Neal Barrett - Through Darkest America

Howie couldn’t hear what they said. He couldn’t hear anything. His head throbbed like there were a million bees caught inside.

Help me , he cried out to no one. Help me, help me!

The man moaned and thrust himself forward. The mare sucked in a deep breath and her face twisted.

Howie felt his loins swell with unbearable pain; he felt sure he was going to die in the next second or so. Then he gasped and felt warmth flow from his body. No, no, no! Blood coursed to his face in shame, tears filled his eyes, and he buried his head in the earth.

The man was still in the mare when the arrow caught him in the heart. The shaft flew with such terrible force the dark feathers buried themselves in blood.

The mare screamed and the two men turned ashen faces in Howie’s direction. Howie jerked around; short hairs climbed the back of his neck. Papa towered above him, boots buried in green fern. His face was hard as stone.

“Get up to the house,” he said, not looking at Howie. “Get up, and stay there.” There was another arrow nocked in his bow, but he released it gently. The two men were making tracks over the hills, into the yellow wheat.

“Get up , Howie…”

There was something in his father’s voice he’d never heard before. He scrambled to his feet and ran through the woods without looking back. He stumbled, fell. His eyes blurred with tears. Brambles tore at his skin and he relished the sharp pain. Pain was good, and real, and cut fiercely at his heart, scouring out the shame.

Not all of it, though. It could never do that. He was marked, stained, and that wouldn’t go away as long as he lived. And he could never, ever look at his father again.

He ran, and prayed hard, and begged God to let him die.

Late in the afternoon Papa came to his room and told him he was to get his boots on and come downstairs. He didn’t look at Howie. In the house, or across the field all the way to the place where it had happened.

The two men were hanging from a high branch where Howie had watched the bird. Their faces were nearly black and their tongues were thick and swollen. The third man was on a branch beside them, by himself. He was still near naked, the arrow through his chest, trousers hanging about his ankles.

Howie’s stomach boiled, and he turned away. “ No , Papa said sternly. He grabbed Howie’s head hard in one big hand and held it toward the sight. “You don’t turn away from life, Howie. Even if it ain’t pretty to see. Not lookin’ don’t make it go away.”

He said nothing more, but walked away down the low hills to the woods, Howie behind him. He stopped beside the creek and settled himself on a big stone. He looked at Howie and Howie sat.

“We had to butcher the mare,” said Papa.

“Sir?”

Papa nodded to himself and scratched at the stone with his boot. “Howie,” he said carefully, “she might have had seed.”

Howie was startled at that. A man was a man, but his seed in an animal.

“You’re wrong,” said Papa, guessing his thoughts. “We never talked about it. Didn’t see no reason. Thing is, that’s something where people and animals is alike. Seed don’t know whether it’s goin’ into man or beast. A man knows where he’s puttin’ it, though.” He looked up, nodding toward the edge of the woods. “Them three, now. Likely they understand some better about that. Do you understand, Howie?”

Howie swallowed. His mouth was dry as cotton. “Yes, sir. I think so.”

“I didn’t say think , Howie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What you got to know is there’s no sin greater than the one you saw up there this morning. A man’s seed was given to him by God to plant in woman at the right time. A man’s got a soul, and when he puts that seed in an animal, it’s the same as giving part of his soul to beasts. Do you see that? And what’s the issue from such a thing?”

Papa didn’t wait for him to answer. “Your mother’s seen to it you read the Scriptures. You know this world wasn’t always like it is. Before the War, when God cleansed sinners from the Earth, there were hundreds of different kinds of beasts roaming the land. The Scriptures tell us that ‘man ate of their flesh, though it was unclean.’ Then, there weren’t any beasts such as we eat now, ‘which are in the shadow of man’s form, and have flesh that is clean.’ God put ’em here for us, and took all other beasts from the Earth, leaving only the creatures that fly and those that swim. And that’s the way He wants things to be, Howie.”

Papa was silent for a long moment. Howie listened to the creek and hoped maybe that was all. Maybe Papa wouldn’t get into the other part.

“You want to say what happened back there, Howie?” Howie’s heart stopped. “Not…much, Papa. I will, if you want me to.”

“I think it’d be a good thing, Howie.”

“Yes, sir. I…” He leaned down and wet his mouth in the creek. “I’m not right sure what to say.”

“Just whatever comes to you, boy. Whatever’s true and right.”

“Might be I don’t know what’s—true and right, Papa.” He looked up, meeting his father’s eyes. “That’s possible, ain’t it? That I wouldn’t know?”

“I think it is, Howie.”

“Well, sir .. .”

“You afraid of me, son?”

Howie thought about that. “Sometimes. Yes, sir.” He looked down at his boots. “Right now I am.”

“Well that’s a natural thing, I was scared of my Pa. S’posed to be. But—when I needed to say something, he was willin’ to listen. Same as I am, Howie.”

“Yes, sir.” Howie felt all tight inside. Papa was right, but—how could he talk about that ? What was he thinking? It was terrible, a sin God wouldn’t ever forgive him for!

“Papa…”

“All right.” Papa nodded and tasted his lip. “You’ve seen lots of animals breeding, Howie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you seen this. Between man and beast.”

Howie’s stomach turned over again.

“And what did you think, Howie? Just say it like it came to your head, right when it was happening.”

“Well, I…” Howie’s voice choked in his throat. “I… The mare didn’t look like a mare. Not then. She looked like a— girl! I wanted to do that to her too, Papa! ”

He buried his head in his hands and felt hot tears burning his eyes.

“Howie…” Papa’s big hand covered his shoulder. “Howie, men are weak. They don’t always walk the right path. You’re a man, now, and no different than other men. What you thought, what—happened to you, ain’t too different than what’s happened to a lot of men. You know, now, though. You see it, don’t you, Howie? It’s wrong, and something you got to put out of your head. Now and forever.” He lifted Howie’s chin and looked at him. “When you was little, we talked about how things could look the same, that wasn’t. And that’s the way this is. She’s not the same, boy. Remember that. She was a beast and a beast’s got no soul. You thought different—for just a minute, anyway. Not now, though. That’s past, ain’t it, Howie?”

“Yes, sir,” said Howie. “I understand, Papa.” And to himself, he prayed that God would take this day, pull it out of his head, and not make him have to remember it forever.

Crossing was just that—where the two wagon roads met and crossed one another, then twisted on to nowhere. Once a year, though, the fields on three sides were cleared of autumn bramble, and tents and cook shelters sprang up for the people who would come for Choosing.

Before the big trouble with Lathan, government people from Jefferson would arrive the night before in their big horse-drawn wagons. They’d pull up on the north corner in a wide circle, out would come the hightop tent colored bright red and blue, and the flags of the states and territories. Another, smaller tent was reserved for the pictures from Silver Island.