Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

You make them burns? Frankie asked.

Around the table all eyes were on him. He was not the only thing that they had rescued. By his feet he recognized the steel casing of a model six slurry pump. Wooden boards had been laid across the top to make a table. At the center was the stew, simmering in a large clay pot. It was cooked thick and greasy, and islands of fat drifted across the surface.

Once or twice, he told her, though he knew it was over a dozen times. It was grueling work, and he was the only of Burke’s men willing to do it. The fact was, he was drawn to it. The light and heat woke something inside him. He’d see figures in the blaze, open twisting mouths, faces without eyes whipping around each other. He’d hear voices. The wheeze of gas escaping. The suck and pop of air and wood. And in him a second flame burned steadily. A flurry of moths would cross the river and flutter at the edge of the heat, drawn toward that bright heart. He thought of making a pyre of his body. He watched the embers crash. He pressed the devil to his throat. He looked for direction.

The winds must have changed, he said, to scatter the ash out this way.

Bossjohn folded his arms and stroked his chin. His eyes had dimmed.

But why? How the reason?

Frankie balanced her head on her palm, pulling back the thick band of hair behind her ears.

Robert shrugged. For room to get the machines through. So they can start building.

Bossjohn nodded.

They did not know. They couldn’t feel the future bearing down on them. There would be no Panther. No trapping grounds. No foxes. No furs. A pain like glass shot through his gut. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, how long it had been since he’d had anything to eat. The thick pungent soup on the table suddenly seemed so inviting. He would plunge his face into it, inhale every stinking drop.

Frankie rose to pour the stew into bowls. She stirred the foam with a flat stick and broke the top inch where the stew was clearer. She stirred up the bits of meat and filled Robert’s bowl. When the meal was doled out between everyone at the table, Bossjohn announced it was time to pray.

They hung their heads down to their chests and clasped their hands together, resting them on the edge of the tabletop. Robert did as they did and Bossjohn began.

O Lord, fo’ these grease ’n beans, and for hands and wits to kill them, and make of yor’n bounty, we frow up our thanks. Bless us with strong chains and strong arms to haul them, this day till judgment, amen.

Bossjohn had taken Frankie’s hand and was massaging her palm. Robert looked away, pretending not to see. The younger man, Roan, he realized had been staring at him, his eyes still and alert. When Bossjohn had finished with their prayers, they all began to eat. He looked around him. There were no spoons. No forks. Bossjohn fished out a strip of pink glistening meat with his fingers. He dragged it along the thick yellow sauce and ate, craning his neck out to catch the drippings. Robert watched him. He brought the bowl to his lips, taking large steaming swallows.

Robert could glimpse the knob of a leg bone. He sucked it clean and used it to spoon up the thick paste. It was hot and heavily spiced in marjoram and pepper to hide the awful tang of rubber. The meat sang on his tongue. He didn’t ask what it was. He didn’t want to know. It went down into his gut, sending a hot rush of acid into his throat. Despite the taste, it was good to eat. To have something behind his ribs again. He took the bowl up with two hands and tilted it toward his mouth. He inhaled the mash, flooding his tongue with its bitter taste, the breath exploding from his nostrils. He forced it through the stiff muscles in his throat, drawing it down into the pit of his stomach. He’d never eaten before, really eaten. His jaws ached. His stomach cramped. He told himself to slow down, but his arms wouldn’t listen.

When he’d finished, he set the bowl down.

They were watching him.

He was aware of the yellow splattered around his cheeks and the wad of hot mash in his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of his arm.

Frankie grinned. You like?

He nodded, looking down at the edge of the table. It’s very good, ma’am. Thank you.

Y’ought to slow on there supping. Gon’ take ill et’ing so quick, she warned.

Roan muttered something low underneath his breath. Whatever it was, it’d caught Frankie’s and Bossjohn’s attention. They turned to him, their eyes wide and mouths agape as if they’d been struck. Roan stood up. He smoothed back the front strands of his hair with the heel of his hand, took his hat from off the wall, and disappeared outside.

THEY FINISHED SUPPER WITHOUT ROAN. When they ate their fill, Frankie and Bossjohn rose soundlessly from their seats. Robert stood, his back to the wall, watching them work. Frankie stacked the bowls and left them to soak in a pail outside while Bossjohn began striking apart the table. The planks were carried out and the engine casing was put away in the corner. Frankie went into the other room and returned carrying two bearskin rolls in her arms. She untied them and spread them into a pallet across the floor.

When he’d finished with the table, Bossjohn appeared in the passage.

Rowbear, he said. He beckoned him outside with his large hand.

They walked out behind the earthen house to the back stoop where cords of firewood lay stacked together. Bossjohn sat down on the chopping block. Sit, he said pointing to a small bench beside the wood. Bossjohn smoothed his palms against his knees. He took a small pipe from inside his vest and fit it into his mouth. It stuck out from his beard like a stem as he tamped a wad of tobacco down with his thumb.

He pointed to a spot beneath the bench and to a box of matches.

Robert struck one and carried it carefully into the bowl. Bossjohn puckered, sending up spurts of soft blue smoke. He drew in deeply and sighed.

Robert shook the match dead and dropped it in the grass.

How long you plan on keeping me here?

He looked at Robert through the slits of his eyes. After a long moment, he reached into his vest pocket and held out a small yellow ribbon.

I find this in swampdeep, near a muskrat run. They was all over, hanging from there spruces. What they for?

Robert looked at the ribbon but refused to take it. He pulled on the joints of his hands.

They’re markers, he said.

Bossjohn did not seem to understand.

They tell us where to clear next.

The man tapped the bit against his teeth.

How long till’n they clear here way?

Soon. A month or two I’d guess.

He moved the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. A hum rumbled softly in his throat.

You work’m for there bugheway men, he said. You know how’n they think.

He touched the side of Robert’s head with the crook of his pipe.

I told you everything I know, Robert said.

You be very Nice Jack and help us, Rowbear. You stay nice-so, then we loose you outta here. L’Etangs been trapping in Panther for seven and thirty years now. We not aimin’ to pack tow and go.

Robert felt something on his ankle. A spider. It tickled at the short hairs of his leg. He scooped it up in his hand and let it run up the inside of his arm. He looked at Bossjohn and he saw him clearly for the first time. The man didn’t understand. None of them did. It wasn’t up to them. An undertow of sorrow eroded away at something inside him, and he struggled to keep it from showing.

L’Etang? That French? he asked.

The spider trilled along his skin, upward, ever upward, toward his neck. What was in its brain, he wondered, that made it seek this height? When it reached his shoulder, he grabbed it, almost too roughly, and held it in his palm. He could kill it. And surely this spider, if it could pray, would be praying now. And who would deliver it?