2
There's a light drizzle today. The sleeves on my floral raincoat are too short, exposing my wrists.
At least I’m mostly dry, though I can feel my hair frizzing up along my scalp.
The walk to my first snare trap takes about fifteen minutes, and I don’t hurry.
I’m happy to get away from the cabin. From Mama’s sulks and Vega’s entitled orders. From Papa’s roving hands.
I hope for a rabbit or a squirrel. We grow so many potatoes that we never run out, but it’s nice to add fresh meat to the meal every once in a while.
I’ve mastered the potato. Mashed, scalloped, fired, wedged.
I make soup, hash browns, bake them, cube them, roast them. Papa even makes vodka with them.
If I never see another potato again in my life, I’d be just fine.
My snares are set at a rotating set of locations I’ve memorized over the years.
When I see that the first one hasn’t been touched, I decide to just leave it and set off to check the next one.
This walk brings me closer to the coast.
I can hear gulls crying and taste salt in the air, but it would be a long, downhill trek to get to the beach from here.
I hear the crunch of underbrush snapping and pause, pressing my back to the nearest tree.
My pulse races, and I blink rapidly to shake the droplets off my long lashes.
It’s foggy still, not having been burned off by the sun on such an overcast day.
I hear an unfamiliar nicker and snort, and my skin rises in bumps.
I’ve been walking these woods solo since I was nine, and I’ve never once seen another human.
Everything I know I’ve learned from Mama, Papa, books, and the occasional visitor Papa allows to stop and eat with us, though the last time that happened was when I was sixteen and the stranger offered to trade me for a sack of oranges.
I lift my feet carefully, moving slowly and silently toward the animal sounds.
I move stealthily through the copse of red cedars, the moss and fallen trees underfoot making the ground soft.
There’s a neighing laugh, and I still, standing frozen like a statue.
Less than two dozen feet away are two gigantic horses.
I’ve never seen a horse before, at least, not in real life.
I’ve seen pictures of them in my children’s books, and Mama described them to Vega and me, but none of her stories did them justice.
I creep closer, eyes on the most magnificent beasts I’ve ever seen.
One is a steely gray with lighter gray dappling on its back and haunches; its mane is almost black, and I wish I could pet it.
Behind it, its head bent down to munch on some long grass, is a pinto horse with a pure white coat painted in large mahogany brown patches.
I breathe through my nose, fearful of catching their attention, because both horses are well fed with large leather saddles on their backs.
The shock of seeing beasts I’d only ever heard tales of soon wears off.
Those saddles are well worn. Sweat-darkened reins hang looped over a patinaed pommel.
The gray horse has a saddle blanket made of some richly woven material, and the bright block coloring in orange, red, and black almost blinds me.
Everything I own is used, faded, and dingy with wear. This is new.
Rain beads on the tip of my nose and falls silently to the forest floor. Steam rises from my skin. My raincoat sticks uncomfortably to my arms, the material creaking quietly as I turn to scan the area. I take a careful step backward.
The pinto whinnies, and the only other sound is rain hitting the muffled ground, wind rustling branches, insects; the sounds of nature. Then something else. Voices.
“It was a snare.” A low, calm man’s voice.
Coming from my right. I turn my head slowly just as two men step out from around a tree.
Big men. Bigger than Papa. The man who spoke has skin as brown as a walnut tree, only he’s shiny with rain.
His hair is shaved close, and his face is so different than anyone I’ve ever seen, I can’t look away.
His nose is wide and long and his lips plush and thick.
His eyes are black, and he never stops scanning the area around him as he talks.
“Someone set that snare. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“They’ll be back to check it then.” How do you describe the difference in a voice?
The other man’s is also deep, but it’s raspier, grittier.
Meaner. He has long hair, salt-and-pepper colored and slicked into a looped bun at the back of his head.
His face is scruffy with a few days' worth of beard.
Both men are well over six feet tall and thick, though the second man is slightly leaner around the belly and biceps.
It’s then I notice the guns hanging from their shoulders by woven straps.
Big, scary guns. They have on black shirts, slightly too small, hugging muscular arms in a way I’ve never seen before, and something in my stomach lurches.
Not to mention the smaller weapons strapped to their belts and thighs and the leather brace the bearded man has around his shoulders.
They both have cargo pants on. The Black man’s are olive green, and the grungy man’s are camo, and are tucked into heavy-duty black boots.
They don’t belong in these woods. They are danger personified.
Luckily, I've been far away enough that they didn’t immediately notice me, but the moment I try to edge away, the second man’s eyes dart to me, and they both reach for their guns. They are well trained and run on instinct. But so do I. And I’m in my backyard.
I spin and run. They have to worry about their horses and getting lost, but I don’t.
I’m ten yards from a gully and drop to my ass, sliding down the wet leaves and rain-washed earth like a slide, only letting out an oomph when I reach the bottom, hitting a decay-softened fallen cedar before hopping to my feet and taking off.
I hear grunts and shouting behind me, so I duck between fallen roots and undergrowth, zig-zagging my way toward the rocky coastline.
No horse would be able to walk there, and most humans would worry about slipping or breaking an ankle, a death sentence this far from wherever they’re from.
My lungs are burning, but I don’t stop, not when I feel hot blood trail down my neck from the whip of a tree branch and not when the drizzle turns suddenly into a torrent.
I let the mud slides and natural paths lead me, no pattern or trail to follow.
My teeth may be chattering, and I may be drenched, cold water pouring down the back of my neck, but there will be no scent left behind and no prints to track.
They’re no more prepared for this weather than me, not in those clothes. Not a poncho in sight.
Three more hours pass before I walk into the perimeter of the cabin. The rain is still coming down steadily, but not as heavily. At least it’s washed away the mud on my face.
“You didn’t get any meat?” Vega calls from the front door. She’s standing with her arms crossed over a dull maroon dress that reaches her shins. It has shiny pearl buttons that reach from neck to hem. Mama’s dress. Her pink lower lip is pushed out petulantly.
“Nope,” I say with a popped P. I walk right past her to the outdoor shower Papa rigged by putting a cistern on stilts.
I shove aside the thick plastic curtain and strip my torn jacket and soaked clothing from my body.
My teeth clack, and I have full-body shivers as I scrub myself with homemade soap and wash my hair with the last of a two-in-one shampoo.
Papa is waiting for me under the eave of the rear door, a towel so light pink it’s nearly white outstretched before him.
His hair is standing wildly off his head, as if he ran his hands through it just before stepping out here.
His eyes drop from my eyes to scan my naked body.
I don’t hesitate, stepping from one wet paving stone to another, too cold to try and cover myself.
I’m bigger than Vega, curvier. My hips jut out and continue in a wavy line to my thighs.
My belly has a small pooch, and my pubic hair is thick and dark brown.
A pelt versus her sleek golden mat. My breasts are large and full-bottomed, my diamond-hard nipples a dusky rose.
My cheeks are too bloodless to flush as I turn and let Papa wrap the towel around me.
We don’t say a word as I enter the cabin.
“Oh, Nova! Get dressed and come sit by the stove! Quickly! I’ll dry your hair.”
Mama stands and grabs a hairbrush as I rush to dress in front of my whole family.
All of my belongings are in a small two-drawer cabinet by my pallet.
I pull on ill-fitting panties and Papa’s cast-off sweatpants, a sports bra, long sleep shirt, and cream-colored cable knit sweater covered in holes.
Lastly are a thick pair of woolly gray socks.
I internally groan when I think about my boots outside filling with rain, but I don’t have it in me to go back out there, and I don’t want to ask anyone else to get them.
“She didn’t get any meat for dinner,” Vega complains, perching on a sofa chair and doing nothing to help with the meal Mama has simmering.
I see long beans on the skillet and a chopped onion caramelizing, and my belly growls.
I pull my feet onto the chair so I can wrap my arms around my legs.
Mama tsks her tongue but begins untangling my long, dark hair with her fingers.
I close my eyes and sigh at the familiar feeling.
I feel Papa’s eyes on me and wish he hadn’t watched me so carefully.
“Your breasts are larger than I realized, Nova.” He states as if I don’t know what I look like. Mama’s hands falter, and my teeth grind. I don’t open my eyes, but I feel my cheeks redden.
“She looks like a cow.” Vega is quick to insult me. She hates when Papa isn’t focusing all his attention on her.
“She looks ready to be bred. Breasts like those are meant to feed, sweet pea. Yours will grow too, with milk,” he leaves the sentence dangling, and I hear Vega’s sharp intake of breath at being compared to me and being found lacking.
This cabin is too small. There’s no privacy. No room to expand or grow. Four adults are not meant to be in such a tiny, airless space day in and day out. I wish I could scream.
Mama continues brushing my hair in long strokes. She’s humming a low tuneless sound, tuning out everything around her.