“Let’s go,” Karen says, lifting her pack. “Going to be wet out there!”
“You stay here until I get the ponies started.”
“Oh, no.”
“All right.” Tom puts on his own pack and unbolts the door.
CHAPTER 6
It is much darker in the barn and the children can work without being seen from the house. The rain pelts noisily on the roof, hiding the sound of the door bolts. Quickly the doors are opened—first the sick pony, who won’t leave and must be driven out by Tom, and then stands, uncertain, in the alleyway of the barn. “I hate to send him out into the rain,” Tom whispers, “but it would be worse to leave him.” Next the two mares are let out, one leaping at Tom, teeth bared, before she is driven off, then the two new ones. All four, seeing the open door, break into a wild run toward it, sweeping the dazed one with them. “He’s not too sick to run,” Tom says.
Even through the sound of the rain the children can hear the clatter of hoofs on the drive, and suddenly the back door of the house is thrown open and a figure rushes out—but too late. The horses are already by and heading for the road.
“Hurry, my gosh, hurry, Karen. Here they come!” The children rush back into the grain room, shove the opened sack against the door, and race for the door in the corner, mice scattering. There is no way to bolt this door from outside. They crouch beside it for a minute to get their bearings. “Come on,” Tom says. There is a fence running beside the barn and tall grain growing on the other side. The children slide under the fence and crawl into the grain until they are hidden. “If we creep,” Tom whispers, “they’ll see the grain moving.”
They lie still, listening. There is silence for a minute, then faint shouting from the barn as the man and woman argue, voices getting louder and louder through the drumming of rain.
“I told you not to keep those stupid ponies.” “Aw, shut up, Kay! You ain’t got …” “Come on, Karen,” Tom cuts in. The children crawl out from the field and race for the road.
Past the house they go—the ponies have fled—down the lane, completely exposed. The rain is getting harder, but through it they hear footsteps running behind them, then shouting. The children run faster still, panting; their packs seem heavier, pulling at their shoulders as they try to keep their footing on the muddy lane.
When they reach the road there is a great clap of thunder, and the rain increases to a torrent, a solid curtain of water, drenching them, but hiding them, too. The lane, the house are hidden. The children run on through the cloudburst and down the road as fast as they can go.
The rain pelts into their faces until they can hardly see, and their clothes are soaked and heavy. Then the wind comes, driving needles of water against them like knives, hut they keep running, fighting through it, stumbling over rocks, exhausted, winded, for what seems like an eternity. Finally, hearts pounding, they drop into a ditch at the side of the road. The rain beats at them, sloshing into the ditch around them; but the rain has saved them.
They listen. There is no other sound but the rain. It has grown quite dark. They wait in the ditch a long time, breathing hard, until Karen begins to shiver with the cold. Tom feels her hand. “We’ve got to get shelter somewhere.” He gets up.
“We’ve the tarps.”
“Not enough. Come on. At least we can keep warmer if we’re moving.” “I can’t see.” “The road’s here.” He pulls her up. “Come on.”
They walk and walk, still pelted with rain. “I wonder if the ponies got away all right,” Karen says.
“Of course they did. All but the sick one, maybe.”
“Poor, poor thing.”
“We did what we could. He would have died there.”
It seems as if they have been walking in the pounding rain forever. They are numb with cold. Karen stumbles. “I can’t go any farther, Tom. Let’s just lie down in the ditch and put the tarps over us.”
“We’ll freeze there. It’s better to keep walking.” “I can’t”.
“Yes, you can.” They go on.
“Where is the road going? Did you notice when we came to the ranch?” she asks finally.
“Past the ranch toward the ocean, I remember that. We’re going down, I’m sure. I don’t remember any houses or anything.”
“Toward the ocean? Would there be caves there?”
“Maybe, but how safe from the tide?”
“Yes. Well, morning will come sometime, I guess.” A tear is sliding down her nose, mixed with the rain. She can’t help it. She is so cold she aches, and hungry; lost. Even Uncle George’s would be better than this.
Or would it, Karen?
Suddenly there are lights on the road ahead of them. A car is coming. They crouch in the ditch. The car takes a long time to get to them, but finally it passes in a whirling of mud and water, and is gone.
“I saw something,” Tom says. Karen is really crying now. She huddles against herself and can’t seem to stop. “Karen!” He shakes her. “Karen, I saw a house!”
“What difference does it make? We can’t go to a house. We can’t go anywhere!” She dissolves into helpless sobbing.
Tom feels like crying, too. But he does not. Someone has to get them out of his. He lifts her gently until she is on her feet. “Come on, Karen!” he commands. She follows him.
Walking seems almost impossible—a mechanical action—one foot, then the other, right foot, left foot, right, left, which is which? On and on; wet, always been wet, cold. Left foot, right foot, something pulling her along; Tom? Rain in her face, darkness. Blind. I am blind, Karen thinks. The earth is ended. Left foot, right, then, “Come on, Karen, down here.” Tom’s voice? Who knows? She is too tired and numb to care.
CHAPTER 7
It is a long time later. Karen wakes. Her clothes are off and she is wrapped in something smelly. Paint? Yes, paint smell. It is a dim place, and she thinks she is hack at Uncle George’s. She looks around. Everything is strange; she can’t make it out at all. On the other side of the dark little room, Tom sleeps. Their clothes are hung against a grayish wall; concrete? There is a wooden rooflike thing overhead, slanting down on one side. She stares at it. Light seeps through around the edges. She raises herself on one elbow and looks. They are in a cellar. The wooden roof is an overhead door. It is latched from inside. The cellar is small and warm. She listens. Outside a rooster crows. She closes her eyes. Warm. She is lying on something soft. She sleeps again. This time she dreams.
She is walking along a cliff above the sea. The path is grassy, and yellow mustard fields stretch away to hills which lie in shadow beneath dark clouds. Below the cliff the sea sucks and beats at a ribbon of sand.
The path wanders a little and hugs the cliff’s edge. Gulls cry. The air is heady with salt. A small brown lizard suns on a rock, and does not run when she strokes him. Buttercups grow by the lizard’s rock, and a snail sleeps.
The path drops steeply down the side of the cliff. She follows it. Grains of sand glint like diamonds at her feet.
Black sea caves in an outcropping of rock receive onslaughts of water, are filled by them, then stand empty, dripping, until the next crashing wave.
She stands with her back to the cliff, enchanted by the writhing of the sea; she is part of the sea. A gull sweeps overhead, silvered in the sunlight. Silent.
She climbs the wet rocks and watches the tide pools fill and empty. Transparent green swells explode and fall away, leaving jewels of wetness behind them, leaving clusters of bright shells bedded in green seaweed; leaving small red crabs scuttling.
The sea grows wilder, hurling spray in her face. A seagull screams. The tide has risen and the sand is covered. A knife-edged wind tugs at her hair. Water foams wildly among the rocks.
Fog begins to roll over the sea, crushing the sun. Karen turns back to the cliff, but it is a long way away.