Through Darkest America

Howie did laugh this time. “I ain’t that dumb,” he said. “I don’t figure you come all this way for talkin’.”

“Well,” said Jacob, “like I say, I can sure see how you might figure. I’ll tell you something, though, and you can believe me or not. Talking’s ’bout all I did come for and that’s the truth. You done some bad things to me, Howie. But there’s no taking them back, and I don’t blame you for ’em. I’d have done the same thing if it was me.”

“I… don’t reckon I’m goin’ to believe that,” Howie said warily.

“Don’t blame you for that, either,” said Jacob. “All I really figure on doing, though, Howie, is telling you what we done to your mother. I think that’s something you ought to hear. I want you to know how we stripped her down naked and wired her to that bed. And how every one of them troopers of mine had her. And while we’re talking, Dory,” he said quietly, “I’d be pleased if you’d get that knife of yours and take out one of this boy’s eyes. I don’t reckon I got to tell you not to go too fast…”

Chapter Thirty-Three

A lazy sun dappled the forest floor with shifting coins of gold. He stretched and stared up at the dazzling brilliance, then lay back and closed his eyes. He could hear the drone of bees circling the big oak, and smell the cool crushed odor of fern…

Without opening his eyes he reached over and let his hands slide down Kari’s soft nakedness. His fingertips brushed the tips of her breasts, wandered past the flat curve of her belly, and came to rest between her thighs…

Papa looked down at him, his big shadow covering the sun. “That’s wrong, Howie,” he said sternly. “I taught you better, boy. The Book says that if a man do consort with the beasts, then he shall become as the beasts…”

“No, Papa, it’s Kari. She’s a girl. She ain’t meat! Honest!”

“Howie, I done everything I could for you. I took you into Bluevale and let you see the stuffed nigger and got you a bone-handled knife. And then you go and do a thing like this.”

“No, Papa, it’s Kari. She…” He turned to look at her and the big mare grinned up blankly and reached out to grab him between his legs. Howie shrank back in horror…

“You can look all you want, Howie,” she told him, “but just don’t go feeling around or anything.”

“Kari?”

Papa’s arrow dug into her face, just above her mouth. Another quivered in her eye…

“Don’t, Papa!” Howie cried. “Please don’t!”

Papa was trying to ready another arrow, but he was having trouble with it. His eyes were black and empty and he couldn’t wipe the dark away without dropping the bow. With his other hand he struggled desperately to keep his belly together, but they’d split it bad and the guts kept falling out in soft puddles to the ground…

“Just look is all,” said Kari. “Don’t go trying to touch something…”

When he woke up he knew right where he was and what had happened and just what they’d done to him. He heard his own scream somewhere and then the pain came down hard and put him under again.

The next time, he prayed for sleep or death or anything, but nothing happened. The hurt was unbearable, but he couldn’t leave it. He knew there were places to go that were dark and soft and quiet where you couldn’t feel anything at all, but he didn’t know how to get there…

He could see, with his good eye. The gray wall. A spider- web crack like a tree branch winding up past the dim torch. Without moving his head he could look down and see his arms strapped to the chair and his legs spread over the flat logs. Everything seemed all right between his legs. They hadn’t done that yet. They would, though, Howie knew. Jacob was going to take it all.

There was a dull, rumbling sound somewhere. Like thunder. Or a faraway drum. He listened a minute and it came again.

He tried to look around the room but the slightest movement of his head sent pain ripping like a knife through his skull. It… Wait, now. That was something worth knowing wasn’t it? He thought a minute. It was hard to think with the pain.

Pain was bad.

And good.

Bad and good at the same time. Could that be so? It was, if he could do it.

And he could. Because he had to. He couldn’t stay there. He had to get away from the pain. Get away—or give himself to it. Let it take him and put him in that place again. If he couldn’t do it, maybe the pain could do it for him.

He cried out and cursed himself and begged himself to stop. He shook his head as hard as he could and opened and closed the empty eye again and again and again and it seemed like it took an awfully long time, but he made it.

It was cold to the bone and Carolee took all the covers. That was just like a little sister—let you freeze your butt off and then next morning sure as light she’d be telling mother it was him that—

“God, nooooooo!”

“Hey, easy now.” The big hand clamped his head hard against the back of the chair. “It’s goin’ to hurt, but it’s going to get better. Just sit still, if you can.”

The man poured something cold as ice into his empty socket. Only it wasn’t cold for long. It was a hot, fiery coal and it burned all the way through his brain and out the back of his head. He couldn’t even get the scream out before the darkness pulled him under.

He wasn’t gone near long enough.

When he looked up the man was still there. “Who…” He tried, but couldn’t make the words.

“I ain’t anyone you know, and no one you’re goin’ to,” said the man. “Is the hurt some better? Don’t try to say nothing. You sure ain’t fit to. That stuff won’t last forever, but it’ll dull the pain some and give you time to rest. What ever good that’ll do you.”

He came down close to Howie and he could smell the faint odor of sweat and the strong smell of whiskey. “You know he’s comin’ back, don’t you? Reckon I don’t have to tell you that. Son of a bitch! Godamn son of a bitch…”

The man stumbled in the half light and caught himself on the chair. Howie moaned.

“Oh, Lordee, I’m sorry about that! I sure didn’t mean to hurt you none. Don’t need that, do you? Know what that bastard’s doing? Well, shit, ’course you don’t. He’s killin’ us all, is what. It ain’t just you. Son’bitch goin’ to have us all dead ’fore it’s over, ’s what he’s goin’ to do! If old Monroe wasn’t coldern’n a stone out there someplace we’d… Listen, boy, if I could I’d be more’n glad to cut your throat for you an’ I know you’d thank me for it. Only I… ain’t got the heart for it no more. Or the stomach, neither. I just can’t, is all. I wish to hell I could…”

When he came out of it again he wasn’t sure whether he’d dreamed the man or not. The hurt was some better, so maybe it was real. The pain was still there, though—simmering just below the screaming point.

He wondered how long he’d been in the room. He had no feeling for time anymore.

An hour? Two? Longer than that. A day or so, maybe. Or a week, for all he knew.

His throat was parched dry, the sides sticking together making it hard to swallow. He tried to work some spit into his mouth but the motion warned him. It wouldn’t be too hard to wake up the pain again.

The thunder was closer now. He dully remembered hearing it before. Once, it came so close the room shook and a veil of white dust trickled down the wall in front of him. He watched it, following the slow path with interest.