August Ansel - Shadow Road

“I’m not surprised,” said Arie. “You’re a mighty host.”

“You can probably hear my dinner way over here,” said Curran from the depths of the sofa. His voice was nearly slurred. “I’m stuffed.”

“With the mountain of beans you ate, we’ll hear it all night, too,” said Handy.

There was a beat of silence, then Curran snorted a laugh. It was all the permission Kory needed. He put his mouth to his bare forearm and blew a tidy little fart sound that made Talus’s head jerk up. This made him laugh even harder, and the sound was so apt and perfectly careless that it was impossible not to laugh with him.

Handy stretched out a leg to Renna and set the rocker in motion with his toes. “Awake?” he said.

Renna, bundled into a heavy quilt, was still smiling down at Kory. She wiped surreptitiously at her face with a sleeve and nodded. “I think so,” she said. Her mass of dark curls, still slightly damp from the bath, cascaded around her shoulders and almost into her lap.

Before they’d eaten, they had bathed. Behind the fireplace was a bona fide bathing space. No toilet (that’s what the outhouse was for) but the largest cast-iron tub Arie had ever laid eyes on—clawed feet and all. Through plumbing alchemy she was too exhausted to investigate, a cistern beside the cabin could circulate water through pipes laid in the firebox. A simple hand pump delivered the hot water directly into the bath.

Everyone had insisted that Arie take the first turn. By filling the tub halfway, she could submerge most of her body into the buoyant warmth while keeping her burn-scarred upper back pressed against the smooth, cool enamel. An enormous picture window looked out the rear of the cabin, framing a view of a nearby river gorge and the hills beyond it, now festooned with gathering swaths of low evening clouds that hung in the treetops like damp cotton batting.

There were greasy chunks of homemade soap that smelled of rosemary. There was a bottle of actual shampoo, thick and minty. The fire crackled on the other side of the wall, blending with the voices and footsteps of the others as Kory showed them around and gathered an enormous pile of clean clothes from the upstairs loft.

Like a damned miracle.

She had covered her face with a hot, wet washcloth and wept in silent, racking sobs.

When she emerged, dressed in soft green britches, woolen socks, and a heavy cotton smock, she was already knocked sideways by the weird sense of otherworldliness. Kory had commenced scrubbing the now-filthy tub with a rag and some sort of cleaning concoction in a mason jar. Curran tried to take over, but the boy wouldn’t hear of it. He hummed to himself while he cleaned up; in a few moments the bathtub was immaculate and ready to be used again.

And it was. One after the other, they entered like penitents at a baptism and emerged damp, ruddy, and mildly dazed. Kory kept the fire tended and the tub clean until they’d each had a go. Handy went in last; while he soaked, Curran and Kory took Talus onto the front porch for a good wash and once-over for burrs and briars.

Arie had watched from the open doorway, marveling at the boy’s composure, the relaxed and happy way he worked alongside Curran as they tended the dog—who bore their ministrations with utmost patience—from nose to tail. Renna perched on the porch rail and worked snarls out of her damp hair while observing the progress of Talus’s bath. When she and Arie made eye contact over the bent heads of Curran and Kory, her expression mirrored Arie’s sense of unreality. The man and boy chatted agreeably at their task, as though they’d not met just an hour ago with a rifle between them.

“How is it you came to be such a fine host, Kory?”

Arie’s voice was casual, almost off-hand. Behind the simple question was the weight of whatever hard circumstances had left the boy here, heavily provisioned and solitary.

“Mama’s rule,” he said. He stared into the fire, rubbing his thumb into the dark widow’s-peak of fur between Talus’s closed eyes. “‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

“Hebrews. Chapter thirteen, verse two,” said Handy.

Kory glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a bit of scripture.”

“What’s that?”

Handy smiled. “A book of verses,” he said, “called the Bible.”

“Often kept in motel bedside tables,” said Arie, “for light bedtime reading.”

“Motel?”

“A long-gone convention, dear heart. Don’t mind my blather. Sometimes my tongue runs away with me.”

“Best to mind her anyway,” said Curran. “She’s wicked smart.”

Kory searched Arie’s face. His gaze was disconcertingly direct and unguarded, the look of one who hasn’t learned to duck behind a shield of self-conscious artifice. “I just call it Mama’s rule,” he said.

“Sounds like she was wicked smart, too,” said Renna.

“She was.”

Arie decided to press him a little. “Kory, how does your rifle fit in with your mama’s rule?”

“Well, that’s Papa’s rule. It comes before Mama’s.”

“Papa’s rule is shoot first, ask questions later?” said Curran.

Handy nudged Curran with his sock-clad foot, but Kory nodded. “Sort of,” he said. “‘Protect the family, best effort, no whining.’ That’s Papa’s rule.”

“Three in one,” said Handy.

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, the low crackle of the fire and Talus’s soft snoring creating a soporific background music.

“You keep their rules well,” said Arie. “Even when they aren’t here.”

Kory looked away and stretched full-length on the rug beside Talus. “I’ll sleep here,” he said. “Someone can have my bed. It’s in the loft.” He paused, keeping his eyes on the dog. “There are two beds up there. The big one is good for two people.”

Curran looked at Arie. The expression of sorrow he shot her was like a thorn in the soul. “You know,” he said, stretching his arms over his head expansively, “that sounds like a great idea. Guess I’ll join you, here on the sofa. If you don’t mind the company?”

“It’s comfy for sleeping,” Kory said.

Handy got to his feet. “We’ll sleep upstairs, then.” He grabbed the blanket he’d been nestled in and handed it to the boy. “Better bundle up. You’ll catch a draft down there on the floor when the fire dies.”

Renna and Arie stood, too. Renna made a neat bundle of her own blanket and tucked it under Kory’s head, smoothing a hank of blond hair off his forehead. “Sweet dreams,” she said.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Kory murmured.

“I won’t.”

“There aren’t really bedbugs, though,” he said.

“Do I look worried?”

Kory seemed to take her seriously and studied her face for a long moment. “No. You look sleepy.”

“I might be asleep already,” Renna said, tucking herself under Handy’s arm. “This might be just a cozy dream I’m having.”

“No, it’s real,” said Kory. “You’ll see in the morning. That’s when you always know.” He had rolled up in the blanket like a caterpillar in a leaf, and was snug up against Talus’s side—head-to-head, shoulder-to-shoulder.

A stubby candle lantern sat on the mantle. Arie peeled a long splinter from a piece of kindling and used it to light the wick. “I’m going to step outside a moment,” she said. “Just a last bit of air before bed.” She motioned to Curran with a glance.

“Think I’ll join you,” he said, untangling himself from his spot on the sofa. “Is the moon full?”

“Nearly,” said Arie.

“We’ll head upstairs, then,” said Handy. “Sleep well, everyone.” Renna was already climbing the steep staircase ladder into the wide sleeping loft above them.