The sound, carried by the wind, was a deep, icy howl that chilled him to the bone. Slave hunters. Professional hunters. Men paid to bring back slaves. Their dogs were trained to follow a trail for miles. They had horses. Guns. Experience.
Zacharie still ran away.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs gave way. He collapsed in the dry bed of a stream, his heart pounding, his vision blurred. The dogs were very close. Too close.
Then he saw him.
A narrow opening in the bank. Half hidden by roots and dead leaves. Just wide enough.
He slipped inside.
The space was barely big enough to sit in. The air was thick with the smell of earth and decay. Something moved against his leg—a snake or a rat—but he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t breathing.
The dogs reached the stream a few minutes later. They were sniffing, barking, disoriented. The water had washed away their scent.
“Damn it!” swore one of the men. “He fell into the water.”
They’ve moved on.
Zacharie remained hidden for six hours after the noises had subsided. When he finally emerged, the sun was setting.
He was alive.
And he was free.
The years of solitude
The desert taught Zechariah nothing but mercy.
He learned by brushing with death.
He learned which plants were nutritious and which irritated the throat. He learned to track animals to water. He learned to trap rabbits with twisted wire salvaged from abandoned camps. He learned to make fire with flint and steel stolen from a forgotten encampment.
Leave a Comment