All the Wind in the World Page 12

  “What does that mean?” I whisper. “What mistake?”

  “It means that right now James is in the house with Farrah. He usually sleeps here in the stables, but he snuck in there to give me and Raoul some time together.” Leo shrugs. “And to be with her, of course.”

  Of course.

  “It’s a ruse.” My words snag in my throat. “We know what we’re doing.”

  Leo cocks his head. “I don’t know.”

  “She’s dying.”

  “I don’t know,” Leo repeats. But there’s a tone to his voice this time: pity. Leo pities me, and I can’t stand it.

  I hear something, the low hoot of an owl or the echo of a faraway train. But I can’t help imagining it’s a noise from the house: a low growl of pleasure from the depths of James’ throat, a sound I miss so much it makes my chest burn.

  Farrah, right now, could be bringing out that sound. His strong, sure hands could be traveling across the bare expanse of her skin and making her tense up and sigh out his name. He can make her feel like she could live forever.

  “If you feel like waiting,” Leo says, as he finally makes his way out the door, “by all means . . .”

  Eva and the traveler woman and the man with the bad knee back at Truth or Consequences said that something was very wrong at the Real Marvelous. Eva predicted bad things to come, that order would be warped and flipped, that there would be sickness and pain. What if they were right? If James is with Farrah, maybe it isn’t all my fault. Maybe it’s the land, this land, and the lies that have built up and festered in it over the course of several centuries, just like Leo said that first night at the fire. There could be something wrong here, in this very dirt. And all that wrongness might be just about to bubble up, ooze from hacked maguey, or seep skyward through the deep, dry cracks in the ground.

  We have to leave this place.

  I can’t be alone right now. King is quiet, but I can hear Britain letting out huffing, nervous breaths. I go over and grab one of the wool horse blankets, wrapping it around my shoulders because the night has gotten colder.

  My horse is in the back of her stall, resting against a mound of hay. She snorts in greeting. I want to curl up next to her, but I give her space and sit down just inside the door. I bring my knees in to my chest and cover myself with the blanket. It’s not a comfortable position, but after a while I fall asleep to the smell of horse and hay and the low, murmuring sounds of breath.

  I wake only once, when I think I hear the stable door swing open. But it was nothing—a dream, perhaps.

  SEVENTEEN

  James approaches as I’m readying Britain for the morning ride. He has no idea I spent last night waiting for him in the stables. He’s smiling that ragged, marvelous smile of his. I hope I’m the reason for his smile, that he’s happy to see me, but I wonder if the true reason is the fresh memory of his long night in Farrah’s room.

  “It’s been a while,” I say, brushing down Britain’s coat.

  “It has. So what’s new?”

  I pull out the charm from my pocket, but my gaze catches on James’ collar. There’s a pin there, one I’ve never seen before. It’s a tiny flag, the proud symbol of a place I don’t know and that may not even exist anymore. Standing out against a center white stripe is the silhouette of a palm tree.

  “It was a gift,” James says. “Odette gave it to me.”

  “Because she knows how much you love trees.”

  James doesn’t reply. Like me, Odette must have seen the tinker’s wagon, and her thoughts went to James. She carefully combed through the woman’s wares, hoping to find the perfect, most meaningful thing. I wonder what Odette traded for this pin. I wonder if she, too, has small treasures stashed on her person. Did she have a piece of jewelry from a dead little sister that she swore she’d never part with until she met a beautiful boy with moss-­green eyes and a smile full of mischief and promise?

  “Why are you wearing it?” I ask. “Now, with you and Farrah . . . why would you still string Odette along? It’s . . .”

  Cruel, I want to hurl at James like he once hurled at me. It’s cruel. Instead I leave the sentence unfinished.

  James shrugs and then reaches up to rub the surface of the pin with his thumb. “She seemed so excited to give it to me. It was the other morning, after the travelers came through. I never made any promises to Odette, so it’s not like I’m breaking some kind of sacred vow between us.”

  “She won’t see it that way,” I say.

  “No. She probably won’t.”

  I take James’ hand and slap the charm in his palm.

  “For you.”

  James flips it over, smiles at the sight of the boat. “Where did you get this?”

  “One of the travelers—a woman—had a wagon full of stuff. That’s probably where Odette got her pin. Do you like it?”

  “Of course,” James replies. “How did you get it?”

  I ignore his question. “The woman who sold it to me also said I look a lot like a girl who killed a foreman in Truth or Consequences, which means we should think about leaving, right? She said there’s a reward out.”

  James shakes his head, brushing off my concern. “I haven’t heard any rumors like that. Besides, we can’t leave now. We don’t have enough money.”

  I try to protest, but he stops me by saying my name, Sarah . . . all drawn out. He looks past my shoulder to the fields, which makes me feel stupid and small.

  I check to see that no one’s around and take James’ hand. I miss its roughness and warmth. I run my thumb over his palm just like Raoul did to Leo last night and try to avert my eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off his pin.

  “We have to leave this place,” I say. “I think there’s something really wrong here.”

  He gives me a smile—not so ragged and marvelous this time—then squeezes my hand and releases it.

  “You’re worrying too much.” He shifts his weight, right foot to left. “Listen, though. Sarah. I’m going to be gone for a while.”

  I step back. “Gone where?”

  “The family’s going to El Paso for business, and Gonzales has asked if I’ll come along.”

  “Since when do business transactions require groundskeepers?”

  “It’s not that. I’m just . . . he told me they need a hand. He said he’d pay me extra. So, it’ll be a good thing, right?”

  I hate the way he makes it into a question. Right? There’s so much blame in that little upticked word. It’s like he’s forcing me to agree or else I’m being irrational.

  “Is Farrah going?”

  “She’ll meet us there. Not Bell, though. Farrah’s going to see a doctor and get some treatments, and they don’t want her sister around for that.”

  “Don’t.” I grab his hand again. He’s still holding the pendant, and I press it deeper into his palm. “Don’t go. Just stay. Or leave with me. I have a little money. We can go today. Now. We can take Britain, ride her to the rails and wait for a train. You can’t just leave me here alone.”

  “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, Sarah Jac. You can survive a few days without me.”

  “Please,” I whisper. “James, please.”

  I wait, pleading in silence, but James just looks at me, sadly I think, his eyes so vibrant in the morning sun.

  “I have to go,” he says, sliding his hand from mine. “I’m expected at the house.”

  I’M STARING AT the stars. Out here in the desert, you don’t even really have to tilt your head up to see the sky. The sky is all around. It’s practically all there is. And it’s not that the stars are bright, like in the lullaby. They’re simply everywhere. They pierce and poke the black. They pierce and poke me. I feel like I’m leaking.

  Leo nudges me, and I blink.

  “Lost your appetite?” he asks.

  We worked late tonight, cleaning out the stables, and barely made it down to camp in time for supper.

  I glance down to the plate balanced on my knees.
A couple of flies bounce across a gray glob of gristly meat. I make no move to shoo them away.

  I look back to the sky. If I stare at the stars, then I don’t stare at the ranch house. Its lights are ablaze, which is uncommon for this time of night. Silhouettes move across the windows. The people inside—James, Farrah—must be up late, getting ready to leave.

  “Do you think they’re trying to destroy us?” I ask.

  “No.” Leo stabs at his dinner. “If they destroy us, who will cut their maguey?”

  “That’s not what I mean.” I set my plate on the ground and cross my arms over my chest, suddenly cold. “I’m talking about our hearts. If they destroy our hearts, our spirits, our bodies will still keep working. I’ve seen it.”

  Leo snorts. “Your spirit is just fine.”

  An indistinct shout rises up from the direction of the ranch house, followed by what sounds like the door of a truck slamming shut.

  “Have you thought about leaving the Real Marvelous?” I ask.

  Leo’s response comes quick: “Yes.”

  “Would you leave without Raoul?”

  He shrugs. “Probably. Maybe. I haven’t known him as long as you’ve known James. We don’t have the history you two have. It’s easier.”

  “Is it?”

  He smiles, chewing. “That’s what I tell myself.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened last night. I really am.”

  Leo picks my plate up off the ground, stacks it on top of his, and stands. “I know,” he says. “Good night, Sarah Jac.”

  I wait, staring at the stars, even though they continue to pierce and poke. I’m waiting for James, of course. I’m holding in that small bit of hope that wants to seep out. Maybe he’ll have a change of heart. Maybe he’s up there at the house, desperate to get to me, to put his hands on me, to give me his smell.

  He never comes.

  THE BEES COME, though, two days after James leaves the Real Marvelous, in the afternoon when the sun is at its highest point and when we are at our most tired. One lands on my wrist, feels its way around, and then circles away. The guy cutting next to me slaps himself on the neck and curses. I watch him hobble backward. He drops his coa and begins batting himself as if he’s just realized he’s on fire. Something zings past my ear. Someone down the line screams. Up and down the row, coas hit the ground.

  Then I hear it: a rising and a falling, like thousands of voices all trying to find the right note. I turn east and see a wide, opaque cloud across the sky, but it’s not a dust storm, not this time. Dust storms are orange and make a roaring sound. This cloud is like static, dotted black, and isn’t moving with the wind, but like it’s made of wind.

  One of the bees lands on my thigh. I swat it away, but another immediately takes its place. Farther down, two bees tiptoe across my shoelaces, probing for the sweet maguey sap that coats my boots.

  A trio of young jimadors runs past me. They’re carrying a woman whose cheek has swollen to the size of an orange. She’s clutching her throat and wheezing.

  Finally, one of the bees gets me: on my back, up near my shoulder blade. I reach around, slap the spot instinctively, and am stung again. I’m unsettled less by the stabs of pain than by the knowledge that a bee has worked its way past two layers of clothing. I drop my coa, shrug off my button-­up, untuck my cotton shirt, and watch the trapped insect fly out and hover in front of my face. In my peripheral vision, I can see another land on the brim of my sun hat. Several have burrowed into my hair and have started to explore.

  The hum of the bee cloud gets louder, rising into a thunder­storm howl. The sky begins to pulse black. The horses are shrieking. The foremen are steering them around toward camp and breaking into runs. I run, too.

  The diesel trucks are parked in a row almost a hundred yards in front of me, and one already is pulling away. Several of the jimadors are in the process of jumping into its open back. Others are close behind, crying out for it to stop.

  I get stung on my hand, on my cheek. People scream. I don’t. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth the bees will rush down my throat. I see Raoul, running in front of me. He trips and falls, and when I skid to a stop to help him, someone elbows me in the kidney and shouts at me to get out of the way. I grab Raoul’s hand. He screams and wrenches it away. A bee flies out from between our palms. I reach out for him again and catch his necklace, the talisman made from sticks and twine. He twists away, and the string snaps. I try to pull him up, but he slugs me in my bad shoulder.

  I stumble back and notice that another truck has started to pull away. It’s full, but still some people try to jump in only to be knocked right back out. There aren’t enough trucks. The three that remain or are just about to leave are packed, but the one that took off first is not. It’s far away, and its bed is only half ­full.

  “Get away from me!” Raoul yells.

  This time I decide not to stand in the way of fate. I leave him and run.

  A girl who can’t be older than eleven pulls a grown woman to the ground by her braid. A man jabs at another with the blade end of his coa. I pass Bruno, and call out his name just as he shoves another jimador into the spines of an uncut maguey and stomps straight down on his knee to keep him from getting to a truck. He stares at me, panting, and the expression on his face—that determination, that hate—I could never have imagined him looking that way.

  “Go!” he shouts.

  So I go.

  Soon the ground is littered with bodies that are either twitching or completely still. Some of those bodies are swollen. Others have gashes in their necks: wounds from coa blades. The bees dance across their eyelashes, and their tiny feet dip into wounds.

  I break into an even harder sprint and gain some ground. I can run fast for a long time across this dry, rocky soil, but I’m starting to feel shaky and delirious, either from the sun or the stings. Twenty or so yards in front of me, the truck quivers and shakes; it kicks up dust.

  On the other side of that dust, the jimadors in that truck stare at me dispassionately. Not one of them is leaning out the back, extending a hand for me, urging me forward. I shouldn’t be surprised. Aside from the rare exception, we don’t really help one another here. We wait for weather or disease or bees or a sudden accident to come and pick one another off so we can prove to ourselves that we’re more worthy than someone else to be alive. I’ll be damned if I give anyone that satisfaction.

  With another push forward, I’m able to grab the side of the truck bed and pull myself in. For a moment, I just lie there, sweating, shaking, and staring at the bright sky. Another bee buzzes in my ear, and I lazily slap it away.

  A face appears to hover over mine. It’s blurry, doubled. For a moment I think it’s James, but then I remember that James is gone. I blink and see that the face belongs to Eva. She’s hatless. And smiling. The sun shines down from behind her, giving her a halo. She looks like Farrah did that morning in the kitchen, like an illustration, like something out of a story. She puts a warm palm across my forehead. I push it away.

  “You were spared,” Eva says. “This is a beautiful thing.”

  EIGHTEEN

  There’s something wrong with Britain. I stumble down from the truck and see her in the yard, kicking and thrashing. I try to reach her, but I’m tripping over my own feet, thick-­tongued and delirious.

  When I get closer, I see the welts: on her neck and on her legs. One of her eyes is swelled nearly shut. She’s squealing in pain.

  “James!” I cry out, instinctually, before I’m able to catch myself. “Leo!”

  There is no Leo, but Bell is there, up on the fence, leaning over the top rail and crying out for the horse.

  “What’s wrong with her?” she shrieks.

  “Inside!” I shout. “Get inside!”

  There are no bees here, but I can still hear them, if only in my head—the eerie orchestral swell.

  “I brought out Britain,” Bell says between sobs, “and she ran away.”

  “You brough
t her out by yourself?” My head is throbbing, and I’m suddenly so tired. I just want to sit, just for a minute. I grip the fence to keep myself standing. It’s then I notice a welt, the size of a hunk of coal, on the top of my hand.

  “Why would you bring her out by yourself, Bell?”

  “You weren’t here!” she cries out. “And I couldn’t find Leo.”

  “Where is Leo? Bell, think, please.”

  “I don’t know!” Her sobs have started to sound like moans. “I don’t know! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “Where is Leo?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Go inside!” I command. “Go now!”

  I run to the stables. Leo’s cot is there; his things are there. King is in his pen, anxiously shuffling and snorting.

  Britain’s screams take on a different pitch, drawn out and shrill. I run back to the yard and see her on her back, twisting on the ground. Her eyes are wide and lolling, positioned straight up to the glaring sun. Her tongue is hanging out of her mouth, dragging half circles in the dirt.

  That’s when I notice her front leg. It’s reaching toward the sky but at an awkward angle. It’s a twig, snapped in half but dangling by the thinnest fiber. Britain rolls to her side, tries to get up, and then collapses under the pressure.

  I’m in so, so much pain. I can feel the stings all over my body, but they aren’t simple stings. Those tiny pricks are just the center of a much larger circle of radiant pain.

  “Leo.” My voice cracks on his name. I’m crying. I’m crying as I head back to the stables and over back to Leo’s cot. I grab the rifle and check that it’s loaded. Someone else could do this—the overseer, or one of the foremen—but I want it to be me.

  “Stupid horse!” I shout as I go back into the yard. “Britain, you stupid horse!”

  Stupid horse, that James led me to that night when we first arrived here. Stupid horse, that I slept next to and pretended was mine. Stupid horse, that I went tearing off into the desert with. Stupid horse, that escaped, ran straight into a swarm of bees, and then broke her leg on her way back.