Chapter 9 - The Trail

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
'Tis the wind, and nothing more." - Edgar Allan Poe

That night I dreamt of the library. A year ago my parents thought it might be nice to invite a few kindergarten classmates of mine to play, though I’m sure my father’s true motive was to show off. The children would see the Library and tell their parents. My father would mentally preen.

For all that I loved him, my father managed to embarrass me in most social situations. “Dad! Stop doing that! People are looking at us,” was a common statement of mine. My father paid very little attention to my complaints. Looking back on it now, I think he found them amusing. At some point in his life, he had decided that the notion of embarrassment was a waste of time and proceeded to ignore it.

In my dream that day had not yet turned sour. The children were still marveling at the many shelves. No one had thought to point out that I and my family could be a bunch of nerds. Everything was too new. I knew all of that was about to change.

Jordan, the boy I had always considered a friend, turned to face me. He was grinning a wide, hungry, violent grin. Adults never remember these grins, even though they haunt our deep-down memories. We put them in stories about murders and werewolves. We forgot that these are the grins of little girls and little boys who have discovered the power of cruelty.

“Nice house, dork!” shouts Jordan, his teeth flashing. I find my hands tugging at my mother’s shirt, but she does not hear me or feel me. She is turned away and oblivious.

Sammy turns at Jordan’s words and instantly understands. Children know about power. “Yeah, dillweed!” he cries.

Quickly, the remaining children turn and start shouting insults. In moments I can no longer comprehend the words, I only feel the rage, the heat blazing from their bodies. Then, from the ranks, Jordan steps forward. The crowd goes silent. He stands inches away from me and stares down into my eyes. “Boys,” he says to the children behind him. “Let’s go. It’s time to leave this loser and his loser father with their loser books.”

My eyes water at this point, but I manage to hold back the tears. Jordan curses at me, puts his hand upon my chest and shoves me down. I fall against a bookshelf and crack my head on a corner. Then they are gone. When my parents ask me where my friends went, I tell them I asked them to go. My father is irritated at this and walks away. My mother looks concerned, but does not press me.

It is a dream I have often had since that day. Until that night in the plains, the pain had been dulling. I was a child, and children can forget. Now it was back, vivid and ghastly. However, I had little time to deal with it as I awoke. Something more pressing was happening.

Jonathan was shaking me. “Dewey,” he whispered. “the others are awake. You have to see this!”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and pushed the pain into an unused corner of my mind. “What? What’s going on?” I asked.

“It’s..., I don’t know what it is. I’m not sure if it’s amazing or funny or both. You just have to see.”

With that Jonathan hurried away. Curious, I got up and followed him. The sky was dark, as the dawn sun had not yet risen. In a few moments, we reached a small rise. He crouched down, waited for me, and whispered, “They’re just over this hill.”

I peaked over the grass and was astounded. There, as far as the eye could see, stretched a single row of prairie dogs, starting as far as I could see to the north and ending just as far to the south, facing east. Each one stood on his or her hind legs and stared intently at nothing that I could see, each one’s tail wagging furiously. I recognized Herrenfeld nearby. For a time, nothing happened, then the Patros began to hum. The hum followed the line of the Prairiea both north and south, until it seemed an immense sounding board stood in front of me. The earth seemed to buzz in counterpoint to the creatures’ rumble.

And then the sun broke the eastern horizon. The humming swelled and minute changes appeared along the line. Harmonies floated atop harmonies. The underlying current held steady. In its tones I thought I heard flashes of the song Aly sang the night before. As the sun rose, the prairie dogs went totally still, save for their vast song. Then, at the edges, the song seemed to dim. Younger voices fell away. The song grew deeper, more ancient.

I felt in that hum, the song shooting back thousands of years and shooting forward thousands more. The Prairiea had greeted the dawn in this way since time immemorial.

Yet more voices quieted. The line of song got smaller and smaller, until only one voice could be heard, the hum of Herrenfeld. In a moment he too went silent. Jonathan and I exchanged glances. We had witnessed the morning song of the Prairiea. We did not speak as we returned to the camp. What could be said? Having witnessed the event from other points, my cousins and Thad trailed in from other directions, obviously stunned by the enormity of the prairie dogs’ choir. I returned to my blanket and remained quiet for some time.

It was not until that afternoon that we finally returned to our journey. In the intervening moments, discussions occurred, plans were set, hands were shaken, and a wheel was fixed. I rode in the cart with Kenzie and Aly, and Jonathan walked along with Thad as we departed. The many prairie dog pups trailed us for several hundred yards before returning to their parents.

“So that was something this morning, huh,” ventured Jonathan, as he kept pace with us.

“I’ll say,” said Kenzie. “Speaking of which, what happened to you last night, Aly? I had no idea you had that in you.” Aly only shrugged and looked embarrassed.

“Seriously, Aly, I’ve never heard you sing like that before. Where did it come from?” added Jonathan.

Aly looked down at her hands, then said, “I’m not sure, guys. It felt strange. It was like the words were coming from my voice and were being lifted from my mind, but they didn’t feel like my words. It was like someone else was singing through me… No, that isn’t right. It was like someone else had told me what to sing years ago, and I was just remembering the words.”

“You know,” I said, “I’ve felt the same way since we began this quest.” As I said it, I realized it was true. “I’m a kid. I’m seven! I should be watching cartoons and learning to color, but I talk like I’m Kenzie’s age and act like I'm as old as my father. Heck, we all do. What is happening to us in this place?”

Before the cousins could say anything, Thad called out. “We’re here! Dewey! Kenzie! We made it!”

Startled, we all looked at him, then looked around. Not a lot had changed. Prairie grass continued to ripple in every direction like a vast ocean. Kenzie and Jonathan exchanged exasperated glances.

I spoke up. “Um, Thad, it looks pretty much the same here as everywhere else. What are you talking about?”

“It is, lad, it is. But it’s also something more! Come see.” Having said this, he trotted over to a point a few yards further and gestured at the ground. Grumbling, I climbed down and went to see what he was pointing at.

When I was about three feet away from Thad, I tripped. Surprised, I looked at where my foot had been. There was a wide rut. My hands had fallen into another one near where Thad was pointing.

“This is it!” he hooted. “This is the trail! This, my good friend, is when our travails get easier and our step livens.” Thad began to do a little jig.

I turned back to my cousins and shrugged. Thad was correct. This was a trail. I still did not understand what made it so fantastic, and said as much.

Jonathan tried to clarify things. “What’s so great about this trail?” he asked.

“What’s so great?! What’s so great?! Children, this is the Chisholm Trail! The is the great cattle-driving trail of Texas! This is the Roman Highway of Kansas. This is the Autobahn of the plains. This is the path to your friend Matty,” Thad said and poked me in the ribs. He grinned. “Everything is going to get easier now.”

Very few statements have been more false.

For a time after we turned onto the trail, it was as Thad said. Everything was easier. The bumps and bruises of the open plains disappeared as our cart stopped jostling and jerking the lot of us. Even the mule seemed content and pulled with extra vigor. At some point, Aly had named the mule Nestor, after some cartoon donkey. She encouraged Nestor’s new energy with a few extra carrots. That whole day we made excellent time.

As the evening came upon us, we started to make out a light in the distance.

“What is that?” I asked Thad, pointing toward the light due north of us that seemed to intersect with our trail perfectly.

“That is Newton, the international port of Kansas,” said our guide, proudly.

“Port?” I asked. “How can Kansas have a port? It's a prairie in the center of a continent without a single major lake.”

“Newton,” said Thad, “is home to the Train Station. It's Kansas's connection to the world. The next port is Kansas City, and that train station is on the Missouri side.”

“Are you saying there’s a train from Newton to KC?” interjected Jonathan.

“Yes,” said Thad.

Aly got very excited at this. “Does that mean we can take the train?! Oh, I’ve always wanted to take the train.” She turned to Kenzie. “Can we please, Kenz? It would be so much fun!”

Kenzie glanced from Aly to me and back, then said, “I don’t think so, Sis. The old man told us to avoid cars and the like. We could take that train, but…” she turned to me for support.

“Something real bad might happen,” I said. I knew Kenzie was right too. I could feel it. I could hear the scream of the gears. I could see the train’s hunger. “Real bad,” I repeated, almost to myself.

The discussion ended with that, and, shortly thereafter, so did that day’s journey.

“We should camp here, tonight, before we hit Newton,” said Kenzie.

Thad began to complain at this. He had been looking forward to a warm bed. Kenzie interrupted him. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful town,” she said, “but something about those lights makes me feel uneasy. I don’t want to run into trouble tonight. It’ll be far better and easier to deal with any problems in the morning.”

Thad said nothing at this. He simply shrugged and set to building the fire for camp. His silence made me nervous. Such behavior was unlike Thad. Before now, a simple explanation had never been enough to stop his wheedling. Usually, it took threats of violence.

After camp had been set up and dinner finished, Thad stood to perform yet another poem. It had taken little time for him to overcome any moodiness Kenzie might have forced on him. He began.
Twelve strokes around and I am the same
Yet different.
Twelve strokes around and the sky is dark
And I’ve reset.

Twelve strokes around and the world is turned
But I am not spent.
Twelve strokes around and my soul is burned
And the night is dark and the moon is red.
Twelve strokes around and twelve again
And the flames fly high and the world is dead.

Twelve strokes around and my gears are shot.
Twelve strokes around and it was all for naught.
Twelve strokes around and twelve strokes around.
And twelve strokes around and twelve strokes around.

Thad was finished, but there were no sighs or moans of embarrassment. For the first time, he had left us speechless. This was not his usual poem of love and loss. This one was different. This one felt unpleasant. This one felt wrong.

I tried to fall asleep that night, but the words haunted me. It was not until well past midnight that I drifted away. Until then, Thad's voice echoed in my head.

And twelve strokes around. And twelve strokes around. And twelve strokes around.

That night the wind howled.