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A Love So Bold By Anon Allsop Preface: Origins of the Amulet of Asclepius The amulet was a thin medal of hammered silver, an ancient necklace which dated back to before the time of Christ. It first came to knowledge with the early Greeks, said to have been imbued with great mystical powers, forged directly by the hands of the gods. On one side of the amulet was a clear, blue sapphire teardrop that appeared to have a sunburst deeply etched within the backside of the beautiful stone. On the reverse side was an engraving that looked somewhat similar to the Rod of Asclepius, a snake wrapped around a staff. It was believed to have been suspended on a thin but unbreakable chain, thought to have been made from woven strands of Zeus' own silver hair. If touched to a person, the amulet was thought to cure the individual of any injury or illness. Should the amulet be touched to a person who was recently deceased, and if that dead had young and dependent offspring, there was a possibility of the amulet transforming the holder inadvertently, just to save the life of the orphan, especially if the child had no way of fending for itself. It was created to be used only as a last resort to save a life, and only a chosen few caretakers knew its true origin. Over time, several who held onto it for safekeeping began to use it on themselves so they could experience unheard of life spans. Their addiction to the power left them feeling as though they too were immortal. They had begun comparing their own lives upon equal footing with the gods! Upon hearing of this, it was said that Zeus became furious at their blasphemy; he took it from them and threw it into a far distant land where it became lost to the ages ever since... -One- With a failed farm behind them, Ezrah Garrett and his family set out one early April morning in 1860. Frost hung thick on the bushes and grassy low areas, almost looking as though it were snow. They only had their courage, a solid wagon, two good oxen, an old milk cow, and his father's prize possession: a thoroughbred race horse. Ezrah had grown up along the banks of the Wabash, near the small town of Delphi, Indiana. Ezrah and his parents began their trek into the west, following the dream of good land for the taking in the far off Oregon territory. The Garrett family was no different from many families who set out for the west. Illness, lack of water, too much water, intense cold, sweltering heat, and Indians all impacted them along their way. While this writing includes his trip into the west, it is about a more personal journey young Ezrah took in getting from there, to Oregon. Tired of the constant pitching of their wagon, Ezrah eventually begged his father to allow him a chance to ride the great black horse. His father relented and pulled his wagon out of the line and quickly showed him how to saddle the sleek black thoroughbred, aptly named Blackie. Under his father's watchful eye, Ezrah rode the horse slowly alongside the wagon, ever careful to not do something that would have this honored privilege revoked. "Keep it slow, boy," his father would say. "Don't want him to stumble and break a leg. That's good, son, don't ride too close to our wheel." "Are you sure he'll be okay on Blackie? It is a powerful horse and he is a young boy." Mother worried as she watched Ezrah sitting confidently upon the back of the big horse. "He's nearly a man honey; only three months shy of his eighteenth birthday! You mother the lad too much - besides we don't want Blackie to turn green from the lack of riding, the lad is doing the horse good...and I'm pretty sure that Blackie is helping the boy as well." Ezrah could barely hear his parents discussing him in the background, because their conversation was nearly overwhelmed by the continual squeaking of their wagon's wheels. He pulled his kerchief over his face for the dust being stirred up from the leading wagons made the air incredibly hard to breathe. "Don't go too far out, Ezrah," his mother shouted. "I'm okay, Mother; I am only as far up as our oxen. I think they like me walking beside them," the youth replied, then quickly drew his kerchief back over his nose for the dust that the wagon train was kicking up. His father looked skyward, pursed his lips and called out, "Going to be raining soon, keep him close." They rolled along for a few miles; the terrain always looked the same as what they left behind. In the distance, the sky was streaked with rain falling from a far off cloud. A worried glance that was exchanged from wife to husband spoke volumes, so his father finally called Ezrah in. The wagon was slowed and Ezrah slid to the ground and quickly tied the horse alongside their milk cow. They only stopped long enough for the youth to remove the small racing saddle and were quickly on their way, once again in their place within line. He settled in beside his father upon the hard seat, and his mother now behind them inside the wagon. The cool storm wind had intensified and was too much for her delicate condition. She was pregnant, nearly four months along. They knew of the dangers of trying to give birth along the way, but it could not be helped. Just beginning to show, the young mother prayed that they would be able to get close to their destination before their baby was born. After Ezrah, she gave birth to two who died very young; one was stillborn, the other from illness. This child would be her third and final try to get the young girl she coveted. Thunder rumbled long and low and lightning flashed across the sky. Ezrah studied his father for signs of concern but he found none. The man hid his worry well. "Just a lightning storm is all, Ezrah. We'll be fine." "Will it rain?" "It may." His father glanced back toward the horse tied behind their wagon. "I'm more worried that Blackie will get spooked. He doesn't care for storms much." "I don't care for storms either," snapped a voice from deep within the wagon. Both father and son glanced back into the wagon, turned and shared a knowing glance and smiled. "Pa, do you think we'll see any Indians?" Ezrah asked with a slight amount of trepidation. His father shrugged, "Not sure, son, but I hope we don't." He again scanned the sky and the deepening clouds, "Ever since that fool soldier, Lieutenant Grattan, stirred up the Indians back in 1858, there's been hell to pay trying to head west." "Do tell, Pa," he asked softly, the wonderment evident in his voice. Always eager to hear about battles, Ezrah perked up and turned his head toward his father as he continued. "Seems an old cow wandered away from a wagon train and this tribe of Indians found it. You see, son, they were hungry and thought it was a gift from the Great Spirit and... Well they ate it. When the Lieutenant found out he had a parlay with them Indians and was told that it had been eaten." "What happened next? Was that what caused the battle?" Ezrah asked. "Well those Indians were saddened that they ate someone's cow and offered to give a horse in trade but the Lieutenant Grattan wouldn't hear of it. He had his solders fire on the tribe and killed and wounded many of them Indians." "So then it was over?" the youth asked, leaning forward eagerly. "Oh no, you see the chief wouldn't let his braves fire back at them soldiers... that made Grattan powerful angry and he had his men fire at the Indians again and they killed that peace-loving chief. After that, all hell has broken loose and hasn't let up since." He turned back toward the oxen and watched a small patch of sunlight race across the land toward them. "I guess that would make them angry at us," Ezrah reasoned. "Like hitting a hornets' nest with a stick." He sighed and looked at his son with a smile, "The lesson there would be?" Ezrah grinned, "Don't be hitting no hornets' nest with a stick." This made his father laugh out loud; he shook his head and nickered to his oxen. It began to rain but it was short lived, a swift storm that was soon pushed beyond them. More of the little patches of sun racing across the prairie could be seen, and eventually the sun returned and the air grew still and dry. "Can I ride Blackie again?" Ezrah looked toward his father hopefully. "Not today, Ezrah, maybe you can ride him tomorrow sometime." He noted the disappointment on his son's face so he continued, "I'm figuring that it's going to be a long haul, so it would just make more sense right now that you learn how to drive the wagon." "Are you sure, John? He is just a lad," chimed the worried female from behind. He looked at his mother in frustration; at nearly eighteen many young men his age were married by now with families of their own. He was growing tired of her smothering him, wanting a chance to make decisions on his own. Ignoring her concern, he placed the reins in Ezrah's hands. "We'll have you spelling me in no time." His wife sighed and he spoke with his head turned so she could hear, "It'll be good, I may want to sleep or walk... he can give me a break from time to time." "Am I doing alright?" Ezrah asked. "You're doing just fine, son." He leaned back, propped his feet on the front of the wagon, pushed his hat back and folded his arms against his chest. "Wake me when we get to Oregon." The comment caused Ezrah to smile; he enjoyed helping his parents out on such a long journey. His father was right - it was time that he learned to pull his own weight on the trail, and he knew there would be plenty enough of chances to prove himself along the way. -Two- The wagons continued to roll westward, as days piled upon days. The constant groan of the wagons and lowing of the oxen seemed to make the days drag on. The dust was unbearable; it made Ezrah itch and nearly long for a stream to bathe in. His mother was now showing signs of the baby. Ezrah knew they hoped for a girl but inwardly, he felt a boy would be much better suited for this land. At nightfall, the wagon train circled up for the evening. His father always pointed their wagon's tongue toward the North Star so when they woke up, they knew exactly which way to head out. Ezrah noticed the men exchanging odd glances that evening. There was concern in their expressions. Even though the lad was inexperienced to the ways of the west, he knew they were in Indian country, and all of them would have to be ever vigilant. Their very lives depended upon it. Morning broke, and found the little family two days west of Fort Laramie. The wagon train rolled slowly along, Ezrah was riding about a hundred feet to the right of his own wagon. His father allowed his son a bit of freedom to go out and come back, showing his trust he had in him. While the father was quite sure of his son skill, Ezrah's mother was constantly on pins and needles with worry. Ezrah rode Blackie up a few wagons, but still within sight of his father. He wanted to show off to his friend the big black thoroughbred he had been bragging about the night before. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead, for the day was hot and very dry. Far off to their right, dust was hanging high in the air. It was evident to the boy that a dust storm was approaching. Wheeling Blackie around, he trotted back to his father. "Pa, looks like a dust storm is fixing to blow over us." He pointed as the horse pranced, causing him to continually adjust the direction he had been pointing. His father rose up in the wagon, studying the area his son indicated. "Not sure if that's a storm, son - I'll keep an eye on it though." As Ezrah rode back up to his friend's wagon, another rider approached his father, "What do you make of that, Lem?" "Ezrah just showed me the same thing; he thought it was a dust storm but I'm not sure." He pulled the cork on his canteen and took a quick swallow. "You don't suppose it's Indians, do you?" the mounted rider worried. "It's probably just buffalo. They can move in a herd large enough to kick up a big cloud of dust." He again glanced in the direction of the great cloud and looked over at the mounted man, "Probably should let the Wagon Master know, just in case." As he began to ride off, Ezrah's father called out to the other man, "I wouldn't say anything to anyone else; you don't want to spook the whole train if there isn't anything to it." The man slowly nodded and then quickly moved off to find the Wagon Master. As he rode past Ezrah, the lad trotted the big black thoroughbred over to the side of the wagon. "Keep within eyesight, Ezrah." "Okay Pa," the boy replied, and then looked again toward the advancing cloud, "What did the man think it was?" "Probably nothing... thought it might just be a big herd of buffalo." He forced a smile to his son and continued to study the dust as it approached. "Maybe it's soldiers from Fort Laramie?" Ezrah offered. His father nodded, "That's a good suggestion, son. I hadn't thought of that." Ezrah turned the big horse, moving slightly away from the wagon. He wanted to see what a column of cavalry soldiers might look like, two or four abreast with their grand pennant flying overhead, wearing their smart blue uniforms. Perhaps it just may be a great migrating herd of bison, as vast as his eye could see. One thing was for certain, the dust cloud was getting closer. The teen hesitantly glanced toward his wagon, and saw that his father was preoccupied trying to turn the wagon and avoid hitting a large rock. Ezrah slipped the big stallion behind an outcropping of rock and worked his way toward the dust cloud. As he broke out around a boulder, he knew that he was almost on top of whatever was creating the dust. From where he currently was, he could tell that it was not a storm. From his left and in the distance, he heard a rifle shot and then another. The horse stepped into the open and he felt his stomach take a sudden fall into the pit of his belly. Hundreds of Indians were swarming the few wagons already attempting to form a circle. As the Indians hit the wagons hard, shots rang out sounding more like a battle than anything that Ezrah had ever heard. "Pa... Ma!" he cried as he wheeled his father's horse back up the trail. He stood up in the saddle, tears running down his cheeks, trying to figure a way to get back with his parents. Just as his father had implied, the Indians were swarming the train like angry hornets, racing completely around and between them. They had hit the train so quickly that the lead wagons weren't able to turn into the circle for protection. He sought out his parents; he could only see dust and Indians, each one with their voices raised and whooping their call of victory. Ezrah covered his ears and cried. Eventually as the maelstrom before him subsided, the shooting became less frequent until there was a deafening silence that enveloped all. Ezrah stayed concealed until the Indians finally left, taking anything worthwhile with them as plunder. By then it was well past dark. Slowly he walked the big black horse down into the scene of the massacre; everywhere he looked lay men, women and a few of the older children. Wagons were burning, and smoke drifted across the lonesome prairie. In the matter of what had been minutes, everything was gone. He was trembling. "Ma...Pa!" he shouted as he walked Blackie among the burned out wagons. He found his parents' wagon; one of the oxen had been killed, and it lay where it had fallen. The wagon was on its side, his father lay beneath it. Ezrah raced to him and dug at the ground beside his father until he could pull his body from under the long wooden bows that made up the frame for the canvas cover. He had three arrows deeply imbedded in his chest, these he removed, crying all the while he was doing it. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he tugged and pulled him away from the wagon, until he was a safe distance from the burning flames. He looked back and raced to locate his mother, being a smaller woman he was able to carry her much more easily to where his father lay. As he knelt beside them crying he felt a touch upon his arm. His eyes followed to where he felt the touch, it was his father's hand. "Pa? You're alive!" he quickly wiped the tears away and hugged him. His father grasped his arm and held him tightly, "Leave us. There is nothing you can do for us now. Ma is gone...I'll soon follow." "No, Pa, I'm not going to leave you!" Ezrah again began to cry; his father slowly lifted his hand and touched his son's cheek. He swallowed hard, looking up at his son with tears in his eyes. He licked his lips, "In the wagon...in the bottom drawer, there's a tin." He winced and coughed, "That tin has all the money left from the sale of our farm and what we could save, if it ain't burnt, get it." He motioned for Ezrah to go, and within moments he had returned holding the blackened tin. "Open it..." His father wheezed. "There's $954.00 in there...take it, build the horse ranch I dreamed of." He arched his neck in pain, and then coughed up blood. "Get back on Blackie; put as much distance as you can from here. I'll die well knowing you are still alive." Tears began to form in his father's eyes as he gently reached out and took his wife's hand. "Go on, son; don't worry about us... leave before they come back." Ezrah slowly stood and wiped his tears; his father turned his face toward his wife and gradually closed his eyes in death's eternal sleep. Tears flowing and barely able to see, Ezrah sought out Blackie and fell against the saddle. When he was able to compose himself, he hesitantly climbed atop the horse. He sat quietly for a moment looking upon his parents for what he knew would be the last time, angry at himself for riding out on his own, but knowing that if he hadn't he would most likely be dead as well. -Three- Two days west of the attack site, Ezrah was on foot walking the big black horse in an effort to rest it. Ever since that terrible day, the boy used every trick he could think of to elude the roving bands of Indians. Unsure of whether they were those who attacked and killed his parents, yet to him, all Indians were now suspect. He was walking through a small canyon, and the echoing of Blackie's hooves rattled within his ears even though he was trying to keep silent. As they emerged from the other end, he saw a band of at least a dozen Indians riding diagonally toward him. If he delayed too much, they reach him in no time. He quickly mounted and took off across the prairie in an attempt to outrun them. When he heard the loud whooping, he knew that he had been seen and it was the second time he had heard their telltale sound. The terrible feeling once again returned to the pit of his stomach. Lying along the back of the big horse, Ezrah entwined his fingers in the long black mane of the horse. Still with the reins in his hands, he hung on for dear life. The horse ran like the wind, ears flat back, tail out and its long ebony main flailing in the terrified youth's face. It did not take long for him to see that the Indian ponies and their adult riders were no match for a thoroughbred racehorse and a skinny teen who weighed thirty pounds less than they did. He began to distance his pursuers; the powerful muscles rolling beneath Blackie's hide were too much for the Indians smaller ponies. They rode at break-neck speed for almost a half hour, until the boy could no longer see the band of Indians in pursuit. Ezrah slowed the horse down to a walk, but constantly kept looking back. As he stroked the big horse's side he whispered, "Thank you, God... thank you for providing Blackie." The sun was dipping low on the horizon and the moon was promising to be bright. Either way, Ezrah did not want to be caught in the open at dark. As he walked the horse, he began to look for suitable shelter. The youth was very hungry, and he was sure that the horse would be as well. Unless they received a miracle, they would not eat again tonight. The sun began casting long shadows as Ezrah came to the edge of a butte; he looked down and over a vast valley. There nearly a mile down stood a solitary building. Even from where he stood there was scarring damage from an old fire. One last time he looked back and stared for a good long while, trying to see if there was movement along the horizon. Satisfied, he slowly began to pick his way down the incline to the bottom. As night washed over the sky, Ezrah worked his way toward the tiny ramshackle building. He began to look all around him fearfully because as night set in, the valley took on a sinister appearance. Thankfully, they soon arrived at the shack. He walked inside; part of the roof had collapsed, and arrows were embedded in the door frame and walls, but it still appeared solid. He took Blackie inside with him; the shack would offer both of them protection from the night. On the less destroyed side of the building, Ezrah found a candle and three matches lying on the floor near the old fireplace. He ruined two of them before he finally was able to light the candle. Placing it in an old can, he slowly carried it through the cabin and investigated his surroundings. In what was left of the kitchen, he found a door to the root cellar. Opening it, he carefully made his way down the steep ladder still carrying the candle. At the bottom of the cellar, he began to search the bins for a potato or carrot or something that would fill his stomach. He found a burlap bag that looked like it could have been oats or corn meal; in the light from the candle he decided it was corn. He dipped his hand in it; it seemed dry enough and not too mealy. Nearby, he found two onions, a single potato, and an apple with one side that was bad. All were placed in the bag. He held the candle up, studying if there was anything overhead that may be edible, possibly hanging from the rafters. Far above his head, he saw the glint of something gold. Moving closer, he noticed that it was an old necklace that had been caught between the floorboards. Ezrah tried to reach it but it was still at least a foot out of his reach and there appeared to be nothing that he could stand on. He grabbed the burlap bag and slowly made his way back up the ladder into the kitchen. Forgetting his hunger, he set the bag aside and began to calculate where he saw the gold necklace hanging. Pulling aside several burnt beams, he found the area where he thought it would be. Lowering himself to his hands and knees, he began to dust the floor carefully until he found a glint of gold lying amongst the debris. Only a couple of the links were sticking above the floor. Into these he inserted a straight pin that he found among the rubble, and then turned it so it spanned both boards and wouldn't allow the chain to fall the rest of the way into the cellar. Using a broken pot handle, he began to pry the boards apart, attempting to spread them enough to simply pull the necklace through. He took hold of the pin and slowly pulled out the chain. As he began to retrieve it, the medallion on the end became stuck in the narrow gap between the boards. Getting a second bite with his makeshift pry-bar, he spread them further and simply pulled the medallion on through. He smiled as the strange little amulet spun in a slow circle, reflecting back a tiny bit of candle light that reflected upon its surface. He quickly dropped it into his shirt pocket only to hear it hit the floor of the room. Inserting his fingers into the offending hole, he began cursing to himself as he felt around in the darkness until he once again found the chain. Not wanting to lose it for a second time, he slipped it on over his head, and let it dangle against his chest. He settled down and removed the onions, potato and apple from the bag, then made an improvised feed bag for the horse using an old rope. As Blackie sat quietly munching on the corn meal, the boy cut the bad spots from the onions and potato and began eating them. While he chewed, he inspected the apple, cutting off the bad portion from it. After cutting a piece of it for himself and finding it over-ripe, and much too soft, he fed the remainder to Blackie. While he didn't care for the onion like he would have a fresh apple, he thought fondly back to the onion sandwiches that his mother would make for his father and him early on the trail. The memory of those sandwiches and the special times he had with his parents carried him through. It was in no time before he realized that he was quietly chewing on the potato. His meager meal would not be fit for a king, yet it sufficed and helped quell his hunger. He remembered praying to find something for Blackie and him to eat while out on the prairie, and here was his miracle. He drifted off to sleep shortly afterward, very tired, but no longer hungry. -Four- Morning broke and young Ezrah awoke with a shaft of blinding sun directly in his eyes. He groaned and slowly regained his feet. There was a small portion of the corn meal that Blackie couldn't get in the very bottom of the bag, so he emptied this into his hand and fed it to the horse. While still in the old ramshackle shack, he saddled Blackie and carefully walked through the rubble to reach the outside of the building. Eagerly he mounted the back of the horse and once again, started riding with the sun at his back. It was already very warm and sticky, and he knew the day would be hot. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Ezrah stood on the ground and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He had seen no sign of Indians all morning, and was thankful for it. For the moment, he was trying to locate a place in the shade for them to cool down and wait for dark. About two hours later, the pair stumbled across an old creek-bed. As Blackie began digging with his hooves, water began to seep into the hole. The two then took turns drinking the dirty water until their thirst was sated. The teen wished he had searched the house for something that he could have carried water in; instead they had left without giving it nary a thought. Once again they set out, still heading west. Ezrah was on the ground walking slowly in an attempt to keep Blackie fresh if they should need to flee. He broke over a rise and saw wagon tracks in the grasses; there had been many through this very spot over the years. He only hoped that he could find a train to hook up with. For miles, he continued to follow the tracks, the scene only changing when he would pass a discarded piece of furniture or a grave. Seeing the crudely made crosses saddened him, for it tore at his mind and soul that he never buried his parents. However, he knew that his father had been right; had he remained much longer he might have lost his life too. As the late afternoon sun lengthened the shadows, Ezrah came across a wagon. There were several arrows embedded in its structure. He quickly dropped to his knees behind a clump of tall prairie grass, forgetting the black horse that stood only feet behind him, towering over his head. He scanned in every direction around him, searching for any sign of their attackers. He gradually rose up and began walking toward the wagon. In the distance another wagon was laying on its side; it too had several arrows within it. The lad hesitantly inched his way to the first wagon he saw. Its contents were of household items, nothing he could use. The second wagon had a can of peaches that had been wedged under the frame of the wagon. He found a canteen lying in the tall grass, only about ten feet off the trail. There was a dent in its front but it didn't look punctured, from the heft, it seemed to be holding something. Ezrah pulled the plug and cautiously took a sip, but the water inside was extremely hot and quite brackish. Immediately he spit out the water, and then he reluctantly poured out the remainder on the ground; he hoped that this act wasn't a mistake and he would be able to locate cleaner water soon. He hung the canteen on the horn of the saddle, and then continued to walk among the debris of the two wagons. He found two graves near the second wrecked wagon, each marked with a crude cross. From their looks of the young weeds that were already starting to grow, Ezrah guessed that the graves were a couple of weeks old. He continued on, afraid of loitering for too long, in the area where two more lost their lives to Indians. There were still tracks moving westward, and he followed these on foot, allowing Blackie a chance to rest...well into the setting sun. With miles from the last attack behind him and the moon nearly full, Ezrah again climbed upon Blackie and started to ride in the cool air of the evening. In the haunting shadows of the dark, Blackie pulled up short and silently stood like a great sentential in the night, ears turning to pick up something he had heard. Ezrah strained his ears, trying to listen for anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly the big horse's' head swung and its ears perked straight up to catch every nuance of sound. Ezrah turned his head in the same direction; he too thought he heard something far off, a strange sound faintly carried by the wind. A slow chill ran up the lad's back. He fearfully looked toward the trail he had been following, then again looked into the darkness toward the sound he had heard. It sounded like deep sobbing; it was far off but unmistakable. Again the strange sound repeated itself and he shivered in fear. He tried desperately to convince himself that it was just the wind. It had almost worked, but on the second instance of what he heard, he knew that the sound was quite human. Again he looked toward the west where the trail met the starry night sky, but slowly turned the horse toward the sound. He and Blackie carefully worked their way toward a line of trees near a rocky outcropping. Ezrah estimated that he was a mile from the trail he had been following. He climbed down and quietly picked his way through the grasses, weeds and rocks. Again his horse froze, ears perked and turned toward the rocks. Ezrah cautiously approached as wild stories raced through his mind. Stories of the sounds the Indians made to draw unsuspecting people to their traps. He neared a tree and tied Blackie's reins to a branch, then hesitantly continued toward the rocks. Like a banshee's cry, the sound echoed around the rocks and to the boy's ears. He stumbled and fell trying to return to the horse's side. No attack came, no pursuit from a grim reaper closed in. Swallowing hard, Ezrah regained his feet and inched his way toward the rocks, his mind a whirl as images of what it could be raced through. Again there was a softer sound, much like a young infant would have made. He tipped his head, hearing it for a second time, slowly working his way around a large boulder. He felt that on the other side, would be the creature that he thought he was hearing. Just peering around the edge of the great rock, with only the moon and stars for light, he saw what had been making the sound. It was a woman; even in the moonlight he could see that her hair was brilliantly red. As he looked on, he realized that she had a great bloody patch on the bodice of her dress, with an arrow shaft protruding from her chest. Forgetting the reason that he was trying to be cautious, he raced to the poor woman's aide. Kneeling beside her he examined the shaft of the arrow; it looked as though it was buried near her heart or possibly a lung. She was still breathing, but barely alive. Not too far from where she lay, Ezrah saw a very small pool of water, the remainder of an earlier rainstorm. He quickly scrambled to his feet and raced back to the big black horse; he untied the reins and led it to the water-hole. As he retrieved his found canteen, he promptly rinsed it out and refilled it with the clean, cool water. Leaving the horse to drink, he raced back to the woman and lifted her head to allow her to drink. Even in the light of the moon he could tell she had blisters from lying in the sun, he poured a slight amount into his finger, then dabbed the water across her parched lips. She stirred, moaning in pain. Ezrah supported her head and held the canteen as she sipped the water. Slowly her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at the boy, partially in surprise, partially in relief. "You'll be okay, lady; I promise I won't leave you alone out here." He again allowed her to sip the water, pulling it away only as she began coughing. As she coughed, little flecks of foamy blood fell against her bodice. He didn't need to have a doctor beside him to know that she had been shot through the lung. "There are some trees here, I can probably rig up a travois like the Indians use and we can..." He began to prattle as she gently touched his arm. "I won't make it, we both know that." She wheezed, "I'm grateful... that you came though." "No, lady, you'll be fine," he replied, trying to sound convincing. As he sat holding the canteen, he heard a soft sound coming from beside the injured woman. He then noticed movement and the woman gently pulled a portion of her skirt aside, revealing the baby that was concealed by the material. Instantly, the boy realized that this revelation would compound the issue even greater. He glanced toward the mother; she was young perhaps in her early twenties. Her pretty face was sad with regret. "Can... can you hand her to me?" she softly asked. Ezrah gently lifted up the child and placed it in her mother's arms. "Did you have her out here?" She weakly nodded and replied, "Months back... along... the trail." then began to unbutton her bodice; her fingers no longer with the dexterity necessary to function in her weakened state. Her hands dropped to her side, "Please." she whispered, "I can't... myself." "Lady, I..." Ezrah stammered, afraid of what he thought she was asking. "I'm dying... she needs to nurse... one last time." as she spoke, Ezrah stepped to her side and slowly fumbled with the buttons. This was the first time he had ever been this near to a woman's exposed breast. As he finished with her buttons, he aided her by raising the baby up to the exposed teat where it could nurse. The opposite side of the bodice was pinned to her bloodied chest with the arrow. There were tears in the woman's eyes as she watched her daughter nurse, perhaps for the last time. The ashen color of the woman's face spoke volumes to Ezrah, it was of the same color that his own mother wore the last time he saw her. Turning away, Ezrah did not want her to see him crying. He had witnessed death before and did not want to watch this woman die. He walked to the water, knelt, and splashed it onto his face. He took his kerchief that had been tied around his neck and rinsed it in the cool water. He stood up and moved Blackie to a tree that would allow him shade, come daylight and still be near enough to the water, should he want to drink. There he removed the saddle and hung it over a large rock. While casting a backwards glance at the woman as she shared her last moment with the baby, he brushed Blackie down with wads of dried grass. After he finished he washed his hands and moved to the bag he had taken from the shack. He removed the can of peaches from it and began to cut the top open with the blade of his small pocket knife. Carrying it carefully to the woman he settled beside her and offered her a peach, "Excuse the fingers, lady." She smiled and took a tiny bite, her eyes closed as if she was savoring her final meal. Ezrah's mind was trying to figure out what he would do with the baby after she passed, because there was no way he could care for her without the mother around to feed her. "So, you was attacked by Indians on the trail?" he spoke as he offered her another bite of the peach. She nodded, "They came fast... on us before we knew they were there." She commenced to coughing deeply, with each one the shaft of the arrow bounced viciously. Sighing, she leaned her head back and looked into the sky. "Find my family, take her to them." She began coughing again. "Lady, I don't even know your family's name! For all I know, they was killed by those same Indians that got you!" he shouted in frustration. As he sat there mulling over her plea, he felt ashamed for yelling at a dying woman. "I'm Hannah... Hannah Shepherd... my baby... her name is Emma... named after Gideon's mother." She again began coughing profusely, so the boy held the canteen for her to take another long drink that seemed to quell it for the time being. "You said 'Gideon', is that your husband?" She nodded in response, and looked down at the infant nursing. There were tears in her eyes. "I have a son... he's four... Cade." She looked up at Ezrah, and then looked out across the prairie; tears were beginning to fall down her cheeks. "I should have been a better wife...to him...I was so spiteful and angry." "Spiteful? Angry?" Ezrah asked, thinking this poor dying woman could never possess a spiteful bone in her body. She continued, "When the Indians came...I jumped from the wagon...with Emma...I ran." Her gaze was still off in the distance, "I ruined everything..." "You can't talk that way, Hannah," Ezrah reasoned, "By running - you may have given your family a chance to escape." She coughed and turned toward Ezrah, her voice remarkably clear and determined. "Promise me that you will find them." She studied the lad's face for several long moments. "You promise me, boy..." She suddenly realized that she never had asked the youth's name, her questioning look said what her voice could not. "I'm Ezrah." "Promise me, Ezrah..." She again demanded, grabbing him forcefully by his shirt, "Promise me that you will find Gideon!" There were tears clinging to Ezra's cheeks as he nodded, "As long as there is a breath in my body, I will find your Gideon. I will take your Emma home." As he sat looking down at the woman, her eyes slowly drifted downward and her grasp on his shirt relaxed with the onset of death. -Five- Ezrah quickly reached down and untangled the deceased woman's thumb from his necklace, then reverently placed Hannah's hand by her side. The infant had finished nursing and he gently lifted the baby from Hannah's arms, sitting her down upon the portion of dress material that had originally been covering her. As he sat back upon the ground with hands upon his knees, he began to take notice of her face. It looked subtly different. He knew some of what happened after one of God's creatures passed, how time would break down the tissue until nothing but bones were left. But... this was different. Something strange was happening right before his eyes. He was he puzzled, as he could actually witness changes to her feminine structure right as it happened; it was miniscule, but was happening in front of him nonetheless. As her shoulders began to widen and her arms lengthened from her half-sleeves, he looked around in fear and quickly stood holding her child as if to protect her from whatever was going on. He backed away as a lump, halfway down the front of her neck, began to grow outward. It seemed to be forming into an uncharacteristically misplaced Adams apple, especially on a female as pretty as she had been. As the shock of what he was seeing overwhelmed him, he clutched the baby tighter, backing even further away. Almost as an afterthought, his own hand felt for the bulbous Adams apple of his own. In panic he frantically felt again, fear of what was happening to her perhaps infecting him. He could no longer feel his Adam's apple upon his own throat! Hair began to tickle his neck, in panic; he reached up he felt the growing tresses as they fell over his collar. "What is going on!" he cried in fear, his young voice echoing against the large boulders that surrounded them. Each desperate cry slowly began inching up in octave until he could no long recognize his own voice! He retrieved a lock that had begun snaking down the front of his shirt and pulling the ever lengthening hair out to see; it was brilliantly red, just like the young mother's had been! "What have you done to me?" he cried aloud at the body of the woman, as more and more of the red hair cascaded over his narrowing shoulders. "No! Please no!" he cried as he realized that the pants he had been wearing no longer fit. His waist now began to grow narrower and the pants became very loose as opposed to his hips where they became snug as the time progressed. His shadow cast upon the ground was unmistakable, his hips were somehow widening! He stepped back a few more feet, stumbled and fell onto his bottom hard. He narrowly escaped injury to the baby in his arms as he was able to hold her in front as he fell. Tears were coursing down his cheeks as he desperately tried to remove himself from whatever strange magic had somehow befallen him. As Ezrah placed his hand upon the ground for support, trying to regain his feet, he slowly stood. His eyes never left his fingers, holding them out in front of him; he stared in wonderment as they gradually morphed from his stubby round nails to slender fingers with long, tapered nails that extended slightly past their respective fingertips. His hands were slowly mirroring a woman's! His terrified eyes darted toward where Hanna lay in death. Ezrah hesitantly stepped closer. What was it about her that looked so familiar? As the horror of the situation suddenly washed over and enveloped him, he realized that Hannah was slowly beginning to resemble... him! In fear he staggered to the water-hole and peered over the edge, using its surface like a mirror. What he saw in his reflection, made his heart fall, seemingly only to crash into the pit of his stomach. There was no denying what his eyes were seeing - he was slowly transforming into an exact copy of Hannah! That fact was being driven home by the gradual expanse he was witnessing upon his chest. As if being filled from within, his chest was enlarging, drawing upon his skin, pulling outward and down by gravity. Hanna's haunting green eyes looked back from the reflection as terror etched into Ezrah's slowly transforming face. "This can't be happening..." he cried as he tried to push them back in, but painfully had to cease for fear of dropping Emma, and the discomfort he felt by pressing against them. In anger he ran to her side, the shaft of the arrow still standing out from her chest, and placed her child on the ground beside him. Falling to his knees beside her he cried out in agonizing pain, as his breasts continued to expand, now filling with the life giving fluid that her baby needed. "NO!" he shouted, and then fell prone onto his side in despair. His confusion only compounded by the changes he could see on both Hanna's corpse and on him. His head fell forward and copious amounts of wavy red tresses fell like a shroud around his face. Deep racking and very feminine sobs were emitted from his throat, as he looked upon the form that he once claimed. Only now for him, there was a shaft from an Indian's arrow sticking straight from his chest. He reached out with a slender trembling hand and touched the shaft of the arrow. Tears began rolling down his feminized cheeks as he realized just how very real this had become. His head became light, swirling black tendrils seemed to engulf him. He fought hard, but as the sweat began to bead his upper lip, he began to lose consciousness. Trying to stand only made it worse. He fell in a faint, laying only inches from where Hannah had died. Her young baby lay in between them. -Six- As Ezrah dreamt, far off he could hear the sound of a train whistle. The closer it came to him, the louder it became, sounding much like he was laying right there on the tracks. The shrill train whistle screaming like a banshee woke him and caused the youth to bolt upright, his now unfettered feminine breasts seemed to have a life of their own. As they settled he looked down, a great wet spot saturated the front of his chest, right at their very summit. "Oh shit!" he cursed as he sat up and felt the front. There was no mistaking that by becoming Hanna, he was now lactating. He looked over at the baby fussing and crying, and tried desperately to ignore her, but it was no use. It was the baby crying that made him dream of the train, and it seemed the more she cried, the wetter Ezra's shirt became. As he sat up, his eyes came into contact with the body of the woman, although she was an exact duplicate of what he had once looked like... only wearing the bloodied dress. Ezrah stood and took stock in his own changes. He could no longer hold claim to the male vernacular, no - he was now a she. He had somehow transformed into Hannah! His shadow, now growing longer in the afternoon sun, was unmistakably feminine, and even he could see that. From head to foot, he would never pass as a boy again. Ezrah glared at the baby crying, and stepped over the corpse with the arrow shaft and cautiously grasped it and with a slow steady pull, attempted to retrieve it from the boy. It was all he could do with his diminished strength. All of a sudden, the shaft broke and he fell backwards to the ground hard. As a male, he often found that his strength nearly matched that of his father, but now... he was a pitifully weak female. It was quite shocking to see his former body, lying in death and wearing the trappings of the young mother. He was completely perplexed on how any of this was possible. He could think of nothing that would allow this to happen in either nature or science, and yet it had... he was a direct result of it. Again the young baby began to fuss; again he continued to ignore it. He leaned over; the long red tresses seemed to have grown even more and slid off his narrow shoulder and hung before his face. In one sweeping motion, he flipped it behind his neck. He imagined that if he would have been watching from a distance, the movement would have been decidedly feminine. He paused and placed his tiny hands against his temples, "Just how far will this transformation take me?" He spoke aloud, but the more he thought about the possible answer, the more it scared the hell out of him! He leaned across the body and tried to move the arm of the boy, but it was evident that rigor mortis had already set in. He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees, and the movement again set his unwanted breasts in motion. He stood and walked to the water hole, completely in a funk on what his next step would be...or should be. He sat down on a large rock, facing his former self and the tiny baby as she fussed and cried. "How is this even possible? How can I get back to my old self?" he asked himself. His shirt grew more and more uncomfortable with an ever-expanding area of wetness. He looked down, and sadly shook his head, again sending the luxurious red tresses swinging. His eyes returned to the corpse, the ashen skin reflecting the death state it was in. He could not fathom how strange it was to see the 'dead' Ezrah lying so near, wearing the dress the woman had died in. He frowned and looked down imagining the emptiness of his own crotch. He knew without a doubt that there was nothing between his legs now... although that wasn't entirely true, he now possessed the female equivalent of what he once had claimed. He anguished over what he had to do, but it was needed. Slowly he stood and returned to the side of the corpse, bent down and gently picked up a rock. Slowly and methodically, he began to cover the body, and as he did, he bawled like the woman he had suddenly become. As he finished, he stood, his shirt was saturated from chest to waist. His new feminine breasts ached painfully, and try as he might he could not ignore them any longer. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it to the water. The huge breasts of Hannah's seemed to defy gravity, standing straight out painfully. Ezrah winced as he brushed his engorged breast when he removed his shirt. He knew what was needed but he would be damned if he would stoop to such a low state, baby or no baby. He knelt at the side of the water and slowly washed the milk from his shirt, continually casting hateful glances at the orbs that adorned his slender chest. To him, they were huge! Giant feminine globes that had no business on his chest! As he squeezed the water out of the shirt, he frowned as each breast seemed to conspire to get in his way. Each was painfully bouncing against the other with every simple movement. As he again dipped the shirt and began ringing it out, tiny droplets of milk leaked out from each nipple and fell into the water. "NO, DAMN IT!" he screamed. "I won't do it!" Yet the pain and discomfort only continued to worsen. He could ignore the screaming child behind him, and he could even ignore the way each breast swung and bounced with movement, but he could not ignore the pain as it was nearly bringing tears to his eyes. He sat back on his haunches in defeat, crying from the ache that he was feeling, his hands sadly attempting to both cover and conceal them in embarrassment. He looked down at the large protuberances that extended outward from his chest, their blue veins clearly visible to even his own eyes. And somewhere within that globe, the little ducts that created the milk were working overtime, conspiring to make Ezrah's life miserable. He looked at Emma in defeat, then slowly raised himself up and laid his shirt on a boulder to dry. To him, walking the few steps toward the baby was much like walking toward the gallows. He knew that if he broke down and performed this necessary function to ease his own discomfort, he would be stuck doing it until he was able to figure out how to change back, if he even could. Or worse yet, until she could leave Emma her with her father He sat down beside the pile of rocks, the shade once again stretching out beyond the little water-hole. He frowned as he picked up the crying Emma; almost as soon as he had she calmed down and turned her tiny face toward the leaking teat he offered, it was as though the infant could smell the milk. Her tiny mouth began making the motion of sucking before she even closed upon the teat. Once she had a firm grasp, Emma latched on and began her rhythmic sucking much to Ezrah's consternation. He winced as her little mouth began moving in earnest, her tiny tongue pressing against the teat forcing the milk into her mouth. The pain he endured was almost as unbearable as the fullness he had felt. He bit his lip as she continued on and on, so hungry had she been. He tried to occupy his mind, watching birds soaring high overhead, a lizard scurrying across the ground... yet, strangely his gaze kept coming back to the child at his... no, nursing at her breast. She realized that as she looked now, even in the old boy clothes, she could never pass as a male. Yet it was too hard to think of herself as anything other than Ezrah. She sighed deeply as she continued to watch Emma nurse, the slight movement of her temples and jaw the only portion of her that moved. Her tiny nose so close to the warm skin of the exposed breast. Looking down at the top of her head, the slightly reddish tint to her blonde hair, she realized that without her in this current form, Emma would most likely die. Forced to continue wiping the exposed nipple of the breast opposite to what the child was currently nursing with a slender finger, she noticed that the little necklace she had found was gone. Her eyes darted toward the huge pile of rock that the corpse lay under, somewhere under all that weight probably lay her necklace. Frowning and realizing that there was no way he was about to remove all of those stones to locate the lost item, a cheap trinket that probably wasn't worth more than a silver dollar. "I guess it wasn't meant to be, was it, Emma," she quipped, his voice now much higher of a timbre and soft like Hanna's had been. She moved the child to the other breast and wiped the one Emma had been using, all the while wondering if this is what life had become for her. "I'm nothing more than a milk cow for you, isn't that right, Emma," she complained to the infant at her breast in a sing-song voice. She needed to make some decisions now, decisions that could prove to shape the remainder of his life. 'His?' he thought. Stifling a laugh she glanced down at the two unfettered globes she now possessed. "I can't claim to be a male anymore - that's pretty obvious." It irked her how her voice now sounded, almost mocking her in its femininity, softly sounding like the woman she had become. Again she looked down upon the infant nursing at her breast, what would she do now that they were alone? She had promised to Hannah that she would try to find Gideon, but that was before... this. And what of Emma, she thought to herself, should she raise the infant as her own in the meantime? She frowned, as she watched the little one nurse, "Anyone who sees us will be certain that you're mine." She shook her head and sadly looked toward the heavens; the early evening sky was washed with hues of pink and yellow. A cool breeze blew over her teat; it caused her to look down. Emma had dropped off to sleep; her hold on the nipple had become lost. Using her slender finger, she wiped the little drop of milk from Emma's chin. She raised the baby up to her bare shoulder and began to softly pat her tiny back. She felt lost, having no clue on how to be a parent, let alone a mother seemed unfathomable to her. What she needed to know wasn't taught in schools, so she would have to learn on the fly. Normally a woman would have a lifetime to prepare, where she only had minutes! Hopefully it would be as his mother had once said, "Anything that doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." -Seven- Placing the baby on the soft grass, she stood and touched the shirt she had worn as Ezrah, trying to see if it had finally dried. Gathering it up she quickly threw it over her shoulders, as a boy she would have preferred to go buck naked... now that she actually thought about it, there was a pang of embarrassment of seeing herself with no covering. The sleeves were slightly long, but buttoning them fixed this slight problem. The shirt was big in the shoulders, and as she buttoned it up, horribly stretched over her new breasts. She looked down at the open gaps between the puckered buttons, sighing. She hefted the canteen, pulled the cork and took a drink. While it was nearly full and moderately refreshing, it was not cool in the least. Pouring it on the grass, she refilled it with the cool water from the water-hole, and then re-corked it. Bending over and low, with her hands in the water, she realized that she needed to pee badly. She stood and leaned the canteen against a rock and turned toward the brush to relieve herself. Quickly undoing the buttons that held together the fly, she reached in to retrieve her penis. The shock of finding nothing in contact with his hand made him momentarily panic. Then as her new reality set in, it came as no real surprise. He groused to himself as he was forced to completely remove his pants and urinate as would any other female. Without a normal woman's years of practice, the entire necessary chore was well beyond her comprehension. She placed her feet far away and very wide apart, then slowly leaned her shapely bottom against a large boulder. The surface was quite rough against her soft feminine skin. It was an entirely different set of muscles to control; eventually she knew that she succeeded as her urine splattered against the rock and the backs of her legs. With a groan she looked down at the ground, sighing in defeat at her hopeless predicament. Tearing at a handful of grasses she wiped the unfamiliar area and attempted to clean her legs where she splattered them. She pushed her large breasts aside and stared at the junction of her legs, afraid to touch it for fear of something else nearly as terrible happening. Casting the grass aside she slowly pulled up her pants and refastened them. All the while wondering how a woman could put up living like this... and now she would be stuck as one for the remainder of her life unless by some miracle she could figure out what had caused the unwelcome transformation. A stirring to her left startled her. She turned her head quickly, her long wavy red hair flipping out from the motion. It had been the infant moving, yet Emma was soundly sleeping in the grass. The new Hannah walked over to Blackie, she moved him closer to the saddle that Ezrah had removed earlier. Soothingly speaking to the huge horse now made even more imposing because of her diminished size as a female. Blackie kept sidling away from the unfamiliar woman, yet her persistence paid off and she eventually got the blanket on him. She turned and lifted up the saddle, and stumbled due to its greater weight compared to her weaker muscles. For nearly fifteen minutes she wrestled with the saddle and horse until she was finally able to place it on its back. Gently massaging the feeling back into her slender arms, she decided that they could not remain here for much longer; the water was a Godsend, but what meager food she had was almost gone. Hanging the long strap of the canteen on the saddle horn, she stood back looking at the huge horse, and then glancing toward the tiny baby... somehow she had to get both Emma and herself up upon that saddle. Walking Blackie to a large rock she held him there as she bent down to scoop up the infant. It was a precarious situation in her weakened state trying to mount the horse with one arm, and maintain her grip on little Emma, yet she managed. Settling in the saddle she inwardly thought of how high she now felt, not to mention just how wide the saddle had become since her transformation. It wasn't uncomfortable, just very wide. Placing a slender arm around the baby, she held the reins in her opposite hand. With one last look back at the grave that marked Hanna... no in truth it was Ezrah laying under those rocks... in a dress. They began their journey; the unlikely pair began riding, as the first twinkling stars were visible in the night sky. -Eight- Tears filled her eyes as she rode into the dark, back toward the trail where she had found the canteen. In the bright moonlight, she found the trail and once again headed west. Behind her she left her former identity, a corpse forever clothed in feminine garments. She glanced behind her; the trees and rocks were only a blackened shadow upon the horizon. Ezrah's passing was now only marked by the pile of stone covering the young mother's body...it was too confusing! Grimly she wondered if hundreds of years from now, some archaeologist like those who have stumbled upon the strange bones of past monsters, might locate the altered bones of... Ezrah. What might they think about him, wondering why he was clothed as he had been? She sighed, and looked down at the tiny charge asleep in her arms. She felt sorry for herself... to be so young and saddled with such great responsibility. She knew that women all over this great big world have been taking on responsibilities like this for thousands of years, so why should she be any different? The situation she found herself in was overwhelming; her mind became a vast turmoil of emotion. She constantly sobbed in desperation as the baby and she rode slowly in the dark. Her legs ached because in her new form she was slightly shorter than Ezrah had been; this made the stirrups too long, and forced her to dangle her legs from each side with only her toes touching the stirrup. She had forgotten to adjust them prior to leaving, and the added weight of her legs hanging was causing them to become numb. To alleviate the tingling feeling of numbness, she was forced to stand from time to time, but it didn't help for very long, as she was only able to rise up on her toes to alleviate the numbness for only a short while. She knew that at some point when she climbed down from the tall horse, she had to be extremely careful with Emma or she could fall. As night wore on, she had to stop in the middle of nowhere, long enough to nurse the child. After her earlier lesson back at the water-hole, she did not want a repeat and as much as it loathed her to admit, it did provide necessary relief from the discomfort of being 'full'. It had become cloudy during the night so as morning broke, she and little 'Em' rode on. She had given the child the 'nick-name' while she nursed her during the night. It wasn't as formal sounding and to her ears, would be simple enough to use from day to day. As the day wore on, she became hungrier and hungrier. Blackie was fine because there was plenty of grass for him to eat, and nursing Em would take care of the immediate need of the infant. But what had her concerned the most is that if she couldn't eat, and it was prolonged for more days, it meant that her body would produce less and less milk for the baby. Even though she could hold out for a day, she needed to eat for the both of them. She worried as she contemplated what needed to be done; already she loathed thinking like a 'responsible' woman. Again her mind returned to the newness of responsibility, it was more important to her now than ever as Ezrah. All he ever had to worry about was whether he fed the animals and cleaned their stalls before bedtime. Now as Em's... surrogate mother, she literally held the fate of the tot in her hands. Always she would scan the horizon looking for sign of Indians or better yet, other settlers headed west, abandoned wagons... anything that may help her and Em live another day. As the afternoon approached, with arms aching from continually holding the infant, only gaining a moment of respite when she shifted her to the opposite arm. She spied an abandoned wagon down in a shallow ravine. Cautiously she rode Blackie to it. It wasn't a wagon as she had initially thought; it was a small two wheeled cart. It was just about all she could do to lower herself down from the large horse without dropping baby Em, thankfully she was able to step into the tongue of the cart and remain there until the feeling returned again to her legs. She placed Em in the front of the cart; the back end was high into the air with all the weight resting on the tongue. She slowly walked around the little cart, examining it, looking for any reason why it would have been abandoned. She guessed that it couldn't have been there for longer than two weeks as the harnesses were still on the ground where they had been dropped. Slowly she moved Blackie to a tree and tied the reins fast, removed the saddle and blanket, putting them into the back of the little cart. She moved back to the harnesses and stood examining them, making sure that everything was there. Meanwhile, it began to sprinkle. She picked up Em and then noticed a wooden box under the seat. Inside of it was a bottle of liquor and a bag of pipe tobacco, and underneath the tobacco were three home-canned jars of bread and butter pickles. The rain grew steady, so Hannah moved Em and the box beneath the cart, and then crawled beneath it. As the rain continued to fall she took time out to clean up herself and crudely changed Em. With the onset of darkness, she had pried open one of the jars and using her fingers, and ate the contents within. The first few bites she was unsure if she liked them, but the combination of onion, dill and cucumber floating in a sweet liquid proved to be quite tasty. As she contentedly ate, she nursed Em; not far off Blackie had been tied to a tree and was quietly munching on grass. -Nine- Far off a rumble of thunder rolled. Its constant drone made the surrogate mother and child sleepy, giving them welcome rest. In her dreams, young Ezrah found himself sitting on the ground, wearing a dress. His embarrassment was compounded when he realized that he had wet himself. The coolness of his 'accident' slowly came into the forefront of his mind. In his dream, as he put his hand against the ground to raise himself up, his hand landed in about tw