Panic

I can say that I do not panic easily. Only once do I truly recall feeling such intense apprehension that I felt utterly out of control. I had been but nine or ten years old at the time. The shouts of Yama and Uncle Dray called me from the cocoon of warmth in my bed. Childish curiosity carried sleepy feet through the rooms and open door to stand in the fenced yard. Against an ebony sky, orange and white hot yellow tangled in a dance macabre with dusty gray smoke. I stood rooted to the spot, wonder a first reaction that drained in harmony with the rising pitch of agonizing screams. Livestock kept beneath roof and cover brayed and cried for the freedom of cool air, breath, relief. The tormented howl of one of the stable hands echoed with the sobs of his companion as a desperate search ended. Their child's tears forever etched in sorrow upon their hearts.

My aunt's nudge to my shoulder finally broke the spell of the catastrophe and I ran to help cart the buckets of water while flame scorched grass and wood popped and scattered in the breeze. It was then I began to run. To run against all odds, without regard for terrain or landscape or physical limitation. To run until my lungs grated with the friction of breath, my muscles hot with exertion, the thrum of euphoria bathing my senses. I had run that night countless times to the stream, dunking the buckets into chilly waters, and delivering them into another set of strong hands. The bruises that lined my thighs and shins were just one reminder of the traumatic evening. The loss of so many lives, human and animal, stood as the single most tragic event I could to this day recall.

And now I felt that panic. Perhaps a wiser, more worldly person would have known the feeling before this. Hands of being stranded should have left a mark of waves of terror. Like most of my life, my days without Toad and Griff had passed with little disturbance. Ignorance is bliss might have been a theme, had I known better. I didn't however. I had existed under the faith that each day was simply a stepping stone to the next of my future. My faith was now being tested.

Every tug of my skirt in attempts to dislodge it from the demon grip of wagon wheel seemed futile. A half dozen tries later I finally paid attention, listening to the creak and moan of off balance wagon bed. Every jerk I gave rocked both wheel and wagon, shifting slightly all the packed supplies. Continuing on this course was going to end up with a tipped wagon. Peeking out from beneath the edge would be the muddy boots that held my feet. I was absolutely certain this wasn't in the future that Yama saw. Freeing myself was still an issue though.

Magic. I call it magic, giving no credence to logic or reason. It was simply supposed to be. A paring knife, perched on the small upturned bucket nearby. The stain of dark berry still along it's gleaming edge. A long stretch of limbs would get me close, and a duck of head and closing my eyes would gain me success. I felt the warm carved wood and the chilled metal blade press into the cold flesh of my fingers and palm, and a breath of relief probably never sounded more sincere. It was not easy, but things worth having rarely are.

A jagged triangle is now missing from my skirt, flashing a length of bare leg. I don't care. I'm sitting on the driver's sit watching the night kiss the horizon.