Roots as Deep as Mountains
by Thane ThompsonThe news that fall afternoon was all about terrorists and dirty bombs. I had just turned nine, but even I knew that the world we used to live in was nothing but a memory now. Four days after the bombs went off, people were getting sick, and a week after that they started dropping like flies. As soon as Grandma heard that, we hit the road.
We made our way up from Phoenix on I-17. We got off at the Jerome exit and drove the last six miles to the base of Mingus Mountain. The local militia relieved us of our car at the checkpoint and made us walk from there, up the narrow switchbacks of the road that snaked itself out of the valley to Jerome.
Grandma was tired even before we started climbing, but I was surprised at how tough she was. She laughed and coughed and joked that she had planned to quit smoking pretty soon anyway, so now was a good time.
We only stopped in Jerome long enough to buy some supplies. Luckily, people were still taking money back then. We came out of the general store four hundred dollars lighter, but loaded down with heavy coats, some small steel traps, a .22 caliber rifle and bullets, and as much canned food as we could carry. The man at the counter started out talking to Grandma like she was an idiot, but it didn't take him long to change his tune. I had no idea that Grandma knew any of those words.
We didn't get too far out of Jerome that night. The road continued to climb up into the mountains, and before long I knew why Grandma had bought the coats. The next day, we walked along the narrow road until we reached a gnarled old tree carved with initials and swear words. Grandma stopped, looked at me, and said, "This is it, Emma. Let's hope it's still there."
She headed off into the brush. As we went, she told me that we weren't actually going to Prescott. She had just said that in case I got talkative while we were in Jerome. A long time ago her grandpa had worked as an outpost ranger in the Prescott Forest. She'd spent her summers in a snug little cabin, hidden up a canyon about a two-day hike into the forest from here.
When we stopped to take a break, I asked her how we'd know when it was safe to come back down the mountain. She said, "Look up at the sky, Emma, and tell me what you see."
I stood and looked for a while, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be seeing. She stayed silent, standing there with me and catching her breath. Then she asked me, "Do you see any planes in the sky? Are there any... what did you used to call them... airplane tracks up there?"
"No. Not any."
"Well, sweetheart, when you look up at the sky and see airplane tracks again, you'll know the world's getting back to normal."
That was ten years ago.
We survived. We worked the shallow, rocky dirt and trapped small game and fished the stream that ran below the house. Grandma was a good teacher. She didn't worry too much about reading and stuff, which was good, since the only book we had with us was a battered old Bible. Grandma was more interested in making sure I knew how to stay alive and well fed.
Our first spring, after the thaw finally won its wrestling match with the snow and ice, we picked our way down to Jerome to buy supplies. We crept along the road and hit town at dawn on the third day out. They laughed at us that first time we came down – when Grandma thought that money might still be worth something. On our way back to the cabin, she looked at me and said in her quiet voice, "That's why we brought those pelts with us. I know you think it's cruel, but money's only as useful as people think it is." I stopped complaining about eating beaver stew after that.
Each spring in town, I'd meet up with a certain boy. As Grandma haggled with the scroungers and the shop keepers, I'd seek out Nathan, with his curly black hair and his beautiful warm eyes. I usually found him at his parent's store. I'd stand there half the day, telling him about trapping and hunting and fishing in the creek, and he'd tell me everything that was going on in town. It became a habit to spend my time in town with Nathan, and as the years went by, we both looked forward to our visit. Last year, he kissed me before I left, right on the lips. It was just a little peck, chaste as a Sunday morning, but I could still feel the tingle of it every time I thought about him.
I had always been full of questions, and the end of the world hadn't changed that very much. Grandma was patient with me, and she answered every one she could. But there was one question that she would never answer directly. Whenever I asked it, she'd just say, "Emma, the only person you can truly rely on is yourself. Everybody will let you down sooner or later. Even me." The saying was almost like a hymn I remembered from church. I would sing out my question, over and over again, and she'd sing back the response.
I'd been with her since my fifth birthday. Mom had brought me over to her house, telling me that we were going there for my birthday party. She dropped me off with a kiss and a "see you soon," went out to get cake and ice cream, and never came back. For several weeks after Mom left, I spent every afternoon on Grandma's cracked vinyl couch, waiting for her to come back. It was about then that Grandma came up with the saying. Sometimes I wondered if she was telling it to me or to herself. The last time she said it to me was the night before she died. We were sitting on the old creaky porch, watching the sun go down. The pinkish light filtered its way down through the tips of the piñon pines that cluttered up the ridge west of our cabin. Our chairs were pushed close together, and her hand was resting lightly on my arm as the sun warmed her wrinkled face.
When I woke in the morning I found her stiff and cold, curled up on her side like a baby. I cried as I wrapped her body in a blanket and dug her shallow grave at the base of the big oak tree near the cabin. I stood by her graveside for a few minutes, tears streaming down my face, and thought of everything she'd been for me.
The next morning, I packed up what few provisions and memories I could carry. I stopped under the oak tree to say a last goodbye before I headed down the canyon towards the road. I figured I could make it back to civilization in about two days.
I'd never been to town so late in the year. Usually Grandma and I came down right after the thaw, but she was so frail this spring that we'd kept putting it off, hoping that the summer air would help her bounce back. I guess this time I wasn't just going for a visit. I was going to ask Nathan to help me find a place to stay and some kind of work that would let me settle in Jerome. And I was hoping that he would ask me something, too.
I made good time and hit Jerome on the evening of my second day out. I had taken all the direct routes that I knew. It was like I was flying down that mountain, intent on finding something that I'd been missing all my life.
I found Nathan at his store, just getting ready to close up for the night. He saw me, did a double take, and then frowned. The expression didn't stay on his face more than a second, but it made my stomach drop. I'd never come to town alone before, so when he didn't see Grandma, he looked at me and raised an eyebrow in question.
"She's dead. She died three days ago."
"I'm sorry. She was nice. Tough as nails to haggle with, but nice."
"Yeah."
"So are you down from the mountain for good?"
"I want to be. I don't really have any place to stay, though."
"You could stay with us for a while. I mean, with Sally and me."
He must have seen the expression on my face, because he looked down at the ground and started talking really fast. "I looked for you every day this spring, but you never came. I met Sally last fall when a group of refugees passed through from Prescott. I told her all about you. What you meant to me, and how much I was looking forward to you coming down this year. So I could… ask you something."
I stood there, the .22 cradled in my arm, and felt my heart begin to break.
"Please don't cry Emma,” he said, as tears started to run down my cheeks. “I didn't know how to find you. I had no way of knowing if you were still alive. When you didn't come down this spring, I thought something might have happened. Sally's people wintered here and were getting ready to move on. I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I waited as long as I could, but… I'm sorry."
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and did my best to stop the rest of my tears. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel sorry for me. When I calmed down, I said, "I hope you're happy. I wish you both the best." I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm, and before I could do anything, he folded me into his arms and kissed me deep and hard. I pulled back and looked at him, seeing a struggle deep within his warm brown eyes. I'd seen that look many times before, when I found an animal in one of my traps. I held him at arm's length, looking at him for another moment, before I decided to kiss him back.
That was the only time we were ever together. I woke long before dawn, tangled up with him like the roots of an old tree. I almost stayed, knowing that if I pushed hard enough, I could take him back. But he'd made his choice, and it wasn't my place to put it asunder. That night was a stolen moment, taken from a life that neither of us could have now.
I waited until first light before I headed back up the mountain. I cried a little more as I stood on the edge of the forest, watching the sun come up over Jerome. I stared past the trees at what was left of civilization – wishing that somehow I could be a part of it. But it just wasn't meant to be. Whenever I came to town after that, I did my trading with old Mr. Harris.
That was eight years ago. I've lived what seems like a lifetime since then. But this lonely old cabin grows on you. I was sitting by the rusty iron stove this morning when my daughter asked me the question I always used to ask Grandma.
"Momma," she said, her little cheeks pink with the morning chill as she brought in some early spring wildflowers, "we're stuck up here all by ourselves. What will I do if something happens to you?"
It was just like hearing the first robin's song after a long winter. And I picked it right up, singing back the response like I was breathing. I said, "Ellen, the only person you can truly rely on is yourself. Everybody will let you down sooner or later. Even me."
©Thane Thompson
Thane Thompson writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, at The Writer's Eye Magazine, The Drabblecast, Flash Me Magazine, Every Day Fiction, Poesia, Scifaikuest, Every Day Poets and Harûah: Breath of Heaven. He lives in southwest Ohio with his wife and their two daughters. .