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She left the man lying on the ground, a wad of duct tape binding his arms behind him, tape across his mouth. Just like he’d done to the girl. Except he was conscious. Hurt, but not badly. Defeated, but only temporarily. She gathered up his things, slung his pack on her back, and all the while he watched her, seething, biding his time. From the moment she turned her back on him, the imperative was all consuming – find the girl, get away.
Kate stumbled back to where she’d left the girl and then to the copse of trees where she expected her. She wasn’t there. She scanned into the woods right and left but didn’t dare call out, not with the man so close. It had been, what? Twenty minutes? Maybe less, but much too long. Too long since she’d left her, left her to go to the man. She had to find her. Find the girl, get away.
She staggered and tripped further downstream, further into the woods, falling repeatedly, forging ahead, increasingly desperate, until she thought she must have gone too far, or the wrong way, or maybe not far enough. She doubled back. She thought of the man and struck left, still backtracking but not directly. At least she thought so. The stream should be to her right, but it sounded like it was to her left. Or not. It was so hard to tell. Kate changed direction again. And again. Everything looked the same, nothing looked familiar. She kept searching. Find the girl, get away. Find the girl, get away.
The longer she looked, the less she discerned as fear grew to near certainty that she’d lost her. She’d left her and lost her. Panic swelled. She turned a complete circle, her hands clamped over her ears against the deafening realization; the punishment for the crime of abandonment was to know you’d lost the only thing that had mattered. In the next moment, silence. There, in front of her, stepping from behind a tree, the girl materialized, mouth free of duct tape, upright and whole. Not lost. Found. It was no less jarring and abrupt than the slam of a gavel. Kate, tried and convicted, had been granted a reprieve.
“There you are,” said Kate. Her own voice sounded impossibly calm to her, unfamiliar.
“There you are,” she said again. “Come here.”
Kate dropped to her knees, and the little girl took the three steps necessary to be wrapped in Kate like a blanket. She hugged the girl like a child hugs a doll, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands clamped on her own crisscrossed arms locking their bodies tightly against one another. The girl stood stiff and silent, her arms held ramrod straight along her sides, until, slowly, she softened from hard plastic to rag. Only then did the girl make her first sound, a long, deep inhalation, held two, three seconds too long, then released as a single keening sob that seemed to come from the very center of both of them.
They stayed this way for no more than a few minutes, rocking gently back and forth, the girl’s sobs more felt than heard, Kate’s own tears silently streaming. Loosening her hold, Kate cupped the child’s face, wiped her tears from her checks, and then laughed, a short, bright sound, when the girl mimicked the gesture with her own small hands on Kate’s face.
“We should go,” whispered Kate and the girl nodded. Kate glanced around. She’d left the man somewhere between the trail and the spot where she’d discovered the girl, all of which was upstream from wherever she was now. She was almost certain. She couldn’t see the stream, could barely hear it, but upstream meant uphill. They wouldn’t go that way. It meant leaving her own pack behind: her wallet, keys, fleece and snacks. No matter. She’d taken his pack which was far better provisioned than her own. Found the girl. Now get away.
Kate pointed downhill and to the right where the forest looked thicker. By the relief in the girl’s eyes, she seemed to agree. Good. Maybe Kate got it right this time. She struggled to her feet and hesitated at the sharp reminder of not just her injured ankle but of each and every sting, scrape and bruise she’d accumulated. She was hurt, she couldn’t move quickly. In the pack was the leftover tape; she could finish the splint. It would take time, but with a splint she could move more quickly than without. Maybe. If it worked. Could she MacGyver a splint? She had no idea. A tug from the girl decided it. They wouldn’t have to go far, just far enough to find a place to hide and figure out what to do.
Not long after, they found themselves on a park trail, Kate had no idea which. It was a low impact trail, narrow, uneven and rooted, but it felt to Kate as exposed as a paved highway. The girl, taking her hand, evidently agreed. They crossed over to the other side and kept going without a path. Twenty minutes later it happened again. Stupid, they’d been walking in circles thought Kate, but then she noticed the trail blazes were a different color. Still, Kate knew she hadn’t been paying attention and resolved to keep the sun always to one side to maintain a direction. She chose to keep the sun to the left for no other reason than she always chose left, at the beach, in a parking lot, at the movies. Of course, the sun would set. They needed a place to hide before nightfall.
They kept going, painstakingly picking their way over the tangle of exposed roots that snaked over pale stone, seeking purchase in scant soil. As they gained or lost elevation, no more than several hundred feet on the small island, the terrain changed from dim, earthy and moist bog, to open, airy clusters of white barked birch, to dense, stunted, and prickly stands of spruce. Kate imagined theirs was an epic journey of Tolkien proportions. It helped her to think this way, to be strong and resilient for the little girl in the way beleaguered but brave adventurers were and ex-graduate students from Pittsburgh weren’t.
That’s how it started. But as one hour gave way to two, pain fought purpose. Kate’s ankle zinged and throbbed with every step, screaming for her to stop. Looking to the girl won the battle. She was so small, had already endured so much, and must be exhausted. Her niece would have whined endlessly, demanded to be carried. This girl didn’t whine or demand. She didn’t speak at all. What was it that kept her going? Hope? Fear? Whatever the reason, Kate drew strength from the child’s resolve; whatever drove her was enough to drive them both.
As they went, they stopped occasionally to consider potential hiding places. Each time the girl considered the spot carefully, tried it out, and then announced her verdict. Her declarations came in mood and gesture, not words. Although her mouth was uncovered, she hadn’t yet spoken a single word. Nevertheless, her assessments were simple and unmistakable. A held nose and refusal to sit said the bog was too wet and stinky. Goosebumps and constant fidgeting said the rocky crag was too hard and cold. Curled lip and agitated squirming said the hollow beneath a fallen tree’s roots was too buggy and muddy. They kept going.
“What do you think? Can we hide in there?” asked Kate.
They’d come upon an area of young spruce trees grown so tightly together they would have to find a way around to keep going. The girl got down on her hands and knees, crawled beneath the branches, and wiggled out of sight around the narrow trunks.
“What do you think?” said Kate again after a time.
A few moments later the child’s face peeked out from under the branches and then disappeared again. Kate knelt down to peer through the trunks where the girl had gone. “I’m not sure I can get in there. Here, let me pass you the pack.” She jammed it as best she could in front of her, crawling close behind. Branches snapped back in her face as the girl yanked and wrenched the pack through the trees in short, erratic bursts. Eventually, she managed to get all of her body, including her scratched arms and legs, drawn into a space where the girl and pack waited. A secret hideaway at the center of a concealing circle of trees.
“Gosh, this is perfect, isn’t it?” asked Kate.
For the first time, the girl smiled widely. Her broad grin belied the glaring evidence of her trauma; the bright red and raw skin irritation around her mouth in the exact size and shape of the rectangle of duct tape. Kate’s heart ached at the sight, but the rest of her felt relief. They’d found their spot.
Kate pulled out the things from the man’s pack and handed them to the child to place in their own special spot: food over here, clothing over there, the pack to lean against, the fleece jacket to snuggle under. Kate used the leftover duct tape and some hardwood branches she’d been collecting on their trek to finish the splint the man had started. They each claimed a water bottle and the girl arranged a snack on top of the map like a tea party. Fed and watered, their possessions inventoried, their nest arranged, the two reclined side by side against the pack and gazed up through the branches toward the darkening sky. The whole time Kate spoke hardly a word and the girl not a one.
“It will be dark soon. You doing okay?” asked Kate softly, breaking the long silence. Kate no longer expected an answer but couldn’t seem to break the habit of asking. She turned on her side to face the girl. The child did the same, placing her hands between her legs, tightly clamped together.
“Are you cold,” asked Kate.
The child shrugged her shoulders.
Kate interpreted that to mean, “No,” or more precisely, maybe she was cold, maybe she wasn’t, but regardless Kate had missed her meaning. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
Solemnly, the child nodded her assent.
“Oh, ah…” Kate sat bolt upright and looked around their space as if a restroom would suddenly reveal itself. “Right, um, not in here, I guess. We’ll have to crawl out to find a spot.”
Neither of them made a move. The child stared, her eyes wide in alarm.
“Can you wait?” asked Kate uncertainly, not at all sure about the bladder control of a 5- year-old. The child nodded rapidly, obviously preferring to hold it. Not forever, thought Kate, but hoped at least until they’d have the cover of darkness. She settled back into place and the two rested side-by-side in silence.
Kate’s respite lasted almost 60 seconds before her brain demanded, ‘Now what?’. The answer was as simple as it was absurd; ‘Now, you spend the night.’ The outrageousness of the situation, of where she was, with whom and why, of what she’d done and had yet to do, threatened to undo her. Kate breathed deeply, fighting hysteria with logic and reason. She’d camped before; she knew how. Never lost and never rough. Never under threat with a child to protect. She took another deep breath.
Camping was camping: food, shelter, warmth. They had food and water; not a feast but enough. They had shelter, more or less. With a bit of string and a piece of plastic she could do better, Outward Bound had taught her how, but the only thing big enough was the man’s bright orange jacket, practically a beacon. They’d lay on top of it instead. They had matches. Useless. She wouldn’t build a campfire, not beneath the branches and not in the open. For warmth they had the man’s spare clothes and each other. Heat was mostly lost through the head; she’d give the man’s watch cap to the girl and use a bandana for herself. Shared body heat was warmer than layers of clothes; they’d snuggle together under them like blankets.
It only took ten minutes to work it through, but to stave off the alternate torments of fear and boredom, she kept at it, working it through. If it rained, she’d make a lean-to of pack and rain jacket, dig a trench to keep the ground beneath them dry. If a rodent came for their food, she’d club it with the water bottle. Over and over, practical solutions for manageable problems. She wouldn’t think of the man, looking for them, finding them, what she’d have to do and how he’d be ready. She wouldn’t think about what happened then.
Night fell and still they waited even though by then Kate had to go to the bathroom too. She assumed the child had fallen asleep, tucked under her arm, holding Kate’s thumb loosely in her hand. It was so dark within the branches, Kate could barely see her hand in front of her face. But then she saw a flash of light, then another, glinting irregularly through the branches. At the sound of a heavy thud and a jangle of metal the girl went tense, squeezing Kate’s thumb tightly. Neither moved nor made a sound. Listening carefully, Kate heard off and on the knock of a boot against a root and the snap of a branch, always some distance away. The light continued to flash in and out through the branches, progressing steadily in a wide arc past their hiding place. A hiker, with a flashlight, moving along a path.
The footfalls receded, the flashes of light disappeared, and still neither dared move a muscle or say a word. Not until the regular sounds of night returned: the rustle of a breeze, the hoot of an owl, the scurrying of a squirrel. Only then did Kate and the girl relax and breathe more deeply. The child tugged on Kate’s sleeve and then put her hands back between her clenched legs.
“Me too,” said Kate. “Pee or poo?” The child shrugged. Kate asked again, holding up one finger of the girl’s fingers for pee and two fingers for poo. The child pressed two fingers into Kate’s hand.
“Me too,” repeated Kate. Taking a dump in the woods wasn’t so bad but doing it without toilet paper was another thing entirely. Even on Outward Bound they’d been allowed TP, as long as they’d packed it out or buried it. Unfortunately, toilet paper, or more accurately tissues, was the one thing she’d had in her pack, left behind by the stream, that he didn’t have in his. What kind of person doesn’t carry tissues, thought Kate? A moment later she shuddered, remembering exactly what kind of person he was. Leaves were the obvious alternative, except there weren’t any leaves nearby, just needles. There was the map, but they might need that.
“Right, okay, we can use his bandana for toilet paper. It’s nice and soft,” said Kate, pulling it off her head. “Serves him right. I’ll rip in in two – half for you, half for me.”
Kate pocketed the flashlight just in case but hoped not to use it. The two crawled by feel back out through the jagged tunnel of branches to where the spruce, fir and pine were more mature and less densely packed. They stood a moment, listening, but all was quiet. The moon was new or perhaps not yet risen, and the stars cast scant light, but it was enough to locate a nearby fallen down tree against which to lean. Within a few short minutes they were back within the confines of their hideout, rummaging for the hand sanitizer, eating most of the rest of the food and arranging their nest for the night.
In the utter stillness, it suddenly occurred to Kate that she didn’t know the little girl’s name. She hadn’t even asked, not once. Not that the girl would answer, but that hadn’t stopped Kate from asking a hundred lesser questions. Her name hadn’t mattered before, not during the urgency of escape and hiding, but now, tucking her in close for the night, it did. Good night, John Boy. Good night, Kate.
“Hey, listen. I must have told you. My name. It’s Kate. Or really, it’s Katherine. Katherine Brown. But everyone calls me Kate.” Although she couldn’t see the child lying next to her in the darkness, she knew she was listening. When Kate didn’t say anything more, the child took Kate’s thumb and pulled her arm across her like a blanket and rested her head on Kate’s other arm like a pillow.
“I wonder what your name is?” whispered Kate. She waited for an answer, not long.
“It’s okay. I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me.” The girl snuggled in closer but didn’t answer. “Or maybe you can’t. I mean, talk. I think you can but maybe you can’t. Either way, it’s okay.” The girl remained silent but relaxed. Kate dared to try another approach.
“I could guess your name. You wouldn’t have to say anything – just squeeze my thumb if I get it right.” The girl held her breath, as still as a rock.
“Bob,” whispered Kate and the little girl exhaled sharply, releasing the tension. “No?” said Kate in mock surprise. “Hmm. Billy Bob. Billy Bob Buttonhead. Billy Bob Buttonhead the Brave.” The little girl snorted each time, trying to keep from laughing, as the name became longer and more preposterous. When a laugh finally escaped like a bark, the child bumped her shoulder against Kate to make her quit. She was right, they should be quieter.
“Okay. Sorry. How about…” whispered Kate and then proceeded to offer up a long list of names of people she knew. Amy, Sarah, Jane, Mary. Pam, Lisa, Laura, Becky. The list went on. The girl listened quietly but didn’t react to any of them.
“I’m never going to guess, am I?” The little girl shrugged her shoulders and Kate grew silent once again.
“I could call you She-Ra,” said Kate after several minutes. “I know that’s not your real name. It’s from a TV show I used to like – He-Man and She-Ra. She-Ra is a princess, the Princess of Power. She’s really strong and brave and smart. Like you,” said Kate, giving the girl a squeeze. “What do you think?”
The little girl shrugged.
“Really?” said Kate with disappointment. “It’s up to you, of course, but I kind of like it. I don’t have to say it like SHE – RAH. Just Sheera. Like Sheila.” The child jerked, bumping Kate’s chin with her head. Kate couldn’t tell what that meant. Another laugh? Kate repeated it a couple of times, trying it out. “Sheera, the Princess of Power. P.O.P. Sheera Pop.” Kate giggled. “It’s like a secret name. We know you’re really She-Ra, the Princess of Power but you’re disguised as a little girl named Sheera Pop. Come on, what do you say?”
The little girl gave Kate’s thumb a tight squeeze.
“Okay. Sheera Pop it is.” Kate gave the girl another squeeze and the two fell into a companionable silence. It had been dark for a while. To Kate it felt like midnight although she guessed it was closer to 9 or 9:30. Her watch said 8:10. As the minutes ticked by, the little girl didn’t seem able to fall asleep. She fidgeted, rearranging their makeshift covers and playing with the zippers and pockets of the clothes serving as blankets. When she reached for the water bottle a third time, Kate spoke up.
“Sheera, it’s late. Even the Princess of Power has to sleep at night. Tell you what. You lie still and cozy and I’ll sing you a song. Okay?”
Kate remembered how her father used to sing her to sleep. He had a deep, soothing and soulful voice and there was a song that only he sang to her, at bedtime or when she was hurt or scared. Clementine. She hadn’t thought of it in years but recalled the tune immediately and the warmth and love it carried. ‘Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Clementine’ went the chorus. She sang slowly and softly but as faithfully as she could, only to realize as she continued that it was more lament than lullaby. ‘You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorrows, Clementine’.
Good God, what was she thinking, what had her father been thinking, singing that to a child. As soon as she stopped, the girl nudged her with her shoulder, so Kate sang it again. After a few rounds, she switched to another song, Rock a Bye Baby, which had its own problematic theme what with boughs breaking and babies falling. Shit. Determined to end on a lighter note she landed on ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star’. But the little girl shook her head and kept nudging. It was Clementine the girl wanted to hear, and Kate kept singing each time a little softer until the little princess of power finally drifted off to sleep.
An hour later the girl started thrashing and crying, half-awake, calling for her mother. There was her answer; the girl could talk but chose not to. She wanted to believe that could was good, tried to, but mostly she found the news heartbreaking. Kate lulled her back to sleep with her song of dreadful sorrows, over and over, and tried not to think about what kind of dreadful sorrows could turn a 5-year-old girl mute.
Into the night, minutes ticked by like hours, eons. Her feet grew cold, sticking out too far to benefit from their body heat, and her arm grew numb under the weight of the child’s head. She was stung, cut, bruised and swollen, hungry, cold, dirty and smelly. But that was the least of it. What tormented Kate that interminable night was the truth; she was not the person she’d thought she was. A defenseless child needed to be rescued, needed Kate to rescue her, and she didn’t. Everything she’d done, every choice she’d made, had been wrong. She’d left her and lost her and put them both in danger. And now what? She had no idea. It was completely beyond her. How could she not know what to do?
The girl had known. A five-year-old girl had known what to do and how to be brave. She ripped the tape from her face when Kate couldn’t and she hid from the man when Kate wouldn’t. The little girl knew they had to stay together, to run and hide and stay together. Now Kate knew too. All she could do was stay by her side. All she had to offer was body heat. And a lament. She should have named her Clementine. If only someone, anyone else had found her. God, how awful was that, to wish she’d never found her. Panicky, incompetent, cowardly; her failings itemized and unforgivable. She had to do better. Over and over she demanded an answer, until the question, grown laden and abstract, haunted her, unanswerable. How would she rescue the little girl? She didn’t know. How could she not know?
At long last the sun rose and with it Kate’s darkest thoughts dissipated like a fog burning off in the heat of the day. She didn’t forgive herself her failings, but at least what had seemed so impossible during the night became simple: stay together, find help. The question on her mind went from existential to pragmatic; not who, why or how, but rather, which way. The child still sleeping, Kate pulled out the map to study in the dim light of morning. She knew which trail she’d been on when she fell by the hive, although not how far along it. Given all the crashing about in the woods she’d done in the hours since, they could be just about anywhere. They’d crossed over two hiking paths. For at least half of their journey she’d kept the setting sun to their left. More or less. Before that, she didn’t know. So somewhere north-ish. Now, perched on a hillside the low light of sunrise shone on them. Depending on how far they’d gone, that put them possibly on the eastern flank of Bowditch Mountain within the park, or beyond the boundary, Jerusalem Mountain, or Sawyer, or Champlain. Regardless, the loop road would be closest to the east. They would head toward the sun.
The morning was cold, their breath a thin mist. They ate the last of their food and drank the last of the water. The little girl wore the watch cap and the man’s fleece which reached mid-shin like an overcoat. Kate layered up in everything else except the orange jacket – that stayed hidden away. They didn’t linger, but moved slowly, heading east. Kate’s improvised splint helped, the sticks and tape supporting some of her weight, but the pain was deep and unrelenting and drew occasional tears. Kate tried hard not to fill the silence with constant chatter but occasionally commented softly on a colorful leaf or oddly twisted tree trunk as if they were taking a nature walk together. Eventually they spotted a pond glinting below, the road and eastern shore beyond. They were still within the park boundaries. Their epic journey had taken them hardly any distance at all.