Through Darkest America

Chapter Five

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.

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