Brody came in from the evening chores. His Momma
fretted around the kitchen, passing back and forth in front of the glowing
cracks in the potbelly stove. He breathed deeply through his nose, expecting
the scent of meat cooking, but found no such smell.
“Time to
eat?” he asked.
Momma
untied her brown apron and laid it on the counter next to her, but remained
silent.
He went to
the table, sat down, and waited. Daddy’s boots thumped on the wooden porch
outside. The sound stopped, only to be replaced with a rhythmic rapping on the
wall. Brody didn’t get up to answer the door because Dad always removed his
boots, banged them against the wall to knock the dust off, and then left them
outside until the next morning. This time, the banging carried on longer than
normal.
“Why don’t
he stop?” Brody asked.
Momma
sighed, but didn’t turn away from the wash-pan. “Got things on his mind,” she
whispered.
The wooden
lever on the door rattled and Dad came in.
Momma
turned. “Anything?” she asked him. Black strands of hair had come loose from
her bun and rested against her cheek. Mother normally kept her hair perfect,
but not today. This caused Brody to study her face closer. She had sunken eyes
and wrinkles, something he had never noticed before.
Dad rubbed
a troubled hand across the stubble on his chin. “Nothing.” He sat at the table
and looked at the boy. “Brody.”
“Yes sir,”
he answered.
Dad took
his dusty hat off, pushed his brown hair back, and then repositioned the hat.
“Tater needs brushed.”
“But I
already brushed my pony.”
“Son.”
Dad’s tone warned him not to argue.
“Yes sir,”
Brody said on his way out the door. “Have it done in a jiffy.”
Brody knew
why he had been sent out. Grown-ups liked to talk alone. He closed the door
behind him, but immediately ducked around the corner. The thin chinking between
the logs on the old house did little to muffle the conversation.
Dad
coughed. “It hasn’t rained in weeks. The crops died.”
“All of
‘em?” Momma asked.
“It’s all
brown.”
Dishes
clinked together. “Jim, what are we gonna do? It’s mid-July and we’re outta
food.”
Dad sighed.
“Well-”
Momma
interrupted. “We’re out of money, and we need somthin’ to eat.”
“I hunted
all mornin’,” Dad said. “The game is scarce. They’re feelin’ the pinch too.”
“This is
not a pinch,” Momma argued. “We’re in trouble.
Brody
pressed against the rough logs and heard his dad’s chair scoot across the wood
floor. “I can go to Fort Smith.
Maybe there’s work.”
Momma’s
voice rose. “There’s no work, and how would you get there? On Brody’s little pony?”
“I’ll
walk,” Dad said.
“It would
take you days. It won’t work.” She remained quiet for a moment. “You could’ve
taken the old horse, if you hadn’t killed it.”
“We had to
eat,” he said.
Brody
clutched his gut. His father had told him the farm horse ran off. We ate
him? Brody thought. He took a step back, lowered his head, and stuck his
hands in his pockets. The thought of eating horse meat twisted his stomach
around.
The
conversation inside continued. “Jim, we can’t last long enough for you to go to
Fort Smith.”
“Maybe we
should all go,” Dad suggested.
“You and I
ain’t eaten in days, Jim. I don’t know bout you, but I don’t have the strength
to walk for close to a week.”
Brody
leaned closer to the wall. Not eaten? He thought about the past few days.
Momma had cooked for him, but he now realized he had not seen her or his father
eating.
“Brody will
be back any minute,” Dad said. “Let’s sleep on it, pray about it. We’ll find a
solution in the mornin’.”
“Jim, we
moved here in eighteen seventy-seven. We’ve been lookin’ for a solution for
three years.”
Brody heard
the booming sound of his dad’s calloused hand slapping the table. “It’s the
best I can do.”
Brody ran
to the barn and quickly brushed Tater while he pondered on things. Was it his
fault? Had he eaten more food than he should have? He patted Tater on the side.
The pony’s ribs stood out under Brody’s fingers. “You’re safe,” he said.
“There’s barely any meat on ya.”
Brody put the brush up, and closed the barn
door. The red sunset cast the last of its glow across the rolling hills in
front of their property. He paused and looked toward the dark woods behind his
house. There had to be some kind of game animals left in there.
A lit
candle sat on the table. He took it and walked across the creaky floor. Brody
stopped at his parent’s bedroom doorway and could hear Momma crying softly.
“You okay?”
he asked.
Dad’s voice
came from the dark bedroom. “Come here.”
Brody went
inside. In the dim light from the candle he could see his Dad’s strong arms holding
Momma. Dad shifted, and held out a welcoming arm to Brody. The boy went over
and Dad pulled him close. Momma took the candle and set it on the nightstand.
They shared a family hug, longer than normal.
“Everything’s
fine,” Dad said. “Go get some rest.”
Brody
wanted to tell them he had overheard the conversation, but thought Dad might be
mad on account of the eavesdropping. He kissed Momma on the check, and then
headed to his room.
Brody
rolled and tossed, and though he tried, sleep avoided him. His stomach growled
with hunger. If he felt this bad after only going a day without food, then he
couldn’t imagine how hungry his parents must be. They needed food and he felt
responsible. There just had to be game left in the woods.
My spot,
Brody thought. He didn’t try my spot. Brody had found a wonderful area a
year earlier, but kept it a secret. He never told his father about it because
Brody wasn’t supposed to be that far from home. He had seen three deer in the
secret hollow the year before, but couldn’t get a shot at any of them. This
time would be different.
He started
constructing the plan in his head. He knew he would get in trouble, but it
would be worth it. Brody drifted to sleep, thinking of how excited his parents
would be when he returned with something to eat.
He woke
early, lit a lantern, and got dressed. Instead of doing his morning chores,
Brody rushed to the corner where they kept the guns. Dad had gotten up earlier
than him and had taken the rifle. It only left Brody with the old flintlock his
grandfather had left them when he died. Brody had used it before. The pitted
barrel made the gun hard to load, but it still shot straight.
He gathered
the wadding, balls, and bag of powder. A leather pouch hung on the wall, so he
grabbed it and threw the stuff inside. He found his jacket and big hunting
knife, and then went to the front door. It creaked as it swung open, so he
paused and listened, making sure his dad had left.
Brody put
his jacket on, eased the door shut behind him, and then headed to the barn.
Tater tried turning his head to keep Brody from putting the bridle on, but it
didn’t work. After he finished, Brody found a leather bag hanging from a post.
He tied his bag to it with a short piece of rope, and then threw them across
Tater’s back. He crawled up, and even though Brody weighed no more than a sack
of corn, Tater still grunted.
Brody
buttoned his jacket. “Let’s get goin’,” he said. “The sun is risin’ and we’ve a
long way to go.”
He kicked
his pony’s sides and they were on their way. The cool morning air instantly
started the boy’s eyes watering, but he did not care. His special hunting spot
would provide. He just knew it.
He kept
Tater at a trot. The first hour of daylight could sometimes be the best time to
hunt, and the thought of missing it angered him. Brody made his way up a long
ridge. After going down a slope, they went through a grove of cedars. The
prickly green limbs rubbed against his clothes and coated him with the smell of
fresh cedar.
After
leaving the cedars, they crossed over two smaller ridges, and then arrived at
the old wagon trail that led to his secret spot. The trail had not been
traveled by wagon for many years. Large saplings and brush grew in its middle.
Tater settled into the path’s depression where countless wild animals had
traveled, and trotted along.
The oaks
towered above them. Winter’s leftover leaves crunched under Tater’s hooves.
Brody slowed him to a walk to keep from spooking any game. A large, low hanging
branch blocked the old path. It looked like a good place to stop, so Brody
climbed down, and then tied Tater to the limb. He patted the speckled gray hair
on the pony’s shoulder, retrieved the gun and packs, and then eased down the
side of the point.
About
halfway down the gentle slope, Brody found an oak tree with a large root that
curled around. It formed a perfect sitting spot. He raked the leaf litter out
of the way and settled in.
He opened
the pack and took a quick inventory. There were about twenty balls, lots of
wadding, and a large bag of black powder. He knew his dad kept the flintlock
loaded. He just had to prime the pan. Brody reached into the bag for the powder
flask, but it wasn’t there. He had forgotten it. The task of filling the pan
would be hard without it, but he felt he could do it.
He untied
the bag of powder, and then balanced the gun across his knees. Brody managed to
load the pan without spilling very much. He sat the powder between his legs,
and cocked the hammer all the way back. The time for waiting had come.
The birds
woke, flew from tree to tree, and chirped. A squirrel jumped onto a branch
above him, sending down a shower of morning dew. Brody ignored the cool drops
and entertained the idea of taking a shot at the tree rat, but then figured he
could not hit it up in the tree anyway. But, if the thing ventured down to the
ground, Brody knew he would give it a try. While he waited, his mind drifted.
Memories,
good memories, of his first fourteen years and much better times kept his
thoughts busy, until a twig snapped in the hollow below. Brody sat a little
straighter and got ready. The echo of old leaves crunching sent his heart
racing. The boy’s secret spot had not failed him.
Deep in the
hollow, a shadow moved. The figure came around a large tree and stepped into
the sun’s morning rays. A deer. Life had been hard on the skinny animal. Its
ribs pushed against its hide. The deer stood motionless for a long time, but
its ears twitched constantly.
Brody’s
mind raced with the pace of his heart. The excitement of the hunt and promise
of food overtook him. He knew there would be enough meat to feed his family for
a week, maybe more. Brody eased his knees up, to give him a good rest for the
shot. He waited until the deer lowered its head. Then, Brody rested his elbows
on his knees and brought the butt of the gun to his shoulder. His hands shook
with deer fever.
The deer
fed along, coming closer with each step. The dry leaf litter announced its
every move. It stopped fifty steps away, threw its head up, and looked around.
Brody froze
and strained to keep from blinking.
The deer
stomped its foot, a sure sign it had caught his scent. Brody knew he would have
to take the shot now. He peered down the long barrel, lined the sight up, and
pulled the trigger. The gun kicked hard and smoke filled the air. Brody thought
he heard the deer running, but couldn’t see through the white cloud. He turned
the flintlock on its side, and then heard something hissing between his legs.
Brody
looked down in time to see that a spark of burning powder had fallen into the
bag he had neglected to close. In an instant, a searing, orange flash of
exploding gun powder shot up. The blast hit him square in the face, and Brody
sucked in a surprised breath. His eyes, mouth, throat, and whole head burned.
The boy
slapped at his face and rolled on the ground. Brody’s voice cracked with each
attempted scream. The remnants of burning powder covered the inside of his
mouth and throat. His face stung all over, but his eyes worst of all. The smell
of burnt hair filled the air. He tumbled, flopped, and prayed the whole time
for it to cease.
Brody
stopped flailing long enough to realize there were no flames, only pain.
Intense pain. He opened his mouth and cried, but the salty tears burned his
cheeks. He tried to cry louder, even louder than the time the horse kicked him,
but his sobs were silent. The scorched vocal cords in his throat no longer
worked. A tingling feeling ran up Brody’s legs, and then he passed out.
Sometime
later, he woke. The pain had lessened to a dull throb that kept time with his
heartbeat. Brody guessed he had been out for awhile. The hot, stiff breeze told
him the stillness of the morning had passed.
He sat up
and tried to open his eyes. Brody cracked one of his lids slightly, but
everything remained dark.
I’m
blind!
A panic
rushed over him. He rolled onto his side and touched his face. It hurt, but
Brody ran his fingers over it anyway. Leaves were stuck to his burnt skin. He
cringed and brushed them away.
He found
that his face didn’t feel like his anymore. Brody’s eyes and lips were swollen,
almost shut. He had no eyebrows and some of his hair had burned away.
Brody
gritted his teeth, and pressed one of his eyelids upward. The pain kept him
from holding it there long. Nothing. No hint of sight. He staggered up onto
weak legs, and held his hands out in front. He had to get to Tater.
After three
or four cautious steps, Brody stopped. He knew he should be walking up hill,
but wasn’t. The boy turned and eased forward. His hands brushed against the
rough bark of an oak tree. Brody leaned against it for a moment, and then
continued in a small circle. He felt no rise in the lay of the land. During his
throws of pain, Brody had rolled to the bottom of the hollow.
He paused
and tried to think past his throbbing face. Three ridge points emptied into the
bottom. That’s what made it such a good hunting spot, but that very thing had
Brody in big trouble. He had to pick the correct ridge, he had three choices,
and he couldn’t see any of them.
Brody sat
on the ground and rocked back and forth. Dad will come, he thought. No
he won’t, his mind argued back. Dad doesn’t know where you are. No one
does. You snuck out and didn’t leave a note.
Brody
punched the ground. He ran his hands through the leaves until he found a rock.
He threw it, and then hit the ground with his fist again. After the tantrum, he
got back on his feet and took a deep breath. He had to find the pony.
His first
ten steps were slow. The next ten came quicker. After that, Brody couldn’t seem
to slow down. He kept his hands out, feeling his way from tree, to nothing, to
tree again. His breath came hard. The land began to rise under his feet,
bringing a small amount of excitement to Brody. He had found a ridgeline. He
scrambled up, swinging his arms wildly in front.
The boy ran
into a limb and it slapped him in the face. He clutched his head with both
hands and went to his knees in a crumpled heap of pain. Brody’s chest heaved,
trying to draw in more air. He attempted to cry out, but his voice made no
sound. Brody struggled for another breath, but it barely came. He moved his
shaking hands to his neck. The boy’s tortured throat had swollen shut. A
ringing in his ears turned into the crunching of old leaves.
The
chirping of crickets and buzzing of locust woke him. He listened to the
constant noise for a moment while his thoughts cleared.
I’ve got
to find Tater, he thought.
Brody sat
up and fought off another bout of panic. After calming down, he tried to think.
The swelling in his throat had mostly gone away, allowing him to breathe
normally again, but running into the limb had made his face hurt even worse.
Brody knew
the sun had either just set, or would soon. The crickets always came alive in
the evenings. He knew the day was dying, because their annoying chirps sounded
all around. The air had cooled, but not considerably. Late evening had come and
Brody knew his dad would be mad and worried by now.
He
staggered back to his feet and continued up the ridge. Each time his hands
found a tree, he used it to steady himself. He pulled on a small sapling and it
cracked. Brody ran his hand down its length, until he felt the break. He yanked
on it until the last bit of sinuous fibers broke free. He swung the stick
around and it smacked into a tree. This’ll work, he thought.
The boy
kept his pace quick, but unrushed, hoping to avoid another swelling episode. He
kept moving the stick side to side. More than once, it stopped him from running
into another limb.
The pony
would get him home, if he could just find him. A loud whistle usually prompted
Tater to neigh. Brody tried it, but the attempt only brought him pain. Another
hundred steps had Brody sweating. A drop ran down from his hairline and burned
his raw forehead.
The ground
leveled out, telling Brody he had reached the top. He eased along while
dragging his feet, feeling certain he could find the old wagon trail. The
number of steps ticked away in Brody’s head.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty. Too many. I should’ve crossed the path by now.
Brody shook
his head. He had picked the wrong ridge point and knew what had to happen. He
would have to go back down and find the next one. Such a long way, he
thought. Dejected, Brody sat against a tree and rested.
In a
desperate bid for help, he tried to call out. The air escaping his throat did
nothing but hiss. The boy slapped the side of his leg in frustration.
An owl
hooted down in the hollow, a certain sign it would be dark soon.
Brody
pushed one of his swollen eyelids up again. Nothing. A mosquito buzzed in his
ear. He started to swat at it, but froze when he heard Tater neigh. The sound
echoed and Brody could not pinpoint it. He cupped a hand behind his ear and
waited.
Yes, oh
yes, just one more time, he thought. He wished with all his might for Tater
to make another sound. Are ya on the left ridge, or right?
Something
growled in the bottom below. Brody sucked in a quick breath, and the hairs on
his arms and neck stood tall. The animal let out a scream. A woman could not
have out done it. Brody squirmed around to the other side of the tree. He had
heard a wildcat before. Apparently Tater had too. During the commotion, the
pony squealed. Hoof-beats sounded, and the boy knew Tater had broken loose. He
could only hope the panther followed the pony. He wished Tater no ill, but if
he had to choose the pony or himself… Brody tried not to think about it.
The boy’s
very core shook with tension. He couldn’t hear the cat and it worried him. They
were sneaky. It could be anywhere. Brody wanted to run and hide, but decided to
stay put and remain silent. He thought if he were completely still, maybe it
would not notice him.
All sense
of time left him. He wasn’t sure if ten minutes had passed, or thirty. His legs
cramped, making him want to change positions, but he could not risk the noise
it would make.
Slowly, the
woods came alive with things rustling in the leaves. At first, the boy’s heart
skipped, but he soon realized the noises were too small. Even the padded feet
of a wildcat would be louder than this. He decided coons and opossums were
probably making the small sounds. At least he hoped he was right.
Brody’s leg
pain worsened, until he couldn’t wait any longer. He shifted. A small stick
cracked under his weight and the leaves crunched softly. He waited for the terrible
attack to come, but it didn’t.
Hours
passed. Three? Four? He did not know for sure. Regardless, the night wore on,
and sleep soon called to him. Not being able to open his eyes made it even
harder to stay awake, but Brody knew better than to drift off with a panther
creeping about.
The owl
hooted again, this time from a different place in the bottom. Brody jolted at
the sound, and then pulled his jacket tight around his neck. Far in the
distance, another owl answered. Its call carried on and the boy desperately
wanted the sound to change, and become his father’s voice yelling for him.
A blue-jay
screeched its warning. The bird’s call quickly told Brody two things. Morning
had come, and the jay wanted him to leave. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
Brody didn’t even remember lying down.
The cool
night air had felt good on his burned skin, but the day’s warm breeze brought
discomfort. He made his way down the ridge, moving through the shadows cast
from the massive trees, knowing each time the sun hit his skin. The heat from
the rays doubled the pain from his burns. Though it hurt, he tried glancing
toward the sun, to see if he could detect a glow through his eyelids. Still
nothing.
He lowered
his head, sighed, and continued swinging the stick. If he did make it home, he
would be blind forever, nothing but an additional burden for his family. Brody
had set out to make things better, but only made it worse, much worse.
He paused occasionally and listened to make
sure nothing followed. Brody could not help worrying about the wildcat. His
steps quickened. It would not be wise to spend another night in the hollow.
He stumbled
and shuffled his way across, tripping and falling more than once. His shoulder
muscles burned from holding the stick out. Finally, the ground rose again. He
walked left, and the land sloped down. He went back over and to the right. The
ground dropped. Brody prayed this would be the correct ridge.
Forty steps
up, left him exhausted. He sat and rested. Brody’s legs ached and his head
throbbed. A terrible hunger came from his empty stomach. The lining of his
mouth and throat were much too raw to eat anything, but the thought of cool
water teased him. He ached for a drink.
At
sixty-two additional steps, the land started to level off. Brody drug his feet,
but did not feel the trail. The thought of having to go back into the bottom to
look for the third ridge did not sound good. This had to be the right one. He
got down on his knees and crawled, feeling his way along the top of the knoll.
A bug squirmed between his fingers, and Brody jerked his hand back. After a
moment, the boy moved on, searching the ground carefully.
At last,
his hands fell into a slight depression. He paused, crawled one way, and then
the other. The indention continued. Relief washed over him. He had found the
wagon trail. Left would lead him toward home. He stood, centered his feet on
the path, held the stick out in front, and eased along. His best guess put him
almost four miles from home. It would be a long, slow walk.
He wondered
what his dad would think when Tater came home without him. Brody hoped Dad
could follow the pony’s back-trail. It would at least show him the direction
the boy had gone. Brody stopped walking for a moment. The thought occurred to
him that perhaps Dad had found their original trail. He could already be on his
way. Brody shook his head. He had taken Tater across two ridges where there was
no trail. It would be almost impossible for anyone to track them through there.
Brody moved
slowly, making sure to stay on the path.
One
hundred and sixty-four. A bird fluttered in a tree close by. The crow
blurted its scolding cry and flew away.
A few
seconds later, Brody’s stick hit something hard next to the trail. He ran his
hands around the object. His fingers told him it was an old log. Time for a
rest, he thought. Just for a little while.
After he
began walking again, the trail started downward and Brody’s hopes lifted. He
had made progress. He tried to picture the way. After reaching the bottom, he
would need to turn right and cross over two ridges. After that, the cedar grove
would be the next challenge to find. During his thoughts, Brody lost count of
the steps. He gave up on remembering the correct number and started over. He
wasn’t sure why he counted them, other than it kept his mind busy and helped
give him a rough, mental map.
Ninety-seven.
Something sharp cut across his hand. Brody pulled back, and it snagged the skin
on his fingers. Briars.
The thorny
stalks were nothing new to the farm boy. He had picked his way through many
briar patches, but this one worried Brody more than any other. He had not come
through this area with Tater.
The boy
backed up, went to his knees, and felt the ground. His hands found the trail’s
indention easily. It led straight into the briar patch. Brody’s head drooped.
He had not lost the path. He had followed the wrong one. Right there, in the
middle of the woods, at the edge of a thorny patch, he fell apart. The thought
of going back and having to find the correct ridge broke the boy down. He
curled up on the ground and sobbed. Without a parched throat, Brody’s cries
would have scared the animals for miles, but his silent sobs went unnoticed.
A deep
rumble of thunder rolled across the land and shook him out of his pity. The
wind stiffened and weaved its way between the limbs above. Leaves fluttered and
another round of thunder came. High in the trees, a few lonely raindrops
smashed into the broad leaves.
Brody
stood, and then moved back up the trail. At twenty-eight steps, he strayed from
the path until his stick smacked a tree. The first one felt too small, so he
kept going. Brody needed a huge tree with lots of branches to protect him from
the rain.
At nine
careful strides, uneasiness came over him. He couldn’t go too far, or he would
have trouble getting back to the trail. Brody failed to complete the tenth
step. The ground disappeared from under his feet and he toppled over an edge.
His mind barely had enough time to grasp his dire situation before hitting the
ground.
His right
foot smashed into the earth first and a searing pain shot up Brody’s leg. His
hip and shoulder hit next. The boy tried to cry out, but couldn’t. The impact
had knocked the breath out of him.
Brody’s
lungs finally filled and his head cleared. He shifted, trying to see if
anything could be broken. He tried to roll onto his side, but his injured ankle
was tangled in something. Brody reached for his foot, only to find the force of
the fall had lodged his right leg between a tree root and a large rock. Brody
took a deep breath and pulled. It did not work. He let go and his hands shook
uncontrollably.
Lightening
struck close by and every muscle in Brody’s body jumped. His sudden movement
told him the location of every bruise. He twisted his ankle, trying to free it,
but he could not handle the pain.
Brody tried
to open his eyes, but his lids would not budge. He found the swelling had gone
down, but his eyelids felt like they had healed shut, or been glued together.
He pried at them, fought through the tearing pain, and finally managed to open
one, and then the other.
Rain drops,
larger than any he had ever felt, pelted him all over. The musty smell of wet
leaves filled the air. Rolling thunder and the roar of rain kept Brody from
hearing anything else. He opened his mouth, attempting to coat his raw throat
with water, but then stopped. Brody found it hard to believe his situation
could be worse. He had no strength left. His will broken.
Let it
come, he thought. Let my last day find me here.
Sometime
later, the rain stopped, and Brody’s sprits lifted. He placed his free foot
against the tree root and pushed. It did not work, and Brody huffed from the
effort. Hours tumbled past. Exhaustion took over, and his body begged for rest.
Let me
find a way out, he prayed.
The rain
had brought cooler air, which started the crickets early. When the annoying
noise stopped dead, Brody took note. Something growled to his left, and he
jerked his head toward the sound.
Brody held
his breath and listened. Lingering drops fell from the trees and splattered on
the ground. The crickets started again and he began to wonder if he had
imagined it.
He tried
pulling on his leg again. His pants were soaked and the moisture must have
helped. Brody’s foot came free, but he winced in pain.
A loud hiss
sounded, at the base of the bluff. Brody’s heart fluttered. It was the panther.
It had to be._______________________________________________________________
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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Dear Mr.Rob,
ReplyDeleteI read this part and I found the story very engaging; meaning I would not like to take off my mind from the plot.Quite interesting.
Manohar Bhatia.