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
For authors, The Perfect Write® is now providing
FREE QUERY LETTER REVIEW AND ANALYSIS.
Post your query to mailto: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 mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com
For business applications, The Perfect Write® also offers advanced services, from designing sophisticated sell sheets to crafting investor-appealing business plans for start-up enterprises. For a customized quote, please send your detailed project requirements to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com
No comments:
Post a Comment