Thursday, July 19, 2012

"The Devil's Backbone"
Opening Chapter
By James Babb



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

For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.  Post your query to theperfectwrite@aol.com(no attachments) and visit the Sample Letters Page for examples of successful query letters.

The Perfect Write® offers comprehensive editing services, from manuscript critiques to complete revisions, including line-editing, along with query letter design and composition. For pricing, send your project requirements to theperfectwrite@aol.com


1 comment:

  1. Dear Mr.Rob,
    I 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.

    ReplyDelete