I’ve got it most squared away, just in case. James Pilkerton filled out the appropriate papers for me, all my worth - - horse and gun - - most all a man like me really has left. I’ll let him do with it what he wants if need be, him being the mayor and all. I too made arrangements with old Marteen the coffin maker and undertaker for a simple box and burial. I didn’t come into this life with no fanfare and I don’t expect to go out with any either. The people here came out of the woodwork when they heard the news. Town meeting brought plenty of concerned folks and plenty of men ready to show what they got. “We’re here with you, Sheriff Drewry,” they spat. “We got guns. Let ‘em come!” They hooted and hollered mostly for the benefit of the women standing there but I saw it in their eyes, that shifty sideways glance, uncertainty running fast under the surface like critters from a prairie fire. They were missing it… the part inside necessary for this kind of thing. That edge. They all wanted to run. They were waiting for me to let them off the hook, tell them to go on home and take care of their families. And I did. I promised I’d take care of it. Do the job they were paying me for. I can guarantee they won’t be around when the trouble here starts.
* * * * *
The boy is coming out of Kansas with a couple of like riders. He is a name I recognize, sixteen years old. That is hard to believe counting the number of men he’s killed. They say he is the fastest anyone has ever seen, in these parts least wise. They’ll be here in the morning. There’s not much time but I’ll wait and think on them coming. Think about Josephine too.
* * * * *
I still have a picture of her from years back. I keep it stuffed in my shirt pocket. There was much about her that made me want to stick around even after the baby was born. She was a hard woman but she held a steadiness rooted in the earth that drew me to her. I should have stayed and tried to make a go of it but I knew better; knew myself better. A few years later, by pure chance, our paths crossed again in San Maria. She told me of our son, told me he was trouble from the start. No man around to set him right she said. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He began killing things early, when he was eight years old, maybe even younger, unsuspecting creatures that he trapped then tortured. He would show her what he’d done. He was unashamed she said, describing every hunt, the setting of his traps, all the terrible detail, searching for her approval. She never gave none. She said she prayed on it to make him stop. He would sit and stare at her, his mind elsewhere. She said he was missing something, something God had forgotten to form in his being. She didn’t know what to do. When he was nine, she sent him away with a preacher who came through the town. The boy showed no emotion when he left, only gave a look that shook her. There was a ‘hunger’ there, sitting behind his dead eyes she said. She told me she heard the boy began a different kind of killing then. Word came he’d murdered the preacher and his two young children while they slept, girls barely older than he at the time. He left the preacher’s wife alive. She’d have been better off if he hadn’t she said. He left a note etched across the charred skin of her stomach. ‘Momma’, it read.
* * * * *
Traveling up near San Maria last year, I heard news of Josephine’s passing. It was then I made a promise to her and myself that I would make things right. Just like I’ve promised this town. I will take care of it. I will go out early and meet them on the edge of town near the bluffs, just me and them. My edge? Josephine’s words and this: I know the boy is exactly like me… exactly like me… and I have already set the trap.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 17, 2010
Along the Battlement
We gather in our makeshift camp, a scrub of branch, log and bush hidden near the eastern end of the bay. We - - myself, William Cobb and Robert Forrester - - study X’s and O’s linked by dotted lines that cover a crudely drawn map. Two brothers, Henry and James Connor lay prone nearby, on cool grass next to a fallen tree and attend to muddied rifles, worn and bent. The days have been long and lazy, this summer the hottest that we can remember in our short time here. We have spent many hours scouting and planning and it has paid off with the taking of Red Rock and the capture of the northern Ridge. And now the plan for the attack on the fort has taken shape. Cobb has organized daily explorations of the terrain, sketching these quick maps and discussing plausible scenarios for our attack. He has an eye for this, a talent for taking on and conquering the vast world around him. He has become our group’s quiet leader and my best friend. The fort will be a challenge though. It sits atop a hill, with high limestone walls on all sides protected by a surrounding moat perhaps thirty feet deep. The bay cups the south and west corners, the north and east sides open and steep, the ground barren, no trees or rock for camouflage or cover. Cobb encourages us. “A piece of cake,” he says. “A piece of cake.”
Forrester believes there may be a way into the fort, a tunnel on the west side. We head out in search and after sloughing through the thicket along the west water’s edge find a drainage tunnel leaking out between an avalanche of cascading rock. Its opening is only a yard or so across at best and it smells of heavy raw sewage.
“We ‘aint goin’ in there,” James says. “It’s too small anyway.”
“Alright,” Cobb says with a cough. “Here’s the plan. We’ll make a surprise attack from the north then. They won’t expect that.”
We creep the hill, flat on our bellies through yellowed grass and stone, black dirt grimed on our bright faces like powdered war paint. We are sitting ducks as we approach, out in the open like this but Cobb believes no one will be watching this side; it is so exposed. We believe him. Henry Connor is to my left with his younger brother at his hip. They now move in a low, slow crouch, ready to spring upon command. Up ahead is Forrester, the youngest of our group, acting as lead scout. To my right is Cobb. I stare at his shadowed face as he surveys the hilltop. He will not live to see the coming fall.
Our rifles lead the way, pointed at the ready, aimed at the quiet ramparts staring down at us. The day is getting late and there is a sense to hurry. “GO!” Cobb grunts and we pick ourselves up and charge the hill.
POW! POW! POWPOW!
There is the fierce sound of voices yelling and hooting as we race up toward the moat’s edge, firing at will, firing over the long black cannons that nose out along the battlement, silently commanding the northern horizon.
POW! POW! POWPOW!
I turn and see that Cobb has stopped running. He is sitting with his back to me, facing the darkening skyline.
“Wait!” I call to the others and rush back down.
“William. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says quietly. “Just a little winded. I feel kind of weak.”
Henry and James come sliding along side us.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Let’s head back to camp,” I say, taking William by the arm, waving Forrester back from the moat’s edge. He ambles down, joining our slow retreat.
* * * * *
There are no more campaigns for us. The fort remains occupied. The cannons watch silent out over the bay as the ghosts of our youth perform revolving plays of forceless attacks. We return to the world, to thoughts of the not-so-distant new school year and to a different battle looming, a confounding fight led by worrying adults who will struggle to understand William’s incurable illness. I will wonder what part a ten-year-old boy is supposed to play and I will struggle hard to carry on the following summer’s campaign without him.
Forrester believes there may be a way into the fort, a tunnel on the west side. We head out in search and after sloughing through the thicket along the west water’s edge find a drainage tunnel leaking out between an avalanche of cascading rock. Its opening is only a yard or so across at best and it smells of heavy raw sewage.
“We ‘aint goin’ in there,” James says. “It’s too small anyway.”
“Alright,” Cobb says with a cough. “Here’s the plan. We’ll make a surprise attack from the north then. They won’t expect that.”
We creep the hill, flat on our bellies through yellowed grass and stone, black dirt grimed on our bright faces like powdered war paint. We are sitting ducks as we approach, out in the open like this but Cobb believes no one will be watching this side; it is so exposed. We believe him. Henry Connor is to my left with his younger brother at his hip. They now move in a low, slow crouch, ready to spring upon command. Up ahead is Forrester, the youngest of our group, acting as lead scout. To my right is Cobb. I stare at his shadowed face as he surveys the hilltop. He will not live to see the coming fall.
Our rifles lead the way, pointed at the ready, aimed at the quiet ramparts staring down at us. The day is getting late and there is a sense to hurry. “GO!” Cobb grunts and we pick ourselves up and charge the hill.
POW! POW! POWPOW!
There is the fierce sound of voices yelling and hooting as we race up toward the moat’s edge, firing at will, firing over the long black cannons that nose out along the battlement, silently commanding the northern horizon.
POW! POW! POWPOW!
I turn and see that Cobb has stopped running. He is sitting with his back to me, facing the darkening skyline.
“Wait!” I call to the others and rush back down.
“William. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says quietly. “Just a little winded. I feel kind of weak.”
Henry and James come sliding along side us.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Let’s head back to camp,” I say, taking William by the arm, waving Forrester back from the moat’s edge. He ambles down, joining our slow retreat.
* * * * *
There are no more campaigns for us. The fort remains occupied. The cannons watch silent out over the bay as the ghosts of our youth perform revolving plays of forceless attacks. We return to the world, to thoughts of the not-so-distant new school year and to a different battle looming, a confounding fight led by worrying adults who will struggle to understand William’s incurable illness. I will wonder what part a ten-year-old boy is supposed to play and I will struggle hard to carry on the following summer’s campaign without him.
Sep 10, 2010
The Amber Sea
The blizzard has picked up in intensity. It stretches along the horizon, fusing clouds, snow and iced air into one. It blasts up the drifts like white dirt dug up from the ground, a frozen burial ground encircling our thin tent, entrapping us. It may well blow us clear off this floe into the arctic sea. Captain Wells has stepped outside to secure the rigging; “batten us down for the night ahead,” he said. St. John is bundled up beside me, asleep. His eyes twitch and roll as he escapes into the warm safety of his dreams. Lucky him… able to drift off so easily.
My fingers tingle. Frostbite I’m sure but what do I know for certain? They are remote from my hands, floating just beyond but I can still see them move. I barely keep a clutch on the pint bottle. It is my true savior. My insides burn with its fire as it consumes my being, dulls my thoughts. If I could only climb inside, immerse myself in its warm amber sea. It is the color of the earth. Oh, the earth. What I wouldn’t give to have it under my feet again… green grass and the hot soil… the smell of clean rain… the seed of life bursting everywhere. There is no life here, only a bleak slab of frozen desert and a sorrowful wind that calls for me to venture out.
How have I come to such a desolate place? Was this not what I wanted? An escape? Her letter spelled out her wishes, a biting end to our engagement, pure and as cold as this foreboding landscape that surrounds my heart. Oh Emilee, I have tried but you… I cannot escape or forget.
I stare into this bottle and the calm amber rolls in a gentle wave, back and forth, side to side, leading my thoughts to a safer place - - oblivion - - slowly taking me down. I can hear it now, clearer, just beyond the flap, a whispering call beyond these thin walls. The isolation has crept in; I can’t keep it out. It is colder, though only to that of which I can feel. Captain Wells? He should have been back by now. I lean into St. John but he doesn’t stir and his eyes no longer move. I’ll wait a little longer… before I go out. The wind is insistent though, with my amber all but now gone.
My fingers tingle. Frostbite I’m sure but what do I know for certain? They are remote from my hands, floating just beyond but I can still see them move. I barely keep a clutch on the pint bottle. It is my true savior. My insides burn with its fire as it consumes my being, dulls my thoughts. If I could only climb inside, immerse myself in its warm amber sea. It is the color of the earth. Oh, the earth. What I wouldn’t give to have it under my feet again… green grass and the hot soil… the smell of clean rain… the seed of life bursting everywhere. There is no life here, only a bleak slab of frozen desert and a sorrowful wind that calls for me to venture out.
How have I come to such a desolate place? Was this not what I wanted? An escape? Her letter spelled out her wishes, a biting end to our engagement, pure and as cold as this foreboding landscape that surrounds my heart. Oh Emilee, I have tried but you… I cannot escape or forget.
I stare into this bottle and the calm amber rolls in a gentle wave, back and forth, side to side, leading my thoughts to a safer place - - oblivion - - slowly taking me down. I can hear it now, clearer, just beyond the flap, a whispering call beyond these thin walls. The isolation has crept in; I can’t keep it out. It is colder, though only to that of which I can feel. Captain Wells? He should have been back by now. I lean into St. John but he doesn’t stir and his eyes no longer move. I’ll wait a little longer… before I go out. The wind is insistent though, with my amber all but now gone.
Sep 4, 2010
A Dark Passage
Something wasn’t right. The power was out. Not unusual, Reed told himself. Out here in the country, outages were common and there had been heavy thunderstorms off to the east earlier that morning. But the phone was dead too, a long static hiss on the line.
Coop hadn’t said much until dinnertime came around.
When’s Pa coming home?
He’d been tearing around the farm all day, his eight year old legs in constant motion, head to the ground, lost in his own world.
I don’t know Reed said, working together a couple of sandwiches. Must be in town… at the Run Aground probably. Truck’s gone. He didn’t tell me nothin’ and he didn’t leave a note. Here… eat.
Coop was asleep by ten, worn out from his active day. Reed stepped out onto the porch and looked across the shifting fields. Silence. He sat on the porch swing, an oil lantern beside him. The air was cooler and still. Not a sound. Not even the usual song of crickets. But there were thunderstorms still to the east, silent with quick flashes of yellow-green light. An orange moon cast a blue glow over the fields. He sat and waited.
He woke in the morning on the porch-swing, shivering in the cold morning air. It was still dark. He went inside, checked on Coop sprawled in a mess of blankets, then went to his father’s room. The bed was undisturbed, the same as yesterday. He picked up the phone and tapped the cradle. Still nothing. He flicked the light switches and tried the radio and TV. Nothing. He went back to his room and grabbed a sweater. In the kitchen he left a note on the table for both Coop and his father: Power’s out. Gone to old man Shelby’s place. Back soon. Reed.
Outside, he scooped up his bike and sped off down the road toward the Shelby farm two miles away, the morning light flickering behind him, his breath puffing small white clouds.
The Shelby place looked empty. Reed went up on the porch and knocked on the door. Then he banged on it. He walked around the house and shouted. Anyone here? Mr. Shelby? Silence. A sour ache formed in his stomach. The fields carried a colder wind. He stood still on the porch for a while and listened, not a sound.
And then he heard it, a distant thumping. It was coming from the east, from town, towards the farm. He crossed the road and climbed on a tall fence. Shading his eyes, he could see the large mass of forest, just the other side of where their farm sat. The thunderstorms still flashed. He froze then and blinked. Trees were dropping. All along the horizon, the trees were dropping. He’d once seen on TV, a hotel being demolished, imploded from the inside, crumbling and dropping straight down out of the sky. He saw that now but couldn’t understand.
Coop.
Reed ran to the house. He grabbed up his bike and turned and there stood Mr. Shelby, crooked on the road looking at the spectacle on the horizon. At first Reed thought he had imagined him but then Shelby shifted and in an odd voice said; we gotta’ go.
What’s going on, Mr. Shelby? I gotta’ get Coop. He’s home.
Cooper’s gone.
What? Reed said, his face blank.
Gonna’ be here soon. No time. Come on.
Shelby headed across the road and into the ditch toward a sectioned field. He turned to Reed who stood frozen, watching the falling horizon.
You see that? Shelby shouted. It’ll be here in a minute. If you wanna’ live, you best come with me. Nothin’ we can do ‘bout the others. Sorry.
Reed watched the hazed green horizon approach. The thumping had grown louder, a buzz-sawing hum, the forest now gone and the farm… Coop… then Shelby was at his arm, tugging him hard and they ran. A hundred feet into the field, Shelby stopped. Next to a block stone pillar, a dark maw lay open in the ground, a heavy wooden door propped open above it. A dark passage led down into the earth. Go, Shelby croaked, now panicked, pushing Reed down the dirt stairs. The sound was on top of him then and Shelby gave a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes unbelieving as he slammed the heavy door down, bolting it. The passage swallowed them into darkness.
Coop hadn’t said much until dinnertime came around.
When’s Pa coming home?
He’d been tearing around the farm all day, his eight year old legs in constant motion, head to the ground, lost in his own world.
I don’t know Reed said, working together a couple of sandwiches. Must be in town… at the Run Aground probably. Truck’s gone. He didn’t tell me nothin’ and he didn’t leave a note. Here… eat.
Coop was asleep by ten, worn out from his active day. Reed stepped out onto the porch and looked across the shifting fields. Silence. He sat on the porch swing, an oil lantern beside him. The air was cooler and still. Not a sound. Not even the usual song of crickets. But there were thunderstorms still to the east, silent with quick flashes of yellow-green light. An orange moon cast a blue glow over the fields. He sat and waited.
He woke in the morning on the porch-swing, shivering in the cold morning air. It was still dark. He went inside, checked on Coop sprawled in a mess of blankets, then went to his father’s room. The bed was undisturbed, the same as yesterday. He picked up the phone and tapped the cradle. Still nothing. He flicked the light switches and tried the radio and TV. Nothing. He went back to his room and grabbed a sweater. In the kitchen he left a note on the table for both Coop and his father: Power’s out. Gone to old man Shelby’s place. Back soon. Reed.
Outside, he scooped up his bike and sped off down the road toward the Shelby farm two miles away, the morning light flickering behind him, his breath puffing small white clouds.
The Shelby place looked empty. Reed went up on the porch and knocked on the door. Then he banged on it. He walked around the house and shouted. Anyone here? Mr. Shelby? Silence. A sour ache formed in his stomach. The fields carried a colder wind. He stood still on the porch for a while and listened, not a sound.
And then he heard it, a distant thumping. It was coming from the east, from town, towards the farm. He crossed the road and climbed on a tall fence. Shading his eyes, he could see the large mass of forest, just the other side of where their farm sat. The thunderstorms still flashed. He froze then and blinked. Trees were dropping. All along the horizon, the trees were dropping. He’d once seen on TV, a hotel being demolished, imploded from the inside, crumbling and dropping straight down out of the sky. He saw that now but couldn’t understand.
Coop.
Reed ran to the house. He grabbed up his bike and turned and there stood Mr. Shelby, crooked on the road looking at the spectacle on the horizon. At first Reed thought he had imagined him but then Shelby shifted and in an odd voice said; we gotta’ go.
What’s going on, Mr. Shelby? I gotta’ get Coop. He’s home.
Cooper’s gone.
What? Reed said, his face blank.
Gonna’ be here soon. No time. Come on.
Shelby headed across the road and into the ditch toward a sectioned field. He turned to Reed who stood frozen, watching the falling horizon.
You see that? Shelby shouted. It’ll be here in a minute. If you wanna’ live, you best come with me. Nothin’ we can do ‘bout the others. Sorry.
Reed watched the hazed green horizon approach. The thumping had grown louder, a buzz-sawing hum, the forest now gone and the farm… Coop… then Shelby was at his arm, tugging him hard and they ran. A hundred feet into the field, Shelby stopped. Next to a block stone pillar, a dark maw lay open in the ground, a heavy wooden door propped open above it. A dark passage led down into the earth. Go, Shelby croaked, now panicked, pushing Reed down the dirt stairs. The sound was on top of him then and Shelby gave a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes unbelieving as he slammed the heavy door down, bolting it. The passage swallowed them into darkness.
Aug 27, 2010
Slipping, a Faulty Memory
I’ve existed for over half a century. That is mind-boggling. It seems like a long time, over five hundred thousand hours of thinking; you’d think there would be a lot to remember. Not really. About half that time I slept away. Many of my memories are faded, skewed and some are flat out fiction. There are few points of pure clarity. That’s not helpful if you’re a writer.
My recent memory isn’t bad and by recent I mean maybe a month ago. Events from my early years are more obscure like old snapshots in a deteriorating photo album: here I am at two, in a stroller with my brother; here I am staring out a car window, a prairie landscape skimming by and here I am throwing rocks into a lake with faceless friends of yesterday. I have thousands of snapshots like that floating about in my subconscious. Was it real? Is it real? Maybe life is but a dream.
I’ve read that the cells of the brain have a limited shelf life. Our brains will shrink and wear out as we age. I believe it. There are things you try to forget and can’t. Other things you try to recall and it slips away. I have a vivid memory of an annoying girl from high school. I remember her name, see her eye-glassed and pimpled face and visualize the pink sweater and blue-gray wool skirt she wore ‘everyday’, according to my memory. But there’s only a faint glimpse of a girl I dated for a couple of months. I don’t remember her name. I’m embarrassed to say that I barely remember my own wedding. Worse, I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night and I don’t drink.
“You’re slipping,” the guy in the mirror says. It doesn’t help to hear that when you’re shaving.
I wonder if my brain is crumbling? I worry if I’m a candidate for Alzheimer’s. Looking at my family history, there’s no evidence of it. My mother had a pretty good memory. She would tell us about her childhood during the war, stories of the German occupation in Belgium. Her stories were riveting with such fine detail and clarity. She was eighty-two when she died in 2008. Cancer. It seems almost impossible up here in my questionable memory. It feels more recent than that. I find the pain and disbelief of her death beginning to subside but with that, there’s a gnawing thought that keeps nibbling the soft cheese. What if I start to forget her life? I already feel guilty that I don’t think about her or my father much. I can still clearly see them both in their respective caskets. I suppose my mind tells me to retain these images because they are important and I want to remember. I hope that doesn’t sound too morbid.
“You are slipping.” I guess, maybe I am.
My wife’s memory is terrific. She relates stories and events from our thirty years together and I nod and say, “Really!” or “Really?” depending on the importance. More often, it’s the second ‘really?’ that I entertain. She’ll tell me that it’s so-and-so’s birthday and I cringe. Some of these people are obscure, some of them my own relatives. As long as I don’t forget her birthday, our son’s or our wedding anniversary, I think I’m safe.
“No, you’re slipping.” OK, I am.
I don’t remember everything about our relationship that I should. Let me write that down to remind myself. Maybe I should stop writing altogether? If I’m not being honest then why bother. The thing is I am being honest, as far as I can remember. Forget what I said.
My recent memory isn’t bad and by recent I mean maybe a month ago. Events from my early years are more obscure like old snapshots in a deteriorating photo album: here I am at two, in a stroller with my brother; here I am staring out a car window, a prairie landscape skimming by and here I am throwing rocks into a lake with faceless friends of yesterday. I have thousands of snapshots like that floating about in my subconscious. Was it real? Is it real? Maybe life is but a dream.
I’ve read that the cells of the brain have a limited shelf life. Our brains will shrink and wear out as we age. I believe it. There are things you try to forget and can’t. Other things you try to recall and it slips away. I have a vivid memory of an annoying girl from high school. I remember her name, see her eye-glassed and pimpled face and visualize the pink sweater and blue-gray wool skirt she wore ‘everyday’, according to my memory. But there’s only a faint glimpse of a girl I dated for a couple of months. I don’t remember her name. I’m embarrassed to say that I barely remember my own wedding. Worse, I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night and I don’t drink.
“You’re slipping,” the guy in the mirror says. It doesn’t help to hear that when you’re shaving.
I wonder if my brain is crumbling? I worry if I’m a candidate for Alzheimer’s. Looking at my family history, there’s no evidence of it. My mother had a pretty good memory. She would tell us about her childhood during the war, stories of the German occupation in Belgium. Her stories were riveting with such fine detail and clarity. She was eighty-two when she died in 2008. Cancer. It seems almost impossible up here in my questionable memory. It feels more recent than that. I find the pain and disbelief of her death beginning to subside but with that, there’s a gnawing thought that keeps nibbling the soft cheese. What if I start to forget her life? I already feel guilty that I don’t think about her or my father much. I can still clearly see them both in their respective caskets. I suppose my mind tells me to retain these images because they are important and I want to remember. I hope that doesn’t sound too morbid.
“You are slipping.” I guess, maybe I am.
My wife’s memory is terrific. She relates stories and events from our thirty years together and I nod and say, “Really!” or “Really?” depending on the importance. More often, it’s the second ‘really?’ that I entertain. She’ll tell me that it’s so-and-so’s birthday and I cringe. Some of these people are obscure, some of them my own relatives. As long as I don’t forget her birthday, our son’s or our wedding anniversary, I think I’m safe.
“No, you’re slipping.” OK, I am.
I don’t remember everything about our relationship that I should. Let me write that down to remind myself. Maybe I should stop writing altogether? If I’m not being honest then why bother. The thing is I am being honest, as far as I can remember. Forget what I said.
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