Soul of a Crow (11 page)

He drew a second deep, sighing breath and then said, “Gus helped me to see that. He was so calm, so reasonable. He would come to find me in the Suttonville graveyard where I drank myself into a stupor, night after night, and it was he who convinced me to keep living. He said that those who died perhaps had the easier task, though I didn't understand what he meant for a long time. Living takes courage. Gus showed me that. Living with what you've been through. It's not an easy task for anyone.” I listened with my whole heart as his quiet words continued. He whispered, “The night Whistler and I rode away from you I thought I would die from the pain of it, but I told myself that you were with Gus, that he would care for you as he'd once cared for me.”

Tears leaked across my face, wetting his shirt.

He whispered, “Your memories are full of pain, but always know I will listen, and understand. You are an incredibly brave woman, Lorie-love, brave and strong. Know that, I would that you know that.”

I kissed his neck and let my lips rest there, and my tears no longer flowed. His words gifted me with a fleeting peace. I whispered, “Thank you. I do know it, deep down.”

He said, “Together we will make new memories, and they will be sweet. Slowly the terrible ones will fade away. I promise you.”

He saw the tenderness in my eyes and smiled softly, sliding his hands along my ribs to anchor around my waist. At the fire, Boyd continued wielding the bow, sweet and haunting.

“Do you wish to go back outside?” I asked, hoping he did not.

“No, I would that you stay in my arms right now,” he said.

And so I did.

- 8 -

Fannie Rawley prepared
a breakfast spread the likes of which I had not seen since my childhood in Cumberland County. As the morning was so calm and fair we dined outside as we had yesterday afternoon, the men claiming the table while Fannie and I enjoyed the relative privacy of our own quilt, spread beneath the sweeping shade of a pine tree. Thomas Yancy, to my considerable relief, had long since returned home, though his two sons spent the night hours in the barn loft with Malcolm and the Rawley boys; all of them bore sleep-smudged eyes and had bits of hay stuck in their hair.

“I am already regretting your absence,” Fannie said. Her dark eyes were warm upon me, and I found myself realizing I would miss her a great deal, too.

I said, “It has been so good to talk with a woman.” Especially one who would never know that I had spent years as a whore, who would only know me as a properly-wedded lady.

“Perhaps someday you shall brave the journey back south, and we'll meet again,” she said, with affection.

I thought of what Sawyer and I spoke of last night, about what our lives would be today, had there been no War—and I would not, despite the abject horrors of the past three years, ask for my old life to be restored. I looked towards the horizon for which we were bound, lit so angelically by the amber light of early day, and imagined my former existence; surely, in that life, I would currently be wed to one of the Howell brothers from the neighboring homestead, living placidly day to day. Had that been my fate, would I ever have experienced an inkling of
this
one—would my gaze, compelled by a feeling I would never have been able to fully articulate, at times have drifted northwest, accompanied by a pulse of regret for the life I was meant to live?

“Ma, I decided something,” said one of the boys, dropping abruptly to his knees beside Fannie. Other than Grant and little Willie, I could not distinguish the Rawley brothers from one another; they were so close in age and all resembled each other to a marked degree, favoring Charley. This boy possessed hair and brows of ebony, and striking dark eyes.

“What's that, son?” Fannie asked gamely.

“I aim to go north with Malcolm,” he said, nodding vigorously, his voice taking on a pleading tone. He was perhaps ten or eleven. He urged, “Malcolm says it's a right adventure, Ma, and I have my new horse I could ride. I won't slow anyone down,” and he looked to me with black eyebrows lofted high, as though I had suggested otherwise. I couldn't help but smile at his eagerness. He added, anticipation ripe in his youthful voice, “I want to see Minnesota. I'm close to twelve years now. Near to being a man!”

Fannie listened with patience. When he paused for breath, she said, “Son, what would we do without you?
I
couldn't do without you, you realize. You're my Miles. I haven't another Miles in all the world.”

The boy's shoulders sagged and his lips took on a disappointed droop despite his mother's loving words. He begged, “
Please
, Ma. I'd be back to visit, I swear I would. Please, can't I go?”

“Malcolm's uncle would be hard pressed to find room for another boy,” I said, only realizing my blunder after I had spoken; Jacob should be my uncle as well, as I was pretending to be Boyd and Malcolm's sister. I kept my gaze on Miles and said quickly, “Besides, your family would miss you far too much.”

“Aw, shucks,” Miles said, rocking back on his heels, seeming to concede defeat, but then his eyes brightened and he said, “I aim to ask Pa, then.”

“Your pa will say the same,” Fannie told her son.

“But, Ma…” he said.

“But, nothing,” she replied, not without affection.

He rose to his feet and shuffled towards Malcolm and the other boys, presumably to relay the disappointing news, and Fannie said, “He was born with the need of adventure, that one. Just like his daddy, though thankfully the War cured Charley of that particular trait.”

“He will come to visit us when he is older,” I said, with certainty.

A sudden commotion arose from the direction Miles had just walked, and we all looked that way to see Malcolm engaged in a wrestling match. Despite all the boys' nearly-constant physicality with one another, this encounter had the feel of actual antagonism. Boyd had already discerned this and rose swiftly from the table, marching unceremoniously into the mess of floundering arms and legs, plucking the two apart with no effort. Malcolm had been tussling with the eldest Yancy brother, the boy named Fallon. Boyd held them at arm's length and ordered in a voice that brooked no disagreement, “Enough.” Through it all, his smoke remained anchored in the right side of his lips.

“Cheater!” snarled Fallon, referring to Malcolm; he struggled against Boyd's firm grip, though when Boyd gave him a shake, he stilled instantly.

“He didn't cheat!” Grant countered angrily. The rest of the boys were arranged in a messy semi-circle around the two combatants, as breathless and ready to jump into the fray as much as any boys.

“I
ain't
a cheater, you dang polecat!” Malcolm shouted, his fists bunched and arms bent, still quite obviously raring to have at his opponent. Boyd sent his little brother a single look and Malcolm visibly paled and relaxed his angry stance.

I knew boys often fought, and no one seemed especially upset at this disturbance to our breakfast; still, Boyd made them apologize to Fannie and me. Malcolm's cheek was decorated with a raw, red scrape, but I knew better than to concede to my first instinct and make a fuss. I caught Malcolm's eyes and offered him a small, encouraging smile; he was uncharacteristically sullen and though he politely asked our forgiveness, which I could tell he meant, there was an edge in him as he regarded the Yancy boy. I made up my mind to question Malcolm later.

“Now you,” Boyd ordered, nudging Fallon with perhaps a tad more force than required.

“Sorry,” Fallon said, and the slightest smirk danced over his upper lip. He and Malcolm were both dirt-smudged.

“Thank you, boys,” Fannie said formally, nodding at them while I remained silent, studying this eldest son of Thomas Yancy. I knew the boy was motherless and for that I was saddened, experiencing a beat of empathy, wondering how and when his mother had died; had she been lost during the War, like so many others left behind without their menfolk?

Certainly aware of the way I watched him, the boy's eyes lifted from the ground, and any fellow-feeling I harbored was subsequently and straightaway destroyed. My throat went dry as Fallon's gaze ensnared mine; he had pale eyes, an almost translucent blue, which would have been quite captivating if not for the emptiness that his irises only thinly masked. He stared at me, unblinking as a buzzard, and abruptly I tasted vomit.

I turned away, pretending to be preoccupied with collecting dishes.

Stop this
, I chastised myself, as the boys went their separate ways.
He is just a boy. You are imagining terrible things where there are none. That is all.

But as my gaze flickered again to the retreating figure of Fallon Yancy, I felt cold.

* * *

We left the Rawleys' homestead with the warmth of longtime friends, parting with hugs and well-wishes and promises that our paths would cross again. Fannie gifted us with a side of bacon, a crock of maple syrup, a half-pound of ground coffee, and a loaf of wheaten bread laced with dates and cinnamon, in addition to several packets of medicinal herbs and another of tea. Malcolm had already torn a large hunk from the bread, and was contentedly munching.

Grant and Miles rode their horses along the trail with us for a good two miles, flanking Malcolm and Aces on either side with their own mounts, Dallas, the gorgeous sorrel, and Blade, Miles' liver-chestnut gelding.

“Y'all will ride north come a few years, won't you?” I heard Malcolm ask, for perhaps the third or fourth time. The boys rode abreast, their hats settled low, all three with the slender bone structures indicative of their youth, though they each handled their horses with the ease of grown men. Malcolm's face was in profile as he spoke, and a strange flicker of knowing struck my awareness, rippling outward as rings cast by a disturbance to the surface of a lake. I knew, even before Grant spoke, that his promise would be fulfilled.

“Of course we will,” Grant said.

“Just as soon as Pa can spare us!” Miles added.

“I'm a-countin' on it,” Malcolm said. “I'm
holding
you to it.”

“And he don't forget a damn thing,” Boyd, riding closer to the wagon, muttered to Sawyer and me.

“He does have an uncommon keen memory, that's God's truth,” Sawyer agreed.

Grant eyed the blue sky, into which the sun was lifting with the promise of another hot day, and his movements spoke of the fact that they had dallied long enough. He said to his brother, “Miles, we best…”

Miles nodded, and with obvious reluctance the two Rawley brothers drew their horses to the side, prepared to let us ride on without them.

“You boys thank your dear mama for us,” Boyd said. “We ain't had such good food or hospitality in many a month.”

“We will,” Grant promised, tipping his hat brim.

Malcolm turned in his saddle to wave farewell; alongside Sawyer on the wagon seat, I looked back as well, watching as the boys grew smaller with each revolution of the wheels. Just before we were out of earshot, Miles waved one arm and yodeled, “So long, Crow Feather!”

Malcolm giggled, waving back, and Boyd asked, “What in tarnation is he talking about?”

“It's my name,” Malcolm said, lifting his hat to swipe hair from his eyes. He settled it back in place and his eyes were merry with excitement. He said, “We all picked us a new name. Grant said his pa trades some with the Sauk people. In'juns,” he clarified. “An' them Sauk boys get to choose their own names when they's of an age, an' don't have to keep the ones their mamas give 'em. Ain't that grand?”

Boyd scrutinized his brother, at last acknowledging, “Well, it suits you. Charley spoke some of trading with the local folk. I suspect we'll learn to do much the same in Minnesota. Seeing as how Jacob is wed to Hannah, an' she is a Winnebago woman.”

“What were you and that boy fighting about?” I asked Malcolm, unduly troubled by the memory of Fallon Yancy's empty eyes.

“Jesus, boy, I woulda thought you'd have more respect than to scrap when we was guests,” Boyd muttered. He looked a little peaked this morning, beneath the deep brown of his sunbaked skin, and I surmised he had imbibed more whiskey than intended.

Malcolm's grin dissipated like smoke in a sudden breeze. His dark eyes narrowed and he said vehemently, “He's a rotten turd. I got me a bad feeling about him.”

“I felt the same,” I said, and Sawyer looked from Malcolm to me, at once.

“His father is a bad apple, too, I'd stake my claim on that,” Sawyer said.

“Yancy's a veteran,” Boyd said, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “An' as such he bears a bone-deep dislike with us, as Southerners. Though I didn't get the same sense from Charley, an' he fought as a Federal.”

“Some are affected that way, won't ever get over it. On both sides,” Sawyer said, arching his back to stretch it, shifting position on the seat before reclaiming my left hand into his right, linking our fingers. He mused, thinking aloud, “There was a time, during the first year home, I could hardly let my eyes rest on anyone wearing a shade of blue.”

Boyd took a second to light a smoke before muttering, “How many times we aim straight into a field of that color? Shootin' for our lives.”

“Too many to count,” Sawyer murmured, and I tightened my fingers around his.

Malcolm remained silent, absorbing their words. I waited quietly as well; rarely did they discuss specifics regarding their soldiering days around anyone but each other.

“Yancy ain't seen no worse than what we seen,” Boyd said, with certainty. “But he lost his wife in the meantime, while he was gone. Might be that set him over the edge.”

“Gus never forgave himself for the fact that Grace died while he was away,” I said. Angus had told me this himself, during the days when we traveled alone together on the trail in Missouri.

“He tortured himself with it,” Sawyer acknowledged softly. He added, “Though Yancy is not one-tenth the man Gus was, and I refuse to believe that his wife's death is the reason for Yancy's foul attitude. Even an unfortunate hour spent in the man's company is enough to recognize this.”

“There was a bad look in his eyes,” Boyd agreed. “It weren't until he asked for ‘Dixie' that I saw it, but there it was. He was hoping to provoke something, I could see that, too.” Almost unconsciously, he began whistling the tune through his teeth.

A sudden memory caught me unawares; I flinched, watching again as Dalton and Jesse raced into the parlor, nearly atop one another in their excitement to tell Mama and me that they had enlisted, blue eyes avid and grins overtaking their earnest faces. They scarcely delivered this news before darting outdoors, the both of them whistling merrily, their naïve anticipation superseding all else, failing to acknowledge the horror in Mama's eyes, the way it tightened her features. I had been eleven years old, and only peripherally aware of my mother's agony; what I felt most strongly that June afternoon, less than a week since news had reached us of Tennessee's secession on the heels of Arkansas and North Carolina in May, was a flush of pride as I continued to watch my brave brothers out the window, while they roughhoused under the summer sunlight.

Look away, look away, look away…

I could not suppress a shudder, tasting vomit for the second time since sunrise.

Malcolm said, “Last night Dredd was a-telling us that his pa sometimes knocks 'em black an' blue, an' that they hide their bruises from Mrs. Rawley, as she'd go after their pa, maybe try an' take 'em away from him. An' he said that Fallon is meaner'n a weasel. When we was sleepin' in the haymow, Fallon fell asleep early an' Dredd told us some tricks he done pulled.” Malcolm ran a thumb over the scrape on his face and added, “He even fights dirty. Ain't no boy I know'd claw like a girl.”