the two. It wasn't a very easy feat.
We walked north through the reserve, wading through a patch of parched brown grass. We entered the badlands through a dipping, blue-gray gulch that sloped all the way down to the canyons' boundary. I pushed my wet hair out of my eyes. The badlands could be dangerous if you didn't already know your way through them, a series of overlapping cracks and dents marring some very malleable terrain. I held Sky's hand, helping him down from the gulch. I led him past a dried out hickory tree where turkey vultures sometimes liked to roost. It didn't occur to me until too late that my bringing Sky out here might not have been a good idea. Somewhere in the badlands Dad had dumped Rebecca and Mercy's bodies, enlisting the vultures to help him hide their remains. Sky was my father's only living victim. I didn't want him thinking I was reenacting the crime.
Sky's feelings surged through my palm. Suddenly he was deeply upset about something. For a moment I assumed the worst; but then I followed his gaze, and I saw he was looking at a fuzzy black bird on the ground, juvenile-sized, mere yards away from our feet.
"It's a falcon fledgling," I said.
Sky looked over his shoulder at the hickory tree. I realized he was searching for nests.
"Falcons don't build nests," I explained. "There's no way to tell where it came from. Just wait for its parents to come along. If the parents see us touch the fledgling, they might grow wary and abandon it."
Sky's hand tightened around mine. He gnawed incessantly on his lower lip. It surprised me that he cared so much about a single bird. I liked animals, too, don't get me wrong; but sometimes what looked like a tragedy was only nature grappling for balance.
"Alright," I said, touched by Sky's pity. "Don't move," I added. I didn't want him hurting himself on the sliding clay.
I crouched down beside the bird. It was dead, alright, one wing battered and ruffled, like it had fallen from the sky mid-flight. I scooped it gingerly in my hands, but it was long cold. I think I felt grateful for that, in a way; not just that the death was fast, but that I didn't have to feel its feelings. Animals have feelings, too; they just aren't like ours is all. One time when I was five I petted Grandpa Gives Light's rez dog, a floppy-eared mutt he called Georgie. It freaked me the hell out. Since then you can't get me to touch a living animal willingly. Horses are the sole exception. Humans and horses were made for one another, emotions and all.
"Probably it couldn't fly," I tried to tell Sky, turning to face him with the bird. "So the parents had to leave it."
Sky struggled to keep his countenance firm, but he seriously looked like he was going to be sick. His face sagged wearily, his eyes alert. I decided I had to get that bird away from him. I buried it under a rock beneath the hickory tree, so I'd know where to find it again later.
"Do you want to go home?" I asked.
Sky's muffin hair flopped when he shook his head "No." I wanted to put my hands in it, just to see what it felt like. I considered asking whether I could, but he grabbed my hand, steadying himself, and made to keep walking. So I walked with him.
The promontory was a monster of a cliff. Taller than the oak grove below, taller than the tent rocks far north, it had to be about a hundred meters. One side was sloping and easy, good for climbing, but the rest of it was steep as hell, the drop sudden. If you so much as sneezed up there, you were a dead man. It was a good place to come and think. Sky and I drew in sight of the promontory and Sky squeezed my hand, his head tilting all the way back while he scaled the length of the cliff with his eyes. I didn't want to make him climb it, though, specially not in the rain. Even if I'd suggested a climb, something told me I would have met resistance.
"It doesn't have any religious meaning," I
We walked north through the reserve, wading through a patch of parched brown grass. We entered the badlands through a dipping, blue-gray gulch that sloped all the way down to the canyons' boundary. I pushed my wet hair out of my eyes. The badlands could be dangerous if you didn't already know your way through them, a series of overlapping cracks and dents marring some very malleable terrain. I held Sky's hand, helping him down from the gulch. I led him past a dried out hickory tree where turkey vultures sometimes liked to roost. It didn't occur to me until too late that my bringing Sky out here might not have been a good idea. Somewhere in the badlands Dad had dumped Rebecca and Mercy's bodies, enlisting the vultures to help him hide their remains. Sky was my father's only living victim. I didn't want him thinking I was reenacting the crime.
Sky's feelings surged through my palm. Suddenly he was deeply upset about something. For a moment I assumed the worst; but then I followed his gaze, and I saw he was looking at a fuzzy black bird on the ground, juvenile-sized, mere yards away from our feet.
"It's a falcon fledgling," I said.
Sky looked over his shoulder at the hickory tree. I realized he was searching for nests.
"Falcons don't build nests," I explained. "There's no way to tell where it came from. Just wait for its parents to come along. If the parents see us touch the fledgling, they might grow wary and abandon it."
Sky's hand tightened around mine. He gnawed incessantly on his lower lip. It surprised me that he cared so much about a single bird. I liked animals, too, don't get me wrong; but sometimes what looked like a tragedy was only nature grappling for balance.
"Alright," I said, touched by Sky's pity. "Don't move," I added. I didn't want him hurting himself on the sliding clay.
I crouched down beside the bird. It was dead, alright, one wing battered and ruffled, like it had fallen from the sky mid-flight. I scooped it gingerly in my hands, but it was long cold. I think I felt grateful for that, in a way; not just that the death was fast, but that I didn't have to feel its feelings. Animals have feelings, too; they just aren't like ours is all. One time when I was five I petted Grandpa Gives Light's rez dog, a floppy-eared mutt he called Georgie. It freaked me the hell out. Since then you can't get me to touch a living animal willingly. Horses are the sole exception. Humans and horses were made for one another, emotions and all.
"Probably it couldn't fly," I tried to tell Sky, turning to face him with the bird. "So the parents had to leave it."
Sky struggled to keep his countenance firm, but he seriously looked like he was going to be sick. His face sagged wearily, his eyes alert. I decided I had to get that bird away from him. I buried it under a rock beneath the hickory tree, so I'd know where to find it again later.
"Do you want to go home?" I asked.
Sky's muffin hair flopped when he shook his head "No." I wanted to put my hands in it, just to see what it felt like. I considered asking whether I could, but he grabbed my hand, steadying himself, and made to keep walking. So I walked with him.
The promontory was a monster of a cliff. Taller than the oak grove below, taller than the tent rocks far north, it had to be about a hundred meters. One side was sloping and easy, good for climbing, but the rest of it was steep as hell, the drop sudden. If you so much as sneezed up there, you were a dead man. It was a good place to come and think. Sky and I drew in sight of the promontory and Sky squeezed my hand, his head tilting all the way back while he scaled the length of the cliff with his eyes. I didn't want to make him climb it, though, specially not in the rain. Even if I'd suggested a climb, something told me I would have met resistance.
"It doesn't have any religious meaning," I
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