I, WALTER By Mike Hartner April 30, 2013

                                                                   Chapter 1

"I, Walter Crofter, being of sound mind...."  Bah, this is garbage!  I tossed my quill on the parchment sitting in front of me.  People may question my sanity, but they should hear the whole story before judging me.  I’m sitting here, now, at the age of 67, trying to write this down and figure out how to tell everything.  I don’t know if I'll ever get it right, though.  Too many secrets to go around.  However, this is my last chance to offer the truth before I die.  The doctors say it's malaria, yet I'll be fine.  Perhaps.  But if the malaria doesn't kill me, my guilt indeed will.  Maybe if people know the facts surrounding my life, everyone will have a better understanding.

I dipped the tip in the inkwell again, and wrote:

I was born September 2, 1588, and named Walter.  I didn’t belong in this Crofter family, who were storekeepers in Portishead and not farmers as our surname might indicate to those who study this sort of thing.  My parents were courteous and even obsequious to our patrons.  Yet they received little or no respect.  The ladies came to  us to buy their groceries or the fabric for their dresses, but as seemly as they comported themselves, and some even called my father 'friend,' it was not out of regard for him.  I was forced to run.  Well, "forced" might put too harsh a point on it, like that of a sword, but others can judge for themselves.

By the time I reached the age of 12, I'd found another family that was more "me".  They weren’t rich, but they were comfortable.  The parents had several children, including a girl my age who was named Anna.  Within two years, we had come to know each other quite well, and were getting to know each other even better.  Her father caught us getting too close to knowing each other better yet, and showed up at my parents' house with a musket in his hand, telling them if I ever came near his daughter again, he'd use it on me--and then on them.

I paused to dip the pen and wipe my brow.  Even though I was wearing a light cotton shirt, it was bloody hot in early August in Cadaques.  My wife, Maria, entered the room and looked at my perspiring face and what I had just written.  Between fits of laughter, she smiled at me with wide lips and said, "You can't possibly write this.  You're not the only boy a doting father ever had to chase away.  Nobody cares about this sort of thing."

"It will at least give a pulse to this writing," I replied.  "It's too boring to say I left because I was mismatched with my own family, so much so that I was positive someone had switched me at birth.  Or that I thought I was ready for more in life than what I could find at home.  Nobody would read that, not even me."

"I agree, so tell the story that really means something.  All of it."  She sighed softly and placed the parchment she had been reading on the desk in front of me and kissed my cheek.  The gleam in her eyes shed 20 years off her age and reminded me of a much gentler time.  God, how much I love her.

I said, "Before I met you, I spent my life like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole.  I’m just trying to make my story more interesting."

"I’ve heard the accounts of your life before you met me.  Or I should say found me.  It was anything but boring.  So, if you insist on including in the story lines like those you just wrote, make sure they're the only ones.  If you don't, I'll consider adding my own material."  She winked.  "You know I’ve had good sources."

She turned and walked away, laughing loudly as I called after her, "Yes, dear."

I dipped the quill and put it to parchment again.:
In my earliest days, I remember my father, Geoff, being a bit forceful with other people.  I also recall my brother Gerald, nearly five years my senior, and myself being happy.  Or at least as contented as two boys could be who were growing up in the late 1500s in England, and working every day since their seventh birthdays.  It was a time when boys were earning coin as soon as they could lift or carry things.  The money could never be for themselves, however, but for the parents to help pay the bills. 

Father lived as a crofter should.  He was an upright man and sold vegetables off a cart like his grandfather did, and he also dabbled in selling fine fabric for the ladies of status.

One afternoon, when I was eight years old, my brother came home and got into a heated debate with my father about something.  When I ran to see what was the matter, they hushed around me, so I never got the full gist of the argument.  But whatever it was about, it was serious, and the bickering continued behind my back for five straight days.  When I awoke on the morning of the sixth day, Gerald was no longer at home.  And he never came back.

Soon afterwards, my father lost enthusiasm for his business and became generally passive.  I assumed this was because of Gerald's leaving, and only on occasion would I see flashes of my dad's former self. 

At the start of my tenth year, our family moved closer to London.  We rented    the bottom floor of a three-story building in which several families lived in the upper floors.  My father said we relocated because he needed to be closer to more business opportunities.  But my mom didn't believe he'd made the right decision, since he was  now selling food out of a cart and not inside a storefront.   One night, she greeted him at the door when he came home.  She was wearing a frown and a dress that had seen better days.

"Did you bring in any decent money?" she asked him before he had time to take off his coat.

"I told you, it will take some time.  It's not easy to make good money these days."

"Especially when you let the ladies walk all over you."

"I know, I know.  But what am I to do when they aren't running up to me to buy what I'm selling?"

"You at least bring home some food for us."  My father had carried in a bag under his arm.

"It's not much, a few carrots and some celery."  He handed her the bag.

"What about meat?"

"We're not ready for meat yet."

"That’s true enough," my mother said.  "But you should at least try to feed your family.  Walter's growing, and so are our other children."

"Leave me be, woman.  I'm doing the best I can for now."  He sat in his chair, leaned his head against the wall, and fell asleep.

That same debate played out between my parents for the next two years.  Except for the summer months, when food was plentiful; then the arguments subsided.  But for the rest of the year, especially during the winter, the same discussions about money continued on a daily basis, and they were often quite heated.  I lost two younger siblings during those two years.  One during my tenth winter and the other during my eleventh winter.  Neither of the children was older than six months.  I always suspected hunger as the primary cause of their deaths.

Just before my twelfth birthday, my father started taking me with him when he went to work.  My closest living sibling was nearly six and not feeling well most of the time, and the family needed the money I could bring in by helping my father, who was bland and wishy-washy, particularly when selling fabrics.  I had no idea what he was like before, but in my mind his lethargy explained why our family was barely making ends meet.  Our lives had become much harder since Gerald left, and part of me blamed him.  I'm going to thrash him if I ever see him again and teach him a lesson about family responsibility.

It took me less than a week to realize that the people my father was dealing with, as with those in Portishead, had no respect for him.  They regularly talked down to him.  Rather than asking the price, they regularly paid what they wanted to pay. And he took it without a quibble.  And when he tried to curry favor, he would never get it.  His customers looked upon him as a whipping board, at least that's how it seemed to me.

I remember when we got home in the dark after a long day of work in late November, and my mother started in on Dad.

"Well?  Have you got the money for me to buy food tomorrow?"

"A little.  Here."  He fished a guinea from his pocket.

“A guinea?  That's it?  That won’t feed us for a day.  You've got to start working harder.  With what you earn and what I bring in sewing clothes, we can barely pay the rent, and there is nothing left over to heat this place.  And it's going to get colder, Geoff."

"I know, Mildred, I know.  I’m trying as hard as I can."

“You haven’t worked hard since Sir Walter Raleigh left favor.  You can't wait for him forever." 

"He'll get favor back.  And when he does, I’ll be right there helping him.  You’ll see, we’ll be fine again."

She groaned.  I was aware that this was not the first time my mother had heard this from my father.  It's great talk from a man trying to get ahead.  But after several years of the same song, it loses its credibility.  She had enjoyed respectability in the early days when my father could grab hold of his father's coattails, the then revered Sir Walter Raleigh, and it was hard not having this luxury now.  She hadn’t planned to be satisfied with being a shopkeeper’s wife, and she wasn't even that, at present.  She changed the subject, not her tone.

"I overheard the ladies gossiping on the street today.  They were talking about seeing Gerald's likeness on a 'Wanted' poster.  A 'Wanted' poster, Geoff.  There’s a warrant out for our son’s arrest.
What are we going to do?  What can we do?"

My father stared at the wall.  "Nothing.  He's an adult.  He'll have to work it out for himself."

I watched quietly as my mother cried herself to sleep, her head on my father's shoulder.  No matter how bad things got, they loved each other and wanted their lives to be better,the way I was often told they were before my birth.  Maybe this is why I wanted to get away from them as soon as I could.

I didn't usually watch my parents fall asleep.  But, that night I did.  And, after they were sound asleep, I left.  I had no plans.  I didn't know where I was going.  I just left in middle of what was a dark, chilly night. 

I could hear the dogs barking around me as I scurried along the roadside.  It felt as if they were yelping at me and coming towards me.  I began running, faster than I'd ever sprinted in my life, my speed assisted by my sense of fear.  Every time I heard a dog, or an owl, or any other animal, or even my own heavy breathing, my pace increased until I was exhausted and had to stop.  This continued throughout the night until the sky started to lighten and I found a grove of overhanging bushes and crawled inside for some sleep. 

I scavenged for food during the day and swiped a few pieces of fruit from merchants along the way. This became my means of subsistence.  I left a coin when  I could, as I'd pick up an occasional odd job, but I was always out of money.  I also tried begging, and while I did survive on the street, I found life difficult.  Yet for nearly two years I stayed with this vagabond existence before deciding to make my way to the sea.  Too bad my internal compass wasn’t any good.  Turns out I was moving more to the west than to the south.  But before long I was on the shores of Portsmouth.  And my life changed forever.

__________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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WAR OF THE SERAPHS: ASCENSION By Dan Bilodeau April 2, 2013

                                                            Chapter One

    

            Dalziel got out of bed and stretched his arms. For the first night in as long as he could remember, he hadn’t dreamed, which was odd since Conscription Day was almost here. The day when Ibernian boys, such as he, would be chosen to serve in the Andal military, the occupying force in Ibernia. A horrible finality descended on the locals when the names were shouted out, as if the magistrate were calling out the names of the dead. Because when a boy’s name was drawn, without so much as enough time to say goodbye to his family, he was led to the barracks by Andal soldiers to begin his service to the Empire. And no boy ever came back.

            Dal prayed to the god of the Ibernians: "Dio, if you’re listening, please don’t let me or Soren be picked. Neither of us is ready for a life of slavery to these monsters." He went to his younger brother’s bedroom and shook Soren hard until he awoke. The boy mumbled something and sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Then Dal distinctly heard his brother say where he could put his idea of a wakeup call.

            Their mother was in the kitchen peeling potatoes and humming a simple refrain, a good sign, as she was at least doing something instead of staring out the window in a hopeless daze.

            “Morning, Mom," Dal said.

            “Good morning, Dalziel,” his mother replied, and as she tossed away the skins she added, “I love you."

            While it wasn’t much, this was the most normal his mother had acted in years. Ever since his father had died in the rebellion ten years earlier, she had been a shell of  her former self.

            “Love you too, Ma,” he answered as he gave her a big hug. She didn’t say anything more and quit her tune, cooking breakfast in the silence to which he had become all too accustomed.

            Soren gave Dal an impish look as they wolfed down the food their mother set in front of them. “Fire pits?” he whispered to his brother. Dal nodded.

            Everyone knew about the fire pits that were located a couple of miles from his family's farm. How the pits had originated was another story. Some claimed a meteor had hit there millenniums earlier. Some said Dio had put them there to remind people of His fiery wrath. Some proffered that Luan and the Seraphs, mythical heroes from Ibernia’s past, had made the fire pits during their ferocious battles with the Woads, a thousand years ago. What a bunch of superstitious old fools.

            Dal believed that Hadrian, an old man with a fascination for legends and history, was at the heart of the rumors. Most adults in Quork avoided him, but Dal found Hadrian oddly endearing because he genuinely seemed to care about him and his family. Also, he was the only person Dal knew who was brave enough to discuss history openly. Studying the past was strictly forbidden by the Andals, and punishment when caught was severe. Consequently, books were rare, and owning some types of them was punishable by death, so most Ibernians did their best to preserve their country's legacy by way of the spoken word. Over time, how many facts had been distorted was anybody's guess.

            And to Dal's way of thinking, the past had been painful enough.  He didn’t need a constant reminder. Life was about surviving in the present, and he didn’t want to think about what had occurred a millennium ago. Still, Dal paid attention when the old man spoke, because even if it was nonsense, the tales were always entertaining.

            “Come back to earth, Dal,” Soren said, always alert to his brother’s daydreaming. “Time to go while the day’s ahead of us.”  Both boys quietly exited the house, telling their mother they were going to do farm work, but walking west toward the pits.

            When they arrived, Dal reminded himself that the fire pits were poorly named. Locals said that for centuries they constantly bubbled magma and shot flames, but there wasn’t much activity lately. However, every now and again flames would shoot up through fissures leading to the heart of the pit, and anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby would be baked to a crisp by this earthen oven. Because they didn’t understand them, going near the pits was expressly forbidden by the Andals. Playing in the pits, therefore, was an act of defiance. Dal liked this, especially since the Andals were about to ruin the lives of many an Ibernian youth.

            With the Conscription a day away, Dal wanted to spend as much private time  as he could with his brother in case either or even both of their names were drawn. He found their placement in the lottery incredibly unfair. They had grown up fatherless, with only each other to rely on, and now there was a real possibility that one or both of them might have to fight for the very people who had killed their father. But today was a day to forget all of that. Soren loved the pits, so this was where Dal took him to play.

            After a half-hour inside one of their favorite pits, Soren yelled, “Look what I found, Dal!” and he presented his brother with a volcanic rock. Smooth and black, it was worthless, except to Soren.

            “Wow, nice job, partner,” Dal said, smiling widely and appreciating how great it was to have a brother like Soren, even if he wasn’t much at geology.

            Soren dropped the rock in Dal’s hand,  and he pretended to examine it closely before his head shot up and he announced, “This is it, we’re rich! No more farming. We’ll present this to the city council.”

            “Really?”

            “Sure, next week,” Dal said, praying they would still be together. If they were, by then Soren would have forgotten all about his discovery and be on to some other adventure. He wished he could get as excited as his brother about anything. While Soren remained blissfully unaware of the world around him, Dal was headed in the other direction. Soren had been too young to understand, but Dal was well aware that he would never see his father again. He hated the Andals for that.

            Dal gave the rock back to Soren, and as he did something caught his eye. A faint red light, likely generated by magma deep below the surface, was flickering through a tiny slit in a wall behind his brother.

            Without notice, Soren punched Dal in the arm and took off running, yelling, “You’re it, slowpoke.”   

            “Not for long!”

            He let his brother get a good head start, and while it was a foregone conclusion Dal would catch Soren, the chase was the fun, for both of them. Dal watched his brother run around  a boulder, laughing all the while. Dal sprinted but tripped over something when he came to a section in the pit that was dark because of a natural shelf overhead.  He lost his balance and stumbled sideways, falling into a hole. 

            His immediate thought was that he’d be cooked alive. But he slammed face-first into solid ground instead. His temples were throbbing, but he was happy to be alive. Slivers of sunlight were adequate enough that he could see the bits of gravel marking his descent. The “path” reminded him of the mudslides he and his brother would ride into the river every summer. This fall held no reward at the end, however. Idiot, Dal raged to himself. Why didn’t  I slow down and let my eyes adjust to the dark?

            He could see well enough to search the tomblike chasm for Soren, should he have fallen in also. Not spotting him in the immediate area, Dal hollered, in case he had wandered off. All he got in the form of a reply was an echo of his own voice.

            Dal analyzed the chute he had fallen through. The hole was the throat of a musty fissure that had lain dormant for some time.  He was almost certain it was part of the same crag from which the red light had appeared, but there was no sign of magma or the aftermath of the heat created by it. He stood and brushed off the dirt and dust that clung to his clothing.  Having no choice but to breathe in a lot of it, he coughed and wheezed violently. He waited for his head to clear, then he took a second look around.

            The rough ground belied the smooth rock walls that had required eons to shape. Dal ran his hands along the face of a ledge close to him and felt ridges etched into it. He brushed away dust and spider webs with his hands, and distinct lines began to form. He removed his shirt and used it to gently wipe the wall until all of what had been hidden was now exposed. The markings depicted a winged creature in flight. Is that a man? He suddenly felt that this was ancient, hallowed ground. The local legends about the fire pits no longer struck him as a child’s tale.

            Dal had seen enough. He shook out his shirt and put it on and yelled, “Soren, where are you?” Not hearing a reply, he was turning toward the ledge to climb atop it so he could pull himself out of the chasm when he saw a red glow out of the corner of his eye and turned toward it.

            Sitting in a small hole, as if it had been placed there, was a red stone. He silently thanked Dio, hoping his prayer was heard and acknowledged. He had listened to stories of farmers finding precious stones and living out their days in luxury, and now it seemed possible his family would be next in line. Moving from Quork to a larger city might be nice. Dunkirk, perhaps.

            When he got a better look at the stone, it was clearly not like any he had ever  seen before. His initial thought was that it was a ruby, but they didn’t glow, as far as Dal knew, so  that idea was discarded. And when he reached for it, the stone glowed brighter.

            Even stranger, as he touched it, he could feel a pulse, as if it were somehow alive. But that was a childish thought and he was no longer a kid. He picked it up, and even though he could easily palm it, he held it with both hands.

            Nothing happened, but he found himself not staring at the stone--but into it. And although it was red to begin with, the gem was now rapidly taking on many different hues, as if all the different shades of crimson were battling each other from within and displaying the winning results. The stone begin emitting a low thrum, which sounded like gentle chanting. The effect calmed him, and he was mesmerized by the sound until it stopped as abruptly as it had started.  His trance broken, he looked up from the stone. How long had he been staring at it? Soren must be worried sick about what had happened to him.

            Just then the stone sent a pulse so strong that it doubled him over. Despite his pain, he  did not let go of the stone. What had been a glow before was now blazing light. Brilliant reds filled the cavern, and he felt he was amidst some form of divine fireworks display. He had the sensation of the colors penetrating his body, which he knew was impossible, yet the feeling was real. His head was spinning, as if he had severe vertigo, and his stomach was queasy. Saying a prayer, he asked Dio to forgive his haste and greed.

            Then, as quickly as it had begun, the pulsing stopped. The stone remained red in appearance, but it no longer glowed. He stared at it for a few minutes to see if anything more would might happen, and when it didn’t, he put it in his pocket. He’d ask Hadrian about it,  because if anyone could tell him about what he’d found, it would be the old man.

            Dal began climbing back up the chute, and when he reached the top he was out of breath. He stopped panting and called out to Soren, who showed up almost immediately.

            “You lose. Oh, shoot! Dal, are you okay?”

            “I’m fine. I fell down into this hole is all.  I don’t know how you didn’t end up in it too.” Dal saw a twinkle in his little brother’s eye. “Wait a minute, you’ve been here before with some of your friends, and you led me this way, knowing I’d take a ride down that chute. But did you know I’d ride down it face-first?  I could’ve killed myself”

            His brother looked at him sheepishly.

            “Never mind, look at what I found.” Dal produced the stone.

            “Wow! Let me hold it,” Soren said as he grabbed it. Dal noticed that when his brother held the stone, the vibrant red turned to a dull reddish-gray.

            “Where’d you find it?” Soren asked.

            “At the bottom of that chasm, where I was busy cracking my head.”

            “Are you gonna keep it?”

            “My head?”

            “No, silly, the stone.”

            “Of course, but I don’t know what it is. I’m going to ask Hade.”

            Soren handed it back to Dal, and with his usual enthusiasm for anything, said, “It’s a special stone, I know it. And it was meant for you, whatever it brings. You’re special too.” Soren laughed and tagged his brother. “You’re it!”

            “No way,” Dal said, refusing to chase his brother and risk another one of his trick routes. He put the stone in his pocket and they headed home, Soren doing most of the talking on the way, because Dal kept feeling the stone’s pulsation, and this took his thoughts a million miles away.

            When they reached home around midday, they found a small snack on the table. “Where’d you boys run off to?” their mother asked.

            “Nowhere, Ma, we were just playing in the fields,” Soren said, adding, “Dal fell.” Dal shot his brother a dirty look.

            “What do you mean fell? Dalziel, are you hurt? Explain this.”

            “Nothin', Mother, I fell in the fields today.”

            “Try to be more careful next time.”

            “I will.”

            “Your friend, Mr. Hadrian, stopped by today.”

            “Really? What did he want?”

            “Nothing much, just to talk. He told me what was going on in town, what people have been saying. You know, gossip.” She smiled.

            At that moment, Dal didn’t really care what Hadrian had told her. Seeing her smile was the best thing he’d seen in a long, long time. She had been through so much with his father’s death and the hard times that had come with it. Not to mention the stress of seeing him entered into the Conscription every year. Now that Soren was eligible, she must be doubly worried. The Andals had taken her husband, now they threatened to take one or both of the men she had left in her life. She was a strong woman, stronger than Dal had given her credit for. So what if she’s a shadow of her former self? She keeps on going, and that’s what matters.

            They ate the rest of their meal in silence, but an agreeable calm . As the boys were washing up, Dal asked Soren if he wanted to go look for Hadrian with him. Soren was quick to comply.

            “What about Hadrian’s stories, are they real? What about the Seraphs?” Soren had clearly been listening to the old man again.

            “I honestly don’t know,” Dal replied. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about them if you ask. As far as the deep magic is concerned, I believe that once there may have been Ibernians who could use elements.”

            “How, then?”

            “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the old magic before.”

            “Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

            “Okay, you’ve got me there.”

            “What about the Seraphs? Are they real?”

            He hesitated. “I don’t think so, buddy. I think that part got exaggerated at some point.” Dal was no historian, but he had heard people repeat stories before. With each telling, the story got grander, especially if there was ale involved. And since he’d never seen the histories, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t match up with what Hadrian or anybody else might be saying.

            “I think they’re real, and that they’ll come again,” Soren said, with his usual zeal.

            “I sure hope so. We could use their help.”

            Dal grabbed the stone in his pocket. It might well prove to be his family’s deliverance from Quork and the hard times that had fallen upon them. He had to see Hadrian as soon as possible.

_________________________________________________________________

 
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
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"The Devil's Backbone Chapter Two By James Babb

Chapter Two

The cat snarled again. Brody scrambled backwards, knowing he was in for a painful death. He anticipated tearing claws and sharp teeth, but a deep, booming shot roared from close by, and he heard the heavy thump of the cat’s body going down. It squalled and kicked leaves and twigs, some of them hitting Brody on the arm. Then, the panther grew silent.

    My Papa, he’s found me.

    In the sudden stillness that followed, Brody heard footsteps approaching in the leaves.

    “Papa,” he tried to say, but the smallest of sounds escaped his throat. He listened, but Papa did not call out for him.

    The footsteps stopped next to him. He looked up with sore eyes and for the first time since the accident he saw a shape. But this blurry shape could not be his Papa. A much larger man took one last step.

    Even if this was not his father, Brody did not care. At least someone had found him. He attempted to raise a weary arm, but wilted on the ground.

    Just get me home. Take me to my Momma, so she can fix me.

    Strong arms scooped Brody up. His ankle shifted and a fresh wave of pain ran up his leg. At first, he struggled to speak, but then Brody gave in to the weakness. Every part of his body went limp. He had no energy left.

    Bacon. Hot, popping, fatty bacon. There could be no mistake. The scent brought Brody fully awake. Someone whistled a tune and Brody imagined Momma, standing at the stove, cooking.

    He struggled to sit and found his hands and feet had been bound with rope. An attempt to say something only produced a weak, raspy voice. “Where am I?”

    The whistling stopped, but the person didn’t speak.

    Brody tested his eyes again. There were shapes, blurry and dim, but much better than nothing. Perhaps he would not be blind forever.

    He found he had been brought inside a tent. Brody blinked and his vision cleared for a brief second. The walls were gray fabric, patched many times. Things lay scattered around, but his poor sight kept him from identifying them.

    A large flap peeled back, and someone stepped inside. The smell of cooked meat intensified, and Brody’s stomach growled. The large man stood motionless and watched him.

    Brody squinted at the figure and his jaw dropped. The man’s features and clothes were blurry, but even with bad eyes Brody could tell that the stranger’s skin was black. It had been many years since he had seen a Negro.

    “You a scout?” the man finally asked.

    “I’m not,” Brody said with a raspy voice, more than a little confused. He shook his head, wondering if the man thought he was an Indian. “Why’d you tie me up?”

    “Union, aren’t ye?” the man said.

    Union? “You mean like in the war?” He remembered his Papa talking about the Civil War. He had spoken of Union and Confederates.

    The Negro man turned and picked up something leaning against the side of the tent. Brody guessed it to be a gun.

    The man stepped outside and out of sight. “Come on out here,” he said. “I’m gonna hafta kill ya.”

    Brody did not move.

    “Come on,” the Negro repeated. “Don’t wanna get no blood in there.”

    Brody thought for a moment. “I…I’m not Union, and I-I can’t come out.”

    “Why not?”

    “Cause ya done tied me up,” Brody explained.

    A moment passed before the man stuck his head into the opening. “Oh, I reckon so.” He stepped in, and came over to Brody’s side.

    Brody ducked, not sure what to expect from the strange fellow.

    “Who shot ya?” the man asked.

    Brody glanced at him and caught a clear image of speckled gray hair, but then his vision blurred. “What do you mean, who shot me?” he asked. His voice faded in and out.

    The man motioned. “Your foot. Who shot ya?”

    “Nobody shot me. I fell and got it hung up.”

    The Negro reached down and pulled Brody’s pant leg up. He felt rough, leathery skin touching his ankle. Brody blinked hard from the pain, but it helped clear his vision a bit. He saw the man’s hands were weather beaten and calloused.

    “Don’t look broken,” the man said. He stood, and went to the back of the tent. Metal things rattled while he shifted them about.

    “You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?” Brody asked.

    The man returned, carrying something shiny.

    A knife?

    “You Union or Confederate?”

    “I-I don’t know. Confederate? Or maybe neither?” Brody began to wonder if it was a trick question.

    The man knelt next to him and started cutting the ropes. “Name’s Ames,” he said.

    “Ames,” Brody repeated with a hoarse voice.

    “That’s what they call me.”

    “I’m Brody.”

    Ames finished cutting the bindings and offered his rough hand. “Nice to meet ya.”

    Brody shook with him. “Why you keep asking me bout the Union and Confederates? The war was over years ago, fore I was born.”

    Ames looked him in the eye for a long while, and then laughed. “Little feller,” he said between chuckles. “You is crazy.”

    Brody did not sleep much that night. He just could not figure Ames out. One moment, Brody felt safe with him, and the next he felt danger.

    Late in the night, Ames began to snore, and Brody thought about crawling outside and escaping. But his ankle hurt and every part of his body ached. He would not make it far. Ames had given him water and some kind of mush to eat before bed. He also rubbed animal fat on Brody’s burns. Brody figured he surely wouldn’t have done such a thing if he meant to kill him. He decided to stay put and take his chances with Ames.

   

   

    Brody woke to the icy touch of cold steel being pressed against his temple.

    “You got some explaining to do,” the Negro said. “You a Yankee scout?”

    “Ames.” Brody’s voice cracked. He reached and gingerly moved the gun barrel away from his head. “We done gone through this yesterday.”

    A wide smile grew across the man’s face. “That’s right. You is da one been shot in da foot.” Ames lowered the gun, leaned it against the wall of the tent, and then stepped outside. “Better come on, if ya want some breakfast.”

    Brody sat up and let out a frustrated sigh. Apparently, Ames believed the civil war raged on. He seemed to stay confused and forgot new things before they were old. Brody could not come to any other conclusion. Ames was mad dog crazy.

    “Got some bacon left,” the black man called.

    Brody struggled to his feet and hopped on one foot. He took small jumps across, until he reached the tent opening. He steadied himself by holding onto the flap. His eyesight was clear enough to make out the dirt floor of the tent. It had been worn smooth by countless steps, so many that it had been packed into a rock-like surface.

    “I need-” His voice failed and trailed away to nothing more than a whisper. He swallowed and winced when it caused him pain.

    Brody squinted at the bright light outside. Trees, ground, sky, he could not identify much more. The light hurt. He felt sure his vision had gotten worse. He gently rubbed his tender eye lids. He wrinkled his face and gritted his teeth, but when he looked again, he could see well. He blinked hard and could feel something sticky in his eyes.

    “Ames,” he called with a scratchy tone.

    “Well come on,” the man answered.

    Brody rubbed his eyes again. “Need some water. Gotta wash my face.”

    He heard the black man coming closer.

    “Well, I say,” Ames said. “You is black as me.” He laughed and handed Brody a mirror and a sloshing pan of water. “Have at it.”

    Brody sat on the ground, and washed his face and hands. He splashed water into his eyes, rubbed his wet hands through his hair, and let the cool liquid run down his neck. He held the mirror up and for the first time, Brody got to see his wounds. The cracked, red skin on his cheeks hurt the worst. Black spots of burnt powder speckled his face. The hair on his forehead had curled into tight circles and crumbled at his touch. A few patches of hair had burned away completely, along with his eyebrows and eyelashes.

He had imagined his face would be something horrible, a thing he or his folks would no longer recognize. What he saw was much better. The water stung his cracked lips and the inside of his mouth, but Brody drank from his palm anyway.

    “You gonna eat, or not?” Ames asked.

    Brody looked up, and smiled. With his eyes cleaned out, his vision was almost normal. Ames sat on a stump, next to a smoldering fire. He had a short, gray, curly beard that matched his hair. His gray pants and jacket were stained and had been repaired many times.

    “Hang on,” Brody said. He glanced around the campsite. Another, smaller tent sat behind the one he had slept in. A large oak towered above the camp. An old limb had fallen out of the tree recently. Wood chips lay around it, telling Brody that Ames had been using it for firewood. One of the smaller limbs had broken away during the fall and had a nice fork on one end, perfect for placing under the arm.

    Brody got up and hopped over to it. He stripped the dead leaves off and held the limb against his side. It came up a bit past his shoulder. Too tall. He wacked it against the ground and broke part of the branch off.

    “Perfect,” he said. Brody placed the fork under his arm pit and leaned on it. He hobbled over to Ames and waited. Three pieces of metal formed a tripod over the fire. It held a kettle above the flames.

    “Well, sit on down,” Ames said. “This bacon ain’t gonna eat itself.” He motioned to a log nearby.

    Brody went and sat. “You live here?” He ran his hand along the log, and felt the bark that had been worn smooth.

    The man offered him a cup. “Here, better eat. We may have to fight this evenin’.”

    Brody took the cup. “Did you say fight?”

    Ames started talking about the war again, but Brody’s attention had turned to something brown behind the log. The furry pile still had the large paws and head attached.

    “The wildcat,” Brody said. “The one you killed. You cut it up?” He paused and then looked at the small chunks floating in the gruel. “This ain’t bacon,” he said.

    “What ain’t bacon?” Ames asked.

    “The panther,” Brody said.

    “Okay,” the man said. “We’ll cook him up. Ames don’t waste nothin’.”

    Brody could not find any sense in the statement. He shook his head, and sipped the thick liquid from the mush. “I need to get home,” he said.

    Ames chewed faster. “Have some coffee,” he said while offering a cup.

    Brody took it and shifted on the log. “I’m worried about my folks. We ain’t got no food. I was trying to kill some game when I had my accident.”

    “Fell and hurt yer foot, did ye?” Ames asked.

    “Hurt my face,” Brody said.

    “Fell and hurt yer face?”

    “No, I was shooting and-”

    “Shot yourself in da foot,” Ames interrupted.

    “No, I hurt my face first.”

    “Ya shot yourself in da face?”

    Brody sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “I just need to get home.”

The smoke from the fire shifted and a breeze blew it toward him for a moment. He fanned it away with his hand, and then took a sip of coffee, only to discover the coffee was nothing more than hot water. Regardless, the warmth felt good on his lips.

    He watched Ames. Brody guessed the black man to be at least a flour sack heavier than his father. The man’s muscular frame probably put him over two hundred pounds.

    Brody sat the pretend coffee on the log. “Can you take me?”

    “Me?” Ames asked, while pointing to his chest with a weathered hand. “Oh, no. Ain’t got no way to get ya there.”

    “You could carry me.” Brody glanced around the campsite, nestled on the side of a mountain. “You carried me here didn’t you?”

    “Can’t carry ya that far, and Ames can’t go traipsin’ around with patrols out there.”

    “But Ames.”

    The black man shook his head. “Got a good hide out here. I ain’t leavin it.” He squinted one eye and stared at Brody for a second. “Not sure I want ya leavin’ neither.”

    “The war’s over,” Brody said, not liking the way Ames was looking at him.

    “They could make ya talk, boy.”

    Brody picked up his crutch and jabbed its end into the dirt. “Ain’t nobody out there to make me talk. Ain’t no soldiers been in these parts since before I was born.” He strained to raise his voice and it hurt his throat.

    Ames poured his coffee water out. “Oh, they’s still there. I heard a shot just a couple days ago.”

    “That was me, Ames. I done tried to tell you.”

    “I ain’t goin’,” the man said. Ames stood, kicked dirt at the fire, and then stomped off toward the tent. The big man disappeared inside, and Brody heard him throwing things and mumbling.

    Brody gripped the stick and pulled himself up. “I’ll just go by myself,” he whispered. He stuck the limb under his arm, hopped forward, and almost tripped. His ankle throbbed. Brody paused. “Soon as my foot is better. Then, I’ll be on my way.”

    Ames avoided him the rest of the day, but Brody didn’t care. He took the opportunity to explore the camp, hoping to find a way to get home, but Ames did not seem to have a horse or even a donkey anywhere.

    The black man had chosen the side of a mountain to make camp. He had set up his tents and tucked them into the only level spot Brody could see.

    Brody looked toward the top of the mountain. Two hundred steps. He turned and looked down, across the valley below. Thick treetops covered ridges that went in every direction. Even if he had two good feet, he would not be able to find the right way home, not without the black man’s help.

    The smaller tent caught his attention, so he hobbled over to it. The flap had been cinched tight. Brody untied the rope and pulled the canvas back. Small crates were stacked in the middle. Some of the boxes were labeled, some not.

    A large chest sat near the back of the tent. It had shiny tacks on the top, arranged into letters. CABELL. Brody went to the wooden trunk and traced the letters with his finger. Cabell must be his last name.

    Something clicked behind him, and Brody recognized the sound. He leaned on the stick under his arm, and raised his hands.

    “You turns around, real slow like,” Ames ordered.

    Brody eased a hand down and shifted his crutch around, and then he turned. Ames had a long-barrel trained on him.

    “It’s just me,” Brody said.

    “Are ye Union or Confed-”

    “I’m with you. Remember?” Brody said. He had an urge to grind his teeth together.

    Ames lowered the gun, took a deep breath, and huffed. The corners of his mouth turned downward. He stuck his chin out, and walked away. “Better get on outta there,” he mumbled.

    Brody tried to catch up. “I really need to get home, Ames.”

    The man didn’t answer. He went into the large tent, and pulled the flap closed.

Over the next week, Brody’s voice changed. His tone lowered, and the raspy sounds went away. It no longer hurt him to speak or swallow. His vision also improved. By the sixth day, he could put some weight on his ankle.

    Small scabs had formed on his cheeks and forehead, but all of the soreness had left. Brody spent some time every day feeling the stubble growing on his eyebrows and hairline, even his eyelashes were coming back.

    He delighted in the fact that he would not be blind or deformed, but the thought of his folks always brought his spirits down. They had probably given up on finding him by now.

    Before bed every night, Brody prayed for them. Sometimes he cried, but stayed quiet so Ames would not hear. No matter how hard he tried, Brody could not stop the guilt. Each time he ate some of the black man’s mystery stew, he felt it. When he crunched up the hard biscuits Ames called hardtack, he felt it. Brody had food, but his family did not.

    Ames only pulled a gun on him twice more. The man didn’t talk much, and each time Brody tried to convince Ames to take him home, the black man refused, and then talked even less.

________________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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