Neal Barrett - Through Darkest America

Then the man looked down at him and Howie felt the eyes brush over him. “What’s your name, boy, and how old are you?”

“Howie, sir. And I’m more’n twelve.”

Colonel Jacob nodded. “You look more’n twelve, too. You any good with a bow?”

“Yes, sir,” Howie told him, “I guess I am.”

Jacob chuckled to himself. “Fine enough. If you’re good at something, why, don’t mind saying you are—if you’ve the guts to back it. You thinking on following your daddy’s trade, or might you try a spell in the army? You studied on that?”

“No, sir,” said Howie, who had thought plenty about just that since he’d seen the parade, “I reckon I’ll help Papa.”

Jacob looked at him a long moment, then the smile changed some and the blood rose in Howie’s cheeks again. It was a funny kind of smile, like he was looking right in side you and knew something you didn’t want him to know.

“Ev,” he said, the smile still there, “you give my best to Milo, hear? Say I’m sorry I missed him and all…” Then, to Howie: “Take care, boy.”

Clucking at his mount, he tossed the reins and turned back up the dockway. Howie could hear his father making his way forward from the stock pens at the rear of the barge as he followed Colonel Jacob until he disappeared in the haze off the river. He didn’t turn to look at his mother. And when the man was finally out of sight, he was suddenly aware of an awful aching in his hand; he glanced down, surprised, to see it was curled tight around the bone handle of his new knife. It was a peculiar feeling—good and bad at the same time, and scary, too, because he didn’t know what it meant, for certain.

Papa said it was the hardest winter in twenty years, that they were just damn lucky they’d been ready for it, and that Howie should remember nothing came to a man that he didn’t sweat for.

Howie knew this was so and didn’t need to be reminded. He’d heard the same thing a couple of thousand times before. Of course, Papa had a point, like always. Even if you knew winter would come around again, it was awful hard to keep from dreaming through the green days of spring, when the earth smelled deep and alive. There were always lots of things to take your mind off fences and planting and tending stock. Papa seemed to understand all that, though, and where a person might be found if he suddenly wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Some of the stock had sickened and died during the long, bitter months, even in the two big barns Howie had helped build the summer before. But Papa had planned well, and fattened the herd on good feed; the barns, and extra care, had done the job for the most part. On top of that, there was an extra good calving in the spring.

Even the worst stock, now, was bringing prices a man would have been happy to get for prime meat a year before. On the tail of the first good thaw, when wagons could move over the roads again, the countryside swarmed with government buyers. It was much like selling ears to the deaf, said Papa. They’d take anything on two legs that could crawl, walk, or hobble.

News was that Lathan’s army had broken out of Colorado, defying winter cold and government troops. They were in a strong position now, and for the first time Howie heard his father and other men use the word war . It had been Lathan’s rebellion, before, or “trouble in the west.” It was more than that now. If Lathan couldn’t be stopped, they said, he’d sweep across the plains and down to the Gulf before fall. Then, California would be cut off from the East and the government would have a war on two sides—with a hornet’s nest in between.

“There’ll sure be hell to pay,” Papa said, shaking his head slowly. Howie wasn’t sure what that might mean, and didn’t want to ask. At any rate, Papa kept everyone working hard as ever, as if they might be close to starving instead of having more real money than they’d ever had before. There was plenty to be done, the war hadn’t changed that any, Howie noticed. There was summer work and fall work and then another winter, before you knew it. One year seemed a lot like the last, he decided, when you did the same things over and over again.

The spring he turned fifteen, Howie found new things to think about. Things that had seemed important once, didn’t matter much anymore. The fair at Bluevale was something that had happened a hundred years ago, to someone who was a different person, and not really him at all. That year, when sap stirred in the big oaks, something stirred in Howie, too. He’d felt it some before, but never quite like this. This was different. Like the whole world was somehow locked up inside him and couldn’t get out.

Sometimes, every limb in his body felt like it was full of worms. He’d drop whatever he was doing without saying anything to anybody and run as far as he could, until sweat stung his eyes and the air cut his lungs. Then, he’d fall to soft grass and lay there letting blue sky whirl around him until the storm passed over.

Papa never said much when he came back. Like he understood, maybe, that something was happening that couldn’t be helped. And when he just sat under the kerosene lamp at night and stared at the same page of spelling words, his mother pretended she didn’t notice.

Sometimes, he woke up from dreams he couldn’t name. And there were warm nights when he didn’t sleep at all and everything within him came alive. The things that came to his head then were far stranger than the dreams themselves.

Across the broad, flat fields high with summer wheat, the land tumbled away in a line of small hillocks covered with grass. The hills dropped gently to the edge of the wood where the creek was shaded by heavy oaks. Howie lay just inside the forest, his head against a thick trunk. Lace fern touched his cheek and his eyes held the bright bird chattering on the limb overhead. It was a place he came to often, especially when troubling thoughts filled his head. And that seemed to happen all the time, now. Not about any one thing. It was usually a lot of different things that didn’t have much to do with each other. It was the way the earth smelled, or how his hands felt gripping a heavy stone, or how willow looked with all the bark stripped. Mostly, though, it was something he couldn’t put a name to. Something that made him feel good and bad at the same time; and, worse than that, hard to tell the difference between the two.

Looking up, he decided he’d dozed a minute. The bird was still there, but it was quiet now, moving its head in quick, curious motions. It heard the sound a second before Howie and froze, flattening itself against the rough bark and nearly disappearing.

Howie raised up on one arm, listening. There were voices. Men, and more than one. They were only a few yards away, just outside the woods, in the shade of the tree next to the one that belonged to the bright bird.

For a reason he couldn’t explain, Howie didn’t stand up immediately, but worked his way quietly through the ferns on his hands and knees. He stopped on the other side of the trunk and moved foliage carefully aside.

Breath caught in his throat. His heart beat against his chest until he was sure they could hear him. There were three men. He knew them, stock tenders who sometimes worked for his father. And a woman, too. She was… Howie’s stomach tightened. Lord God, it wasn’t a woman at all—it was a mare! A young mare with yellow hair, and the men were…

Howie thought his head would split open. The mare lay flat on soft grass. Her legs were spread and she grinned up - vacantly at the men. One of them said something to the other. The second laughed and touched himself and rolled his eyes. The third man had already lowered his trousers to his ankles; the big shaft stiffly erect between his legs. In a moment he was down on the mare, hands clutching at her breasts. The mare groaned and engulfed him, thrusting her belly up to meet him. Her eyes were closed and her head arched back until the veins in her throat stood out like blue cords. The man breathed hard, pumping himself into her. His companions watched, laughing and calling out advice.