Darkness Trembles 2.1-3 The Word of Walcot
1.
“Shane! Shane!” the little boy called against the Kansas wind.
Shane, glanced back from his saddle, beneath his brim, towards the salt-box farm house peppered with swallow’s mud nests. The eaves were as ubiquitous with them as the seven year old boy who stood in front of the house had freckles.
It was surreal, Shane thought. A western, immemorial in the annals of great movies of the previous century, and here he was starting off where it had finished. Life imitates art.
He reigned his mare around and trotted back.
“Don’t go Shane. Please don’t go.” Tears worked their way down the boy’s cheeks.
“Kid, take care of your momma. She’s real sick. I’ll be back, if the Lord wills, middle of the Fall.”
“But Shane! I can’t do it Shane! Take me with you.”
“Look, where I am going, well, its no place for anyone decent. And kid, you got one shot at ‘decent’ and its here. Your Pop got you and your momma this far and he did it before you were old enough to know what was going on. He meant for you and her to have a chance and that’s what you got. He would have seen you make a man before he gave up this earth for the next, but that wasn’t the Lord’s will. So here, you got to take what your given and learn to do what is right.”
“Shane, I can’t do it.” The boy’s protests weren’t unfounded, Shane thought.
“What is right is tough and its not always clean and pretty. And what is right is that you honor your Pop and your Ma and see that this place makes food. God will take care of you, and He’ll be here with you when she’s gone. And that’s what I am.”
He wheeled his stout Quarter-Morgan mix around and gave her a tap to her flank. She obeyed with out question.
“Shane,” the boy yelled, “I will. I will do what you said, Shane. I’ll have food in the Fall, Shane. I promise!”
Shane smiled, raised his free hand to the sky with a single finger pointed up and then called her to a gallop.
“I know you will boy. Lord, I know he will.”
2.
Someone once said that in order to understand the world you had to see it from the back of a horse. Shane always contended that it was the stuff of late nights around campfires and whiskey that let such drawl spill philosophical epitomes. But truth be told, nothing was quite like traversing reality in concert with a well trained horse. And, he thought, so long as he was long for this world he didn’t desire to move through it in any other way.
The early summer had been good to the ground. Just enough rain for once. It had been a long few years since they got good rain. The fields were coming in just above his stirrups. He halted at the crest of a rise. Open range. He panned back and forth. Looking near and far. His mare stamped her foot. He looked down and to the left across an old wheat field to another rise some miles away. And he saw the thing.
It was just a ‘T’ from his vantage point. He leaned over to his girl’s ear and said, “Thank you. You always know where we’re going girl.” He said, “Lets get.” She took up the command and they loped in the direction of the ‘T’.
3.
Shane drew her up short of the destination and scanned the surroundings one more time. Still a couple miles off from the cross. He sensed the crawl of eyes upon his neck. The mare did too. With out even a flinch from Shane she exploded towards the towering cross.
A pack of wolves was closing in on them from both flanks. Shane pulled his battered bugle that was strapped to his neck with one free hand and blew the short blasts for “Incoming” and “Pursued”.
Two large wolves had set themselves at the head of the circle and were coming direct. They challenged horse and rider attempting to get them to hesitate left or right just so that the flanking pack could spring and drag them to the ground. Shane and his horse knew this tactic. She had a scarred hind quarters and he a tore up forearm to prove it. He reminded her with another kick and she raised front hooves to striking posture in full gallop. The first mongrel fell, hoof to head, head to earth. The second breezed to the right and Shane caught its face with the butt of his rifle.
A return bugle: “Come” and “Will Defend” rang out.
The massive wooden fort gate raised like a portcullis. Shane ducked, they slid underneath and the gate dropped behind them.
“Thump, thump, thump.” their lead pursuers did not perceive the quick action of the falling wall of wood. Three dogs smashed into its thick timber like some Newtonian experiment of mass and force. Archers from the ports above the entrance quickly killed the dogs who failed to escape into the wild wheat that surrounded the fort.
Shane patted his mare upon the neck. Sweat marked her body like battle paint upon an ancient warrior.
“You did good, girl,” Shane whispered into her ear.
A bright-eyed man greeted him first. His wrinkled face creased with wisdom and a weathered joy that had seen suffering and yet held out infinite hope.
“Mr. Walcot,” the old man shouted, “you never cease to amaze me!”
Shane tipped the brim of his hat, still shaking from his rushing escape.
“Why is that Colonel?”
“You always keep ye’r word, Mr. Walcot. You always keep ye’r word.” The Colonel moved up to his flank.
“Sir, I keep it, because He keeps it.” He pointed above them both to the towering cross and slid off his horse.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Chapter 1 Seven Crosses
1.
Above the hills there was a golden rainbow.
Sam grabbed his leather bag out of the old pick up parked in front of his grandparents still older farm house. He rifled through the durable compartments and pulled out two familiar friends: a worn bible and an equally worn pipe. The screen door tapped time with the universe as Sam ascended the porch to the swing.
Green grass was now fading away to yellow hues. The painted flowers that bordered the stoic building dropped petals, wilted, and weary of the summer sun. And across the open acre of knee high grass type towards the fat oak seven crosses stood at the head of fresh mounds of dark dirt.
That golden ark of color that had emerged through the storm and had held the earth in its dominion faded against the darkening horizon. She held out, with all her utmost to the highest end of the sky. But as with all expressions she dimmed and faltered. Sam held her in his heart, reaching out from deep within, encouraging her to stand against the draw of the earth. She ebbed to but a shade, something of a impression now, and the clouds from which she was born also lost semblance in the growing indigo.
A flash, a green flash, slipped out of the last movement of sun and the land immersed itself in quiet brooding. Sam sat there, drifting above the planks of the porch upon the swing. His pipe lay to his left and his bible to the right, and both were useless in the new night.
2.
The screen door struck the hour. Howl and call of the wild opened up the new government. Wolves in the hills, lions in their lairs, and their cruel comrades carried out severe justice upon whomever and whatever came into the purview of their courts. The once prevalent coyotes and even the cougars were now subjugated to their powerful cousins in this brave new world. Sam carefully slipped into the house, barred the door, and felt his way to the couch.
Grandma would have had his hide if she had seen his boots crossing that carpet. The thought stabbed him, and he finally sobbed out a cry. Her frail body lay in the grave now, not in the bed upstairs where he had found her next to grandpa. Both laying in repose for only him to pay respect. Mutilated by some wild thing, his mind equally so, he did his duty adding them to the impromptu family burial plot he had dug all that day.
The others, were as terribly drawn and quartered by scavengers. One in the barn, two in the spare bedroom, and the remaining in the guest house out back. Windows were broken, paw prints plodded upon her once spotless floors. It was, as he simply thought, horrifying. But through the whole day, he had not worried, he had not welled up with wet eyes; he prayed for mercy and married himself to his work.
Now, he lay there: dirty, tired, the smell of corpse on his hands and clothes, an unclean thing God said in the first books of the bible. Justly so, he thought, having now lived what he had once read, he couldn’t disagree with the Almighty’s proposition.
It had been a full day and as absurd as it was, he could do nothing more than grieve but a moment, for sleep, the resting place for all souls travailing, took him.
3.
There was something there! In the room. Across the living room. Something big. Its breath almost a drone. His consciousness alerted by the Lord in his spirit. He knew the prodding. Not a single movement did he make and yet he knew the beast became instantly aware of his wakefulness. It shuffled its arms upon the carpet and clawed it. Its claws popped against the hard wood floors and ripped at the expensive wool vestige. Then like a 57’ ford its V8 rumble barreled in the great cat’s chest. It purred to life.
“Lord, help me," he pleaded from his heart.
It rose. He heard it stretch its back out, the cracks of vertebrae marked the moments. The surface cried under each foot fall. Closer now. It sensed its prey’s preparations. The lion paused, savoring the game it had created. Then, it felt just a hint of doubt, almost a thorn in its paw. Rage against the personal slight it leapt.
Sam pulled the but end of the rot iron fire poker into a wood groove at the base of the couch spear out and held both arms to its shaft. The wood cracked, his arms flamed into pain, and the Terror received its dying breath through a trachea curdled by wraith like screams promulgated by its collapsing lung.
He shoved it deeper and the cat cursed and ripped away from his hold the spike. It dragged itself to the left and fell into the naked wall. It pulled itself up and then fell. It died.
Sam shook violently and vomited. The splash hit the floor. Still he could not see. His arms were wet with blood. He was living, but deeply wounded. That, he thought, would make a great metaphor for his life. Sam rolled off the couch to his feet. He thanked God that He wasn’t a metaphor.
Above the hills there was a golden rainbow.
Sam grabbed his leather bag out of the old pick up parked in front of his grandparents still older farm house. He rifled through the durable compartments and pulled out two familiar friends: a worn bible and an equally worn pipe. The screen door tapped time with the universe as Sam ascended the porch to the swing.
Green grass was now fading away to yellow hues. The painted flowers that bordered the stoic building dropped petals, wilted, and weary of the summer sun. And across the open acre of knee high grass type towards the fat oak seven crosses stood at the head of fresh mounds of dark dirt.
That golden ark of color that had emerged through the storm and had held the earth in its dominion faded against the darkening horizon. She held out, with all her utmost to the highest end of the sky. But as with all expressions she dimmed and faltered. Sam held her in his heart, reaching out from deep within, encouraging her to stand against the draw of the earth. She ebbed to but a shade, something of a impression now, and the clouds from which she was born also lost semblance in the growing indigo.
A flash, a green flash, slipped out of the last movement of sun and the land immersed itself in quiet brooding. Sam sat there, drifting above the planks of the porch upon the swing. His pipe lay to his left and his bible to the right, and both were useless in the new night.
2.
The screen door struck the hour. Howl and call of the wild opened up the new government. Wolves in the hills, lions in their lairs, and their cruel comrades carried out severe justice upon whomever and whatever came into the purview of their courts. The once prevalent coyotes and even the cougars were now subjugated to their powerful cousins in this brave new world. Sam carefully slipped into the house, barred the door, and felt his way to the couch.
Grandma would have had his hide if she had seen his boots crossing that carpet. The thought stabbed him, and he finally sobbed out a cry. Her frail body lay in the grave now, not in the bed upstairs where he had found her next to grandpa. Both laying in repose for only him to pay respect. Mutilated by some wild thing, his mind equally so, he did his duty adding them to the impromptu family burial plot he had dug all that day.
The others, were as terribly drawn and quartered by scavengers. One in the barn, two in the spare bedroom, and the remaining in the guest house out back. Windows were broken, paw prints plodded upon her once spotless floors. It was, as he simply thought, horrifying. But through the whole day, he had not worried, he had not welled up with wet eyes; he prayed for mercy and married himself to his work.
Now, he lay there: dirty, tired, the smell of corpse on his hands and clothes, an unclean thing God said in the first books of the bible. Justly so, he thought, having now lived what he had once read, he couldn’t disagree with the Almighty’s proposition.
It had been a full day and as absurd as it was, he could do nothing more than grieve but a moment, for sleep, the resting place for all souls travailing, took him.
3.
There was something there! In the room. Across the living room. Something big. Its breath almost a drone. His consciousness alerted by the Lord in his spirit. He knew the prodding. Not a single movement did he make and yet he knew the beast became instantly aware of his wakefulness. It shuffled its arms upon the carpet and clawed it. Its claws popped against the hard wood floors and ripped at the expensive wool vestige. Then like a 57’ ford its V8 rumble barreled in the great cat’s chest. It purred to life.
“Lord, help me," he pleaded from his heart.
It rose. He heard it stretch its back out, the cracks of vertebrae marked the moments. The surface cried under each foot fall. Closer now. It sensed its prey’s preparations. The lion paused, savoring the game it had created. Then, it felt just a hint of doubt, almost a thorn in its paw. Rage against the personal slight it leapt.
Sam pulled the but end of the rot iron fire poker into a wood groove at the base of the couch spear out and held both arms to its shaft. The wood cracked, his arms flamed into pain, and the Terror received its dying breath through a trachea curdled by wraith like screams promulgated by its collapsing lung.
He shoved it deeper and the cat cursed and ripped away from his hold the spike. It dragged itself to the left and fell into the naked wall. It pulled itself up and then fell. It died.
Sam shook violently and vomited. The splash hit the floor. Still he could not see. His arms were wet with blood. He was living, but deeply wounded. That, he thought, would make a great metaphor for his life. Sam rolled off the couch to his feet. He thanked God that He wasn’t a metaphor.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)