The Wood Wife by Terri Windling (good books for 8th graders .TXT) 📗

me speak to you in my own language,” he said. And then he was silent as he did so, creating poems with touch, and taste, and breath, and his desire.

The second time Maggie woke that morning, the sky had turned a pale peach color, bathing the room in silver light. Her body felt warm, luxurious, every part of it relaxed, in tune. She became aware that Fox was awake beside her. “Have you slept at all?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “I’m too … full? Content? Surprised? I don’t have a word for what I feel.”

She looked at him in the thick morning light. She felt the same. And a little terrified. Of all the things she had come to search for in the desert, on Cooper’s mountain, Fox was the very last thing she had ever expected to find.

She sat up suddenly, startling him. “I think I’ll go make some coffee,” she said. “Don’t get up. I’ll bring it in when it’s done.”

“I can make it,” he offered, his hand on her wrist. She shook her head.

“Make it for me when I’m at your house. Let me treat you to coffee in bed when you’re here.”

Fox grinned, and Maggie realized the unspoken assumption that lay beneath that statement. Her pale cheeks flushing, she belted Nigel’s robe around her and escaped into the kitchen.

As she set the kettle on the stove, she thought about Thumper, and hoped the girl had found a warm, dry place to sleep. Would she come only when Maggie was alone? Or would Thumper permit Johnny Foxxe to see her? Maggie stepped outside onto the front porch. Her feet were bare on the rough wood floor; the morning air was dry and unusually warm for the end of October. The rain had stopped. The desert smelled fresh, spicy, extraordinary. She felt her heart swell like the tall saguaro, filled with wonder like they filled with rain. In the early light, the land was rich with color, the sandy soil pink against the silvery cactus green. Slate-blue hills rose behind the wash, loud with the sounds of the desert birds.

A horrible sound came from Cooper’s side yard, shrieks and growls, the crash of trashcans falling. She edged around the corner of the porch, and stared. Then Maggie ran into the house.

“Fox. Come, quickly,” she said. “But be quiet, or we might scare them away.”

He threw on his jeans and followed her. “What is it?”

“More of them, I think,” she said. “Shhh. Come out and look.”

She took him to the porch. They were still out there, seven of them, with big bristly heads, long snouts, standing as tall as her knee. Their bodies were thick, but they moved on tiny feet, delicate little faery hooves; their rough fur was a salt-and-pepper color, and emitted a sharp, musky scent.

Fox began to laugh. He could not stop laughing. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Maggie,” he said, catching his breath, “you are a city girl, aren’t you? That’s a javalina herd. They’re wild pigs. And they’ll go for your garbage cans if you haven’t got your lids on nice and tight.”

“Pigs? There are wild pigs around here? I give up. That’s too bizarre for me.” She was laughing now herself. “What the hell are they doing?”

“Fighting over your old apple cores. Look at this one, old Tusk Face there. She wants it, but the younger one won’t give it up.”

Maggie listened to their loud snarlings and snortings and snappings, and poked Fox in the ribs. “That’s a ‘he.’ That’s male territorial posturing.”

“Nope. These critters are matriarchal. That’s a Big Mama running the herd. Wait ’til you see their litters in the spring—the little ones are so damn ugly that they’re cute.” Then his smile slipped. Maggie knew what Fox was thinking. He was wondering if she’d be here in the spring.

She didn’t know the answer to that one herself. She said, “I’m sorry I got you out of bed. I guess I’ll go make that coffee.”

He followed her. “I don’t mind getting up. It’s a beautiful morning out here today. I love the desert after the rain.”

“It smells like heaven,” she agreed.

They came back out to the porch with their coffee just in time to see the departure of the javalina herd, trotting briskly across the yard, big Tusk Face in the lead. Maggie peered through the cottonwood trees and spotted One-Eye in the wash. She called to him, but he dashed away, shy of her this morning.

“He’s gone to tell my sisters where I spent the night, I reckon,” Fox said drily.

“Wait, he’s coming back. No, that’s not him. That’s Dora coming down the wash.”

Fox rolled his eyes. “At this rate, half of Tucson will know where I spent the night.” He stood up. “I think I’m going to go put on more clothes. I’ll be right back.”

“Fox, wait. There’s something wrong.” She could see it in the set of Dora’s shoulders, even before the woman got close and they could see the black eye and the cut beneath her lip. She carried a painting under her arm, and wore an embarrassed expression.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said quickly.

“My god, Dora, what happened?” asked Maggie.

Dora swallowed. “Juan and I had a fight.”

“Juan did this?” Fox said, startled.

Dora winced. “It’s partly my fault, I guess. I was drunk, and I got angry with him.”

“But that’s no excuse for hitting you,” Maggie said firmly, horrified. “Come sit down. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

The younger woman gave her a smile that was both grateful and apologetic. “I know it’s a bit early. But I didn’t sleep last night, and I remembered that you always get up early…”

“For heaven’s sake, it’s fine. Sit down. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As Maggie slipped into the kitchen, she heard Fox ask, “Did this happen last night?”

“Night before,” Dora told him. “And Juan hasn’t come back since. He didn’t take the truck or the jeep. I’m beginning to get real worried about