(4) Sasha and the Collar Girl Part 4

The fourth part of the story

Sasha and the Collar Girl

Part Four

The next day we entered a Fog Pool Area.  This is what we called places that had pools of Fog not connected to the main body of Fog covering the Earth.  The Fog was ebbing at a constant rate; about three hundred and fifty feet a year.  As it did, pools formed due to uneven geography.  They fell at a rate consistent with the main body, so eventually some dissipated.  These pools were not dangerous after they had diminished to less than five feet deep.  We had seen deer safely crossing shallow portions of the Fog, but pools more than ten feet deep still contained whatever form of life that inhabited the Fog, so they were still death traps.

There were times when the firebreak road, on which we were traveling, crossed a pool.  When that happened, we were forced to maneuver the wagon around the danger zone.  It wasn’t easy, and at times we had to move big boulders and clear brush.  We never asked Margaret to help; her chore was to rest and to rebuild her strength.  Sometimes we noticed her peering into the Fog, so we talked to her about it, until we were assured that she understood the danger.

We tried to get her to speak to us, and at first she responded, but as time went on, her blank expression returned, and she spent much of her time staring into the distance, ignoring us as if our attempts to create a normal life for her was causing her to remember everything that had happened.  One day I noticed her twisting two pieces of vine in a circle, and after throwing us a furtive glance, she placed it around her neck.  When she saw my stare, she hastily removed the handmade collar and threw it on the ground.

Sasha tried to cheer Margaret by telling her about Petersburg.

“You’ll like it there.  No one will mistreat you.  You’ll be free.”

The girl pulled away, as if Sasha had given her a warning.

On a misty day, we stopped earlier than usual, not wanting to chance accidentally driving into one of the many Fog pools in the area.  As we were setting up camp, Margaret wandered away.

“Kim,” I heard Sasha call.

I looked up and saw Sasha gesture to something behind me.  When I turned, I saw Margaret standing at the edge of a small ravine.  I went to get her and found her staring into a pool of Fog.  Her expression made me uneasy, and I gently urged her away from the edge.  Without speaking she followed me back to camp.

That night, she smiled at us when we spoke to her, and even offered a sentence or two.  She ate her dinner as if she was enjoying it, and without our asking, she damped down the fire when Sasha began rolling out our bedding.  Sasha and I glanced at each other as she was doing that, pleased that she was emerging from her depression like an animal leaves its den after winter.

The next day she helped us break camp, and then she climbed without instruction or urging into the bed of the wagon.  Sasha and I shared the driving chores, and that morning it was I who held the reins.  We started slowly, because the mist, although not thick, was still present.  After only a few minutes, Sasha turned.

“Margaret?  Kim, stop.”

I pulled up on the reins, and Sasha leapt to the ground.

“Margaret.”

When I turned, I saw that Margaret had slipped from the wagon bed and was walking back toward our camp.

“Margaret.”

Sasha’s exasperation sounded in her tone as she began following the girl.  And then as we watched, Margaret broke into a run.  Sasha called to her again, and stepped up her pace.  I jumped down, and ran after them, but by that time Sasha had figured it out.

“Margaret, wait,” she called as panic entered her voice.

Margaret ran faster.  In the forest there are few who can outrun Sasha in a footrace, but the girl had a big head start.

“Margaret, stop!” Sasha screamed, putting everything she had into that desperate chase.

I had never outrun Sasha until that day, but somehow I steadily gained on her.  Sasha was only a few steps behind when Margaret came to the edge of the gully and leapt forward, hanging for a moment, as Sasha’s agonized sobbing cry ended in a grunt when I tackled her at the edge.  She slid forward until her upper body hung over the fog.  I slid forward too, so we both saw Margaret’s hair floating on the surface of the brown muck, now boiling.  For another second it floated as if in testament that she had lived, and then we saw her hair suddenly plunge beneath the surface of the muck as if it had been yanked from below.