled and horrified. She shook her head slowly, trying to pretend that she was wrong, that the mare would learn to love her and her new home, that her spirit wasn’t broken. After waiting for what seemed so long, Emily had her own horse, she had the palomino, she was happy — wasn’t she?
A sob tore from her throat, and then another. Closing her eyes against the hot tears, against the harsh reality, Emily finally realized what she hadn’t before — that her dream horse wasn’t hers. The palomino mare might be hers in name, but her heart would always belong to the craggy mountains and the endless blue skies of the Nevada wilderness.
Was she too late to fix her mistake? Was the mustang’s spirit broken forever?
Tears trickling down her cheeks, Emily’s shoulders shook as she groped for the latch of the paddock gate. Throwing the gate open, she ran blindly toward the palomino, shouting and waving her arms.
“Go! Go away! Stupid horse, you’re getting what you wanted! GO!” Emily screamed.
Joshua, surprised and confused, took a step forward to stop his daughter, but was restrained by Sarah’s hand on his shoulder. There was no astonishment or surprise on Sarah’s face; she watched the scene unfolding before them as if she had seen it long before.
The mare raised her head, startled by the sobbing, shouting human behind her. Suddenly, she seemed to wake up, and with a delighted whicker she galloped out of the paddock, through the open gate toward the mountains.
A cool breeze blew strands of Emily’s brown hair across her tear-stained face as she stood in the middle of the empty paddock, watching the mustang gallop away. Her mother walked slowly up to her and enfolded her in a hug that was surprisingly strong. Sarah gazed at her daughter with not only tears but pride in her eyes, and her tiny, sad smile broadened as the two watched the mare pause in her flight for freedom, one forehoof raised. Flaring her nostrils, coat gleaming gold, the palomino tossed her head and emitted a shrill whinny of joy, announcing her return to the herd. Snowy white mane and tail billowing out behind her, the mare galloped into the distance, forever free.

animals!!!!!!!!!

It had been one of those days when the sun could not seem to make up its mind whether it wanted to hide behind a curtain of clouds or look out over the world. Throughout the day the light had alternated between the brilliant gold of autumn leaves and the darkness that inspired the owl to open his eyes. The sky was sometimes a deep azure blue, laced with soft white clouds; sometimes it was the deep gray of a wolf’s coat, streaked with distant white lightning and growling black thunder.
Now, just as the sun was beginning to set on the hilly horizon, a gray squirrel poked her head over the leafy edge of her nest in an oak tree. She blinked and peered toward the hills as the sun surrendered to dark cloaks of gray-blue cloud that were slowly and steadily pulling across the sky. The clouds were ominous and held trouble for the little squirrel. She was young and nervous. In her anxiousness to evade the predators that lurked on the forest floor, she had not built her winter nest in the giant oak’s strong, secure arms nearer the trunk, but dangerously high in the slender fingers, where the wind blew the strongest, and the rain struck like bullets.
Hunger forced the squirrel to abandon these troubling thoughts. She thought of acorns, and began her journey to the earth.
She clambered over the mass of sticks and leaves of her nest. A breeze wrapped around the flimsy branches and the squirrel swung for a moment before continuing on toward the rough bark of the tree’s sturdy body. She flicked her tail with agitation. With every step she realized how quickly the wind was picking up, and how urgent was her need to find a new home for the cold, gusty months ahead. The approaching storm was not going to be friendly.
On her way to the ground, the squirrel passed a hole in the tree. Curious, she poked her head inside. The entrance to the hole was small, but inside it was roomy and cozy. It was also uninhabited. There was no owl dozing in the hole like the booming great horned monarch a few trees down from the squirrel’s oak. There was no raccoon with its harlequin mask and bushy ringed tail. The only living thing in the room was an old bark beetle, a descendant of the bark beetle who had chewed out the hole long ago.
The squirrel was not bothered by the beetle. She knew she had found her new winter shelter, and, reassured, she continued down.
However, as soon as the squirrel felt the worn dirt under her paws, she was immediately unnerved again. She was an inhabitant of the trees. She survived high in the secretive world of branches and wood. But the ground was insecure, alien — swarming with predators. The squirrel flicked her tail again and looked around. She had expert eyesight, and good color vision; she did not see the scarlet flash of a fox, or the plodding brown boots of a human.
Gingerly the squirrel inched across the ground. After a while she came to a patch of earth that had imprinted itself in her mind earlier that autumn. She began to dig feverishly. Her little paws neatly shoveled away the top layer of soil to uncover the scrumptious acorn she had buried a few weeks ago. Eagerly she popped it into her mouth and went to another nut-cache, until the ground was pocketed with harvested holes. Even in her bliss the squirrel glanced around the forest floor for predators.
But predators did not live only on the ground. On a branch on the pine tree a short distance from the squirrel, the noble great horned owl was brooding, his eyes half-closed. His feathers were fluffed, his feathery horns standing straight up on his head. His yellow eyes were dull.
The squirrel made a quick jump to another cache. This sudden movement attracted the owl and made him alert. His eyes snapped to attention. He dug his talons into the branch and yawned. As the squirrel continued to hop across the ground, the owl twisted his head around until it was nearly upside-down, the better to see every part of the squirrel, the prey.
For many days now the owl had gone without a substantial meal. His unhealthy feathers were notched with pale streaks that told of his hunger. The owl extended his long, brown wings and flapped silently from the pine.
The squirrel’s head shot up. She looked around, wide-eyed. Just as the owl whirled above her, a snarl of thunder erupted. The squirrel leaped narrowly away and raced up the tree to her new home in the bark beetle’s hole.
The owl hooted his eerie call and it merged with the deep thunder. He flew to another tree to sulk and wait for more prey.
Another movement below made him lift his wings — but he saw that it was not food. It was a red fox, loping down an old hunting trail with a rabbit in her mouth. The vixen had four hungry kits in a den near the stream that snaked through the forest. She was having to feed them constantly, for the kits were growing rapidly and would leave her in early winter. As if to remind the fox of her purpose, a chilly breeze descended from the looming gray-blue storm cloud and ruffled her fur.
The determined fox quickened her pace. The starving owl flapped his wings.
He struck the vixen’s mouth and gripped the rabbit in his talons. The fox was reluctant to let go of her well-earned catch. Her own young were hungry. She growled menacingly and pulled, neck muscles rippling. The owl held tight, leaning backwards and flapping to keep his balance. The vixen’s jaws ached. She was forced to let go.
In a few seconds the owl had soared to a high limb and was voraciously tearing off pieces of meat with his hooked beak. The vixen snarled at him and continued down the hunting trail.
A boom of thunder drummed through the still air. The vixen trotted briskly through the trees until she reached a meadow below the foothills of the mountains. Here, many voles and mice made their homes. The blue-black light was thick, but the fox could see as well in darkness as she could in daylight. Her nose was even more powerful than her eyes, and she sniffed eagerly through the grass.
Mourning doves and mockingbirds in the surrounding treetops were serenading the fall storm. Their low, melancholy coos and shrill, busy cries clashed like storm clouds and sunlight. The fox glanced briefly at them, then breathed in the earthy smells of the meadow. She caught the scent of a mole, crouching in its underground lair.
The mole was feeding on worms in one of the many tunnels of his huge earthen network. He felt the atmospheric changes, the humidity above ground, and knew that a storm was on the way. In the wetness following the rain showers hundreds of earthworms would slither up into the moisture. The mole would go into the world above the soil for the first time in his short life and feast.
As the first raindrops began to plop above his head, the mole shoveled upward with his plow-like forepaws, following a long, pink earthworm. The mole could not see — his eyes were just fleshy bumps on his dull face — or hear. But his powerful nose and sensitive feet guided him toward the alien land above the dark tunnels. After a few shoves of his mighty forefeet, the mole burst into the air.
No sooner had the mole made the transition from one world to another than the fox was above him. She snapped her fearsome teeth, and the mole retreated hurriedly into the safety of his chamber. He shoveled dirt behind him, blocking up the hole, and scurried a distance to his favorite sleeping cavern. When his heartbeat had slowed somewhat, he curled up into a warm ball and fell asleep.
Meanwhile, the desperate, hungry fox dug away the earth of the mole’s escape tunnel. But it was no use. Although a small, awkward-looking creature, the mole was fast, and he was safe in his bedroom a quarter-mile away from where the fox had attacked.
When the vixen was about to turn and head home with no food for her kits, she caught the scent of a field mouse. It was feeding on seeds a short distance away. Before it could escape, the fox reared on her hind legs, bounced high into the air, and shot straight down like an arrow into the grass. After she had gobbled down the field mouse, she came across several more, and pounced and ate until she was full.
The rain was falling heavier now, and, ears folded, tail straight out behind her, the fox ran to the dry shelter of the trees.
She retraced her scent-trail back to her den, a shallow pit dug under a fallen tree. The kits were waiting for her there, and they greeted her exuberantly, yelping and jumping with excitement. Then they gathered around and licked their mother’s lips, inducing her to cough up a heap of fresh mouse meat for them. The kits set upon it hungrily. This routine of feeding, common among mammals, was the most sensible way of nourishing the young. It meant that the vixen could catch and eat more food, and that there was no meat trail to lead predators to the fox den.
When all the foxes were satisfied, the mother fox led her litter inside the den. She curled herself around the four small bodies, until all were warm and safe and sleeping soundly.
The rain roared as it sailed through the matted ceiling of tree limbs. The wind tore at branches and leaves. Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. One slender electrical arm reached down and struck the trunk of a nearby tree, a towering giant of more than one hundred years and uncountable storms. With a terrifying creak the tree sailed toward the ground. It shook the earth as it fell.
All across the forest animals were waiting out the storm. A pair of song sparrows were fluffed up to keep dry. They had tried to sleep, but the wind and thunder kept them awake. They were mates, and huddled close on their tree branch.
In her den in the side of a mountain foothill a black bear was curled into a tight ball. The sound of the falling tree woke her. She lifted her head drowsily and looked out at the cascading rain and howling wind. The bear was pregnant — she would give birth early next year — but now she was just beginning her winter routine, during which time she would rest and eat, rest and eat, until winter pushed her into the depths of hibernation. She blinked at the storm, yawned, and went back to sleep.
All through that night the storm raged, hurtling wind and icy rain against the trees. Thunder roared like the irritable mate of the bear, lightning lit up the dark world of the mole as he searched for worms near the top layer of soil.
In the middle of the night the mother fox lifted her head. She was uneasy. Rainwater was seeping into her den under the log. The storm was not weakening, and it grew muddier in the tight shelter. The vixen stood and nudged her kits awake. Yawning, whimpering, the young foxes stirred. Their mother urged them to their feet. A rivulet of water was now streaming into the den. The foxes would have to find a new shelter.
The kits stared wide-eyed at the sopping world around them. The ground shook with the awesome power of the thunder and rain. Fiery lightning exploded overhead. The young foxes yelped and clustered around their mother. One of the kits, the weakest and smallest in the litter, shivered and moaned helplessly. The vixen picked up the runt by the scruff of his neck and led the rest of the kits through the forest.
The great horned owl saw the foxes pass beneath him and rolled out his haunting call. He was stuffed with the rabbit he had stolen from the mother fox earlier, and called, not to prepare for a hunt, but merely to frighten the foxes. The vixen gave a low growl and the kits hurried along.
As the wind died down to a ghostly whisper, the fox family arrived at their destination. The tired mother looked up to see a mass of rocks in a shady pine grove. She loped over to it and dropped the pup she had been carrying. The others stumbled with exhaustion to their new home and flopped in the secure darkness of the crags. The mother fox licked them until they felt warm and dry again, then pushed her nose into her brush and sighed contentedly, lulled to sleep by the thunder rumbling in the distance.
Inside her hole in the oak tree, the little squirrel twitched and fluttered her eyes. She went to the entrance and craned her neck. She tilted an ear toward the mountains. She waited for a long time, but no more thunder growled. The rain no longer fell in heavy, icy sheets but in gentle, pattering drops, until the gray clouds were swept quickly away to reveal the stars above, shining with a soft, pale glow. A drop
of water collected on a branch and plopped upon the squirrel’s head. The squirrel went back inside her den. She preferred the silence and dryness of her new nest to the wet outdoors.
The dark hours wore on until, at last, just above the tops of the distant mountains, a halo of sunlight peeked up. It shed a dull, wintery blue light over the land. The song sparrows shook the dampness from their bodies, pressed their feathers flat, and puffed out their breasts. Their whistling carols rang in the air. The storm was gone.
Animals from all over the forest listened intently to the song and looked out at the pale, down-soft light. The bear stretched and rolled out of her den to grow fat on blueberries until she fasted for the winter and resumed her hibernation. The mole did not hear the song, but he felt the air pressure lift and the humidity sweep away and plowed up out of the soil. A worm slithered under his toes, and he ate heartily.
When the sun was high above the snowy peaks, and their song had ended, the sparrows stretched their wings and flapped away from the tree branch. Powerful, instinctive emotions had been triggered within them with the ending of the autumn storm. They flew south to warmer climates, with more sparrows clustering on until the sky was alive with fluttering, twittering birds.
The fox pups looked curiously up at the feathery air and lapped rainwater from the tips of leaves. They watched a white-tailed doe glide elegantly through the forest. Two antlered bucks strode up to her. Their smooth new antlers gleamed in the light of the dawn. They pawed the ground and charged, their racks clashing with a loud crack in the still air. It was the confrontational time of rut, the mating season for the deer. The fox kits took little interest in the noisy battle and proceeded to pounce on each other’s tails.
The sky looked like a great wild fish, pale grayish blue with a streak of orange-pink splashed along the low horizon. Under its solemn light the forest shone with a magnificent freshness and grandeur.
The animals went on with their daily lives. A bark beetle began to chew a new hole in an oak tree, which would one day be used by one of the gray squirrel’s grandchildren. Two earthworms came together in the soil to reproduce, and the mole went back underground, with the reassuring knowledge that there was plenty of food to be had. The deer battled for mates, the foxes played, and the great horned owl quietly surveyed his prosperous kingdom.
And hundreds of other species of animals and insects and birds went on with the turning of the earth, in the shimmering wetness and the sparkling beauty after the storm.

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NEWEST STORY

Fear and disbelief drip down the back of my neck.
I am leaning against the wall, feeling cold, hard, merciless brick beneath my palm, hearing things — simple, life-giving things, such as breath and whispers and rustles of skirts — so loudly that I’m afraid my very listening will give me away. On my side, my Jewish charge, and I want to tell her to kneel, to get shorter, to do something other than stand there and look at me with those pleading eyes. To take off that necklace she wears, the little silver chain with the tarnished Star of David hanging limply from it.
No time, I remember, and it amazes me that even my thoughts come in short spurts.
My older brother Henk has practiced with me many times ever since he has taken it upon himself to open our home to the persecuted Jews. Many alarms I was sure were real turned out to be hoaxes, gentle deceptions, in benefit of my training. But this — no, this was no fraud. I had seen the tobacco-stained teeth out the window, the frilly mustaches. I had heard the front door slam and their feet ascend the stairway.
Leah’s hand edges into mine and I feel like falling into tears, enraged toward the Germans, hateful of everything they hold dear to them. How can they curse Leah, such a simple, innocent soul? What demon is tearing my continent, my precious Europe, apart so? Have these people not known kindness, and do they not understand how to imitate mercy?
Whispers in Yiddish. I can’t comprehend it. Funny, I think, that the soldier, the Jew, and I all speak different languages and come from different cultures, yet still live in mortal terror of the other.
Boots are getting nearer. They’re in the living room, perhaps, with the unstylish masses of Victorian furniture and its quaint view of the winding creek outside our townhouse window. From there it is a short leap into the hallway, then the closet door — from there, us, hiding behind the furs.
They don’t stop in the living room; steady, trim clicks are advancing down the hall. Leah’s hand grows a tighter grasp on mine, and my eyelids suddenly fall shut, staying tightly latched. I’m so still — my breath, my thoughts, my very heart has stopped — I’m afraid God might mistake me for dead.
The door cracks. The light bulb, hanging from a dusty string from the ceiling, suddenly tosses a pool of light upon the floor. The door wafts shut again, and here we are, together: three different people from three very different beliefs.
The hangers to our left start clacking and his shoe, with a forlorn stalk of a pants leg growing off of it, is right in front of me. I realize he smells of stale brandy, of restless wandering, of dust. I accidentally think of the shoe polish on the shelf right above our heads, that he might be able to use, but I scold myself for thinking that.
Suddenly he yanks a coat away and is staring into my face, then Leah’s. We both stand there, silent for a moment, as I wash my eyes over his clean-shaven, dirt-smudged face. He doesn’t look like Hitler — he looks more like Henk, an honest man caught up in something bigger than his imagination would let him ponder.
“Who are you?” he asks, voice rough.
“I’m Leis, sir, and this is Leah,” I whisper.
“And why ever are you here in this dusty closet?” As he speaks I see his teeth are darkened, a small scar meekly clinging to his lip.
“You scared us, sir,” I managed. “We hid as soon as we could.”
“Poor darlings. Come out — it’s cold in here,” he says, and he holds open the door for us as we uncertainly, defeatedly, trudge out to the hall.
Suddenly I remember — Leah’s necklace — her Star of David! If the soldier found that, he would have proof, proof that she’s a Jew, proof of her country, her heritage, her ancient culture. I glance at her neck but she’s torn it off and thrown it on the floor — I look back at it in the closet, watching its glitter, praying the soldier doesn’t notice it sparkling there, like a trout in a silver spring. He’s gone on, though, to the other soldiers, to present us.
“Which one of you is the Jew?” is our greeting, spouted from an older, fattened man. “Or are you both Jews?”
“Jew?” I whisper faintly. “There are no Jews . . .”
“Which one? There’s been reports of Jews hiding in this house! Which one of you is Jewish?”
Our soldier interjects, “They’re children, Setzlich. Danish besides.” Here he glances, silencingly, at us. “It has been said the Danish don’t lie. Jews indeed.” “The Danish don’t lie,” mutters Setzlich, glaring at us both as his voice tumbles into a tumult of anger. “You idiot, Schmidt! The best lying in the business comes from the Danish — I swear, they’ve got the devil on their side!” His hand suddenly reached out and grasped my collar. “Girl,” he growled, “girl, how many rooms is this house?”
“This is all,” I say, truthfully, and, distrusting me, he slowly lets go of my dress. “The living room, bathroom, and closet.”
His eyes stay on me. “Search the cursed closet again, Schmidt,” Setzlich whispers, voice trembling with loathing. “Goderstadt already got the bathroom. See if there’s any more. Then we’ll see if the Danish don’t lie.”
“Yes, sir,” says our soldier, and Leah and I exchange terrified looks. A search of the closet would mean the discovery of the Star of David twinkling on the floor, would mean our arrest, might even mean our deaths. My entire heart has suddenly twisted in torment — I can’t think, and can’t breathe. I hear him throwing a ruckus around in there — oh, why make it painful? Just expose us as liars, as protectors of the Jews, of God’s chosen people.
He comes out then, expressionless. “Nothing,” he says, and I look at him, confused. How could he have missed it there, meandering along the floor? He looks at me, oddly. “You know, you both look remarkably like my own two little girls,” he whispers, a little painfully, trying to force his chapped lips into a smile. “My two very good little girls. And so polite, too — the gentlemen will be competing for the attentions of you both. Trust me, I know these things.” A pause. “Godspeed.”
We all tilt there for a moment, on an unseen axis of disbelief.
“Let’s go, then, Setzlich.”
Setzlich casts suspicious glances between us but gathers his rifle and storms back out the door. Our soldier follows him, down the stairs and away, not once looking back.
For a moment Leah and I stand, side by side, watching the lace curtain billow out toward the street.
“It is a Passover,” she finally says.
It takes many days and nights for the war to drag on, many more close calls until the war in our country dies. And a week after this triumph is proclaimed across the face of the scarred and haggard world, a few days before the Germans retreat from our city of Copenhagen, I receive a small crumpled envelope in the mail. I open it on the doorstep, wind-swept with the ashes from the firecrackers of celebrations, and out of it pours a small note, written hurriedly in German — “You might want to give this back to Leah” — and a silver waterfall.
It takes me a moment to realize the broken chain, crooked on my palm, is the Star of David.

wolfs

The farm looked old and dull, but in my thoughts everything, even the quiet farm, was eerie. I had the dream again; the same dream I had every full moon, the only dream I ever had. The gentle eyes of my mother looked down at me. All I could see were the soft, green eyes. I could feel the warmth and fear of my mother, fear that was for me.
“Terry!” called my father. “Breakfast!” He was actually my adoptive father. He found me in the woods and took care of me. He knew that adopting me would be a bad idea. He had no experience whatsoever with raising a child, and the only person who could help him would be his younger brother. He spent weeks searching for my family, but found no one. He could give me up to an orphanage or adopt me himself. I suppose he felt responsible for me, or maybe it was sheer pity, but he took me in and I was brought up living on a farm with him and my uncle, Dude. He is really my Uncle Ben, but “Uncle Ben” makes rice, and Dude was a childhood nickname. I suppose I liked Dude all right, but he was gone so much that I didn’t really get to spend much time with him.
“Coming!” I yelled. I ran hard and fast, I was good at that. Dude says my mother and father were probably great athletes. Besides, today my father was making waffles for breakfast.
I sat down and pulled the straw out of my tangled hair. I had slept in the barn with the animals again. I felt at peace with them. My father could tell I had been sleeping there, but I suppose, against his better judgement, he let me be.
My father and I did not talk much. It wasn’t that we didn’t like each other, it’s just that we didn’t “click.” Neither of us was a very good conversationalist, so silence filled the gaps in our relationship. But it wasn’t a comfortable silence. It wasn’t awkward either. There was simply nothing there; no words, no thoughts, no feelings. I had lived twelve years with someone I barely knew. His tired face was that of a stranger that looked different every time I saw it. I did not miss my father when we were apart, and I did not notice when we were together. I was never angry with him, nor was I happy. He was simply there, nameless, my provider, but don’t get me wrong. I was grateful to him. Only sometimes I wondered if his choice to adopt me was a smart one. Did I really belong here? Could things really go on like this?
“Did you finish all of your homework?” my father asked, breaking the silence.
“Yep,” I answered.
“What are you doing in school today?” he continued quietly.
“Nothing.”
“Hmmm. Do you like your new math class?”
“No, not really.”
We both went back to poking at our waffles. It was a typical breakfast conversation. I thought of saying more; telling him how I despised math class and how I learned more walking home through the peaceful woods, tasting the fresh air, than I ever could at school, but I decided that I would sound silly and thought better of it.
Many long, silent moments passed before the next conversation began.
“I got another one this morning.” This time it was Dude speaking.
My father nodded.
“Two more chickens are gone.”
“Suppose I’ll go down to the market an’ get some more.” He looked tired and distressed.
I knew what they were talking about. I hated it. Our chickens were disappearing. My father decided it was wolves, but we never actually sthe chickens. Although with so many wolves running around Stoneland, Wyoming, what else could it have been? I had my own ideas. When I proved that the Hoster boys from next door were taking the chickens, no more innocent wolves would die. I couldn’t be absolutely sure they were taking them, but whenever they came over they snooped around, and day by day their chicken flock seemed to grow larger and ours smaller.
Off in my own world, I stared blankly out the window, but my thoughts on the chickens came to an abrupt halt as a beautiful full-grown wolf stepped into our yard. It was far away from the chickens, but close enough. Even though the wolf wasn’t after them, it was in danger simply by being here. I had to get to it before my father did.
I tore across the yard, each step faster than I could count. As I neared the wolf I did not slow. For my own safety I should have stopped. I did not. I knew the wolf wouldn’t hurt me. I could feel it in a place deeper and more spiritual than my heart, and somehow, somehow, I knew she felt the same.
The part when I actually, physically tackled the wolf was a blur of forgotten memory. All I knew, or rather felt, was me running with the wolf, for the wolf, to a place I knew by heart and yet had never seen. The feel of my legs straining to push my body through the force of the eager wind felt natural, completely natural.
When my heart finally stopped urging me forward with the force of a thousand fists, I found myself at the entrance of a cave. Unsure of what to do next, I glanced over at the wolf. Taking sure and gentle steps, she proceeded inside. I followed, a bit bewildered.
There must have been fifteen . . . no, twenty wolves! The soft gray texture of their fur made me want to reach out and touch them but I kept my distance. They were all peaceful and quiet, so . . . so satisfying for the soul. They were completely at peace, and they looked at me as if I belonged. For once in my life, I felt I did.
My first thought was that I had stumbled on a secret civilization, but that was wrong, all wrong. I hadn’t stumbled, I was led, and I wouldn’t say civilization either. The word civilization makes me think of ancient Egypt, hieroglyphics, and social studies. This was a . . . a family. It was a crazy thought, but somehow it seemed like my family. I shrugged it off.
Time passed. I stood and watched, just watched, for maybe an hour or two. Slowly, the blue sky faded into black. When the first star appeared in the sky I knew it was time to leave. They knew it too. Before I could leave, the wolf that led me here showed me some objects on a rock. The arrowheads and old carved rocks were gifts, from them to me. I accepted gratefully, wishing I had something to offer in return. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have been able to give it. The wolf had left. She had left me to make it home by myself. Somehow I did.
The next few days were a blur. I had been devoted to proving the Hoster boys guilty. I had recently found out that their father had trusted them with the farm while their mother was sick in the hospital near town. He spent all his time there. I told my dad, but he said I needed more information.
One night while I was hard at work on my case, I heard the sound of a gunshot. This gunshot, though, was not over by the chicken coop. It was right here by the house. I heard it again. Then I ran, lying to myself, saying I didn’t know what it was, but I did.
In one second flat I was there. I dropped onto my knees, landing hard. No, I thought, this is a dream. It has to be. The body of the wolf was sprawled out on the ground in silent pain. She had been shot twice in the leg and was losing blood fast. I could feel the eyes of my father burning into me, waiting to see what I would do next, but I didn’t care. Her head turned and she looked at me. She was dying and I felt the fear in her eyes. It was so familiar. Those eyes, they were so eerie. My dream, it was my dream; the same green eyes, the same warmth, the same fear. This couldn’t be true. The eyes in my dream belonged to my mother, and this wolf couldn’t be . . . or could it? There were so many questions, too many questions. This wolf was dying! The eyes closed. I placed my hands over her heart, and with every ounce of strength in my body I strained to push life back into her. It was silly, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was so completely helpless. There was one more thing to try. I had to get her home.
I ran to the barn. My sled, where was it? There it was. The rope was more tangled than ever, but speed was with me and I succeeded. I lifted her limp body onto the sled, grabbed the rope, and ran. When I reached the cave I saw the whole pack waiting as if they already knew what had happened. I lifted her off of the sled and watched them clean her wounds. Then I left. I was totally and completely scared, more than ever now.
I took my time getting home. I wasn’t eager to see my father. Each breath I took stung my chest and for the first time that night I felt the cold wind bite my face. But even so, the hurt inside of me was greater than the hurt on the outside.
When I did reach home I didn’t talk, eat, or even get ready for bed. I simply lay down in the darkness of my room with my pain and silence and went to sleep.
When my eyes opened I lay still for a second adjusting to the glow in the room. I had slept for a few hours, but I had been awakened by something. I thought it was the moonlight streaming in through the open window, but as I walked over to close it and pull the shade I felt something turn in my stomach. Maybe it wasn’t the light that woke me up. I smelled the air and sensed that something out there wasn’t right. My eyes scanned the yard. Everything was normal but over by the chicken coop I saw a small dark figure crouched in the tiny chicken door between the fenced-in outdoor area and the coop building. I sometimes crawled through there in feeble attempts to frighten the chickens.
I ran fast and noisily down the stairs and out the door. Behind me I could hear my dad and Dude beginning to stir. When I got outside I moved slowly and quietly toward the figure. When I reached it I saw that the figure was actually a chubby little boy. “Hey!” I yelled.
“Help, help! I’m stuck!” he cried. And he was stuck. His upper body was inside the coop and his lower body was outside, wriggling madly to set himself free. Luckily, I had been in his position before and knew what to do. The chicken doors were tall and narrow so my first instruction was:
“Turn your body sideways.”
He did.
“Now, lift your hands above your head and slide out backwards.”
The boy followed my instructions and, having sprung himself loose, he grinned at his freedom. That triumphant grin soon faded though, as I grasped his arm. I was bigger and stronger than the boy and a fight would have been pointless. Besides, my father and Dude had emerged from the house and were headed toward us.
I turned the boy so that the moon could cast a soft glow on his pained face. Even in the dim light I recognized him immediately. The boy — the figure — was none other than Dennis, the younger and chubbier of the Hoster boys. He was ten years old, a few years younger than me. He knew he had been caught and tears filled his eyes in shameful defeat. By that time my father and Dude had caught up to me. I handed him over to them without a word and headed up toward the house, but before I turned I caught a glimpse of the guilty expression on my father’s face. He had been wrong. They had all been wrong.
I continued on through the damp night, filled with feelings unfelt and words unspoken. I did not look back, but I could hear the painful wailing of Dennis Hoster and the deep rumbling of my father’s accusing voice. Once again I lay down in my dark room and slept. Only this time I awoke on my own, and did not fall back asleep. I wrote a note to my father saying I had found my mother and would be going to live with her. I could explain better in writing than I ever could come close to in person. I even told him I loved him and I would miss him. That very night (or rather, morning) I left.
I walked slowly. I wasn’t rushed. When I reached the cave I realized how scared I really was. I said one last goodbye to the place I had grown up in. Then, I turned to greet my family, and in the center of them, my mother. She was healthy, but with one less leg. I looked down at my own hands, and watched them change slowly back to their original form. I watched the claws and the fur grow. I was one of them again. We were us again, together. I was finally at peace.

the cube

The colorful cube made quiet music with a steady beat while moving around the tan grid. The children stood around the edges of the grid with the lightprongs in their hands. The lightprongs were about half a foot long and were made of a dull black metal. They were cool in the children’s warm hands. Each prong was shaped like a pole, except that near the bottom was a soft rubber grip. All the grips were different. They were made individually and everyone’s was made to fit his or her hand. The lightprongs had a reddish circle on the top and the circle made a quiet whisper when the lightprongs were moved.
The children were intent on winning the game. They were working as a team but the game could be played individually. By moving the prong, the children controlled where the cube went. Although the children would not realize it until they grew older, the game had been invented to teach young children to consider every move they made and to help them save energy. A flick of the wrist could win or lose the game.
In Rijuan, everyone worked hard to save energy. With so little oxygen allowed in the atmosphere, running, even walking, was a major effort. Rijuan was an experimental environment. It was created right outside of Nypron’s third moon. Except for the people in the experimental environments, everyone had moved to Nypron after many wars had eventually made Earth’s environment unfit for living creatures. Rijuan was the third successful experiment and by now there were children living there that had been born there. The only problem on Rijuan was that the atmosphere could not contain as much oxygen as is usually needed, but most people eventually adapted.
It was especially hard for one of the children in particular. Her name was Yanna. She had weak lungs and heart problems. Yanna’s parents had come to Rijuan because they couldn’t adjust to the major overpopulation problem that Nypron had. There were so many people living on Nypron that people lived underground, above ground, and in cloud shelters in the sky. When Yanna was born, they were going to move back to Nypron because of her lungs, but the Rijuan doctor said that Yanna would become very sick and possibly not even survive the trip if she was exposed to space travel. Now Yanna was twelve and still very weak. She couldn’t thrive in the thin air and it was taking its toll. Yanna was average height and skinny. She had faded-looking brown hair and long slender hands. Her face was thin but could have been pretty if she wasn’t so pale. The only thing vivid about her was her bright green eyes.
Yanna had only played the cube game once. She had tried hard, but the lightprong had eventually fallen from her hand because it was heavy and she was tired, and she had ruined a game that the rest of the children had been playing for half a day. After that she never tried again. The children never talked to her. The lightprongs were their life and they spent their free time discussing strategies and wrist movements.
One day when Yanna was feeling better than usual, she decided that no matter what the consequences, she would play the game the next day. When it was time for her daily appointment with the doctor, she went directly for a change and told him her intentions.
“No matter what,” she informed the doctor, “I am going to play the cube game tomorrow. The only life children have here is playing the game, but I can’t play so what do I do? Please get me a lightprong.”
The doctor looked at her gravely.
“Yanna, I cannot let you. Although your health is slowly getting better, you are still not well enough. The strain might kill you. I understand how you feel, but you can’t sacrifice your life for a game. It is not worth it.”
Yanna stared defiantly at him as she spoke.
“It is worth it. I will make my own lightprong if you will not make one for me. Please. This really means a lot to me.”
“Yanna,” the doctor sighed, “I don’t think that you fully understand. This could cost you your life. Maybe if you wait a month you might be well enough. But not now. What your parents will do to me if I let you I don’t want to even think about. Aside from the fact that I’d miss you, I can’t let you. If something happened to you, I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life.”
“I promise that if I start to get tired I’ll stop,” Yanna pleaded. She held out her hand. “Here, fit me for a lightprong.”
The doctor began to make his final refusal when he looked up at her. He knew that what he was about to do was wrong, but he also knew that neither Yanna, nor himself, would be happy until she had proved herself. He pulled from his bag an unused lightprong and held it out to Yanna. She gripped it firmly and the rubber formed into her hand grip.
“There. But you’re going to be the one to tell your parents,” the doctor warned. The next morning Yanna’s mother woke her up as usual. “Yanna, you have to wake up early because your doctor called and said that your checkup would probably be longer than usual today.” Yanna’s mother pulled her blanket off of her as she spoke. Yanna was confused for a moment, and then she realized that the doctor had probably told her mom that so that there wouldn’t be the chance of Yanna’s mom refusing to let her play. Yanna yawned, stretched, and slowly got out of bed. When her mother left the room, Yanna walked over to the small black lightprong on her dresser, hiding under a pile of papers. She looked at if for a while and then picked it up. She moved it slowly back and forth, pretending she was standing just outside of the grid. Her daydream was shattered when her mother called to her to hurry up if she could or she’d be late for the doctor’s. In a matter of minutes Yanna was downstairs, slightly out of breath because she wasn’t used to hurrying. She stood on the moving floor that carried her outside. She then stepped on the moving floor that carried her to right outside where the grid was housed. Yanna could hear the soft humming that always emitted from the brightly lit building. Her heart was thumping so hard she thought it would burst. But it didn’t and Yanna slowly entered the spacious foyer. She looked around carefully. She had only seen this room once before. The immaculate white walls sloped up, making an arch above her head. The floor was wooden. The grid, the game, and the children were all in the next chamber. The door leading to the game room was where Yanna resolutely headed. When she reached the broad white door, she reached her trembling hand out and turned the door knob. The door opened on well-oiled hinges and the prattling children grew quiet and stared at her expectantly. The doctor had talked to them for a long time, so, although they did not include her, they did not shut her out. And they weren’t surprised when she came.
The next morning Yanna’s mother woke her up as usual. “Yanna, you have to wake up early because your doctor called and said that your checkup would probably be longer than usual today.” Yanna’s mother pulled her blanket off of her as she spoke. Yanna was confused for a moment, and then she realized that the doctor had probably told her mom that so that there wouldn’t be the chance of Yanna’s mom refusing to let her play. Yanna yawned, stretched, and slowly got out of bed. When her mother left the room, Yanna walked over to the small black lightprong on her dresser, hiding under a pile of papers. She looked at if for a while and then picked it up. She moved it slowly back and forth, pretending she was standing just outside of the grid. Her daydream was shattered when her mother called to her to hurry up if she could or she’d be late for the doctor’s. In a matter of minutes Yanna was downstairs, slightly out of breath because she wasn’t used to hurrying. She stood on the moving floor that carried her outside. She then stepped on the moving floor that carried her to right outside where the grid was housed. Yanna could hear the soft humming that always emitted from the brightly lit building. Her heart was thumping so hard she thought it would burst. But it didn’t and Yanna slowly entered the spacious foyer. She looked around carefully. She had only seen this room once before. The immaculate white walls sloped up, making an arch above her head. The floor was wooden. The grid, the game, and the children were all in the next chamber. The door leading to the game room was where Yanna resolutely headed. When she reached the broad white door, she reached her trembling hand out and turned the door knob. The door opened on well-oiled hinges and the prattling children grew quiet and stared at her expectantly. The doctor had talked to them for a long time, so, although they did not include her, they did not shut her out. And they weren’t surprised when she came.
Once she was there, the game could start, and Yanna waveringly joined the rest on the edge of the grid. Before even half an hour could go by, she got caught up in the game like all the rest had been for their whole life. Slowly, her fears dissipated. First shyly, then more confidently, she helped to move the shimmering cube toward its destination. The only sound was the whispering noise that the lightprongs made. When the cube was only one grid space away, a child sneezed and the cube spun over to the opposite side of the grid. Determinedly, Yanna helped the others maneuver the cube back across the grid. Always, the cube would get close, and then something would go wrong.
It was late in the afternoon and Yanna, who still wasn’t adept at the game, sighed in frustration. She was getting tired and she desperately wanted to sit down. Yanna was starting to have trouble breathing, and her uneven gasps filled the air. Slower and slower she moved her lightprong, wishing that someone could get the cube to its destination. But she refused to give up and took a deep breath. She tilted the lightprong slightly, imitating the better players, and the cube veered over toward its destination. She smiled weakly and continued playing. Another child rotated his wrist, moving the cube even closer. Then all at once everyone was trying to get it in. The whole group twisting their hands at once made the cube quiver but stay in the same place. When the children held still once again, Yanna tilted her lightprong and the fluorescent cube fell into place. She stood stunned for a moment and then realized that she had won the game. She grinned feebly and then looked around at the others. They were all smiling at her, and Yanna realized that, for the first time in her life, she was accepted. Everyone solemnly lay the now quiet lightprongs on the floor like the children always did. That way they would be there for the next day. Then they all walked over to Yanna. One of the children was about to speak when Yanna coughed. Soon Yanna was bent double on the ground, unable to speak, hardly able to breathe.
The next day found the doctor berating himself again and again. Yanna’s parents were in a state of shock. And Yanna, she had trouble breathing no longer.